Maybe that’s what I need.
To accept that she’s gone and prove to myself that I can move on.
Without her.
In order to do that, I would need to clear out her room and scatter her ashes.
This realization is a seed that takes root in the fertile soil of my healing heart. My therapist says there are five stages of grief, and acceptance is the final one. So maybe the way to move forward is to just accept the past and let go of it.
That thought marinates for about two days. I spend time giving theapartment a nice deep cleaning—the kind where you open up all the windows and scrub to your heart’s content. I keep her door closed still, because I’m not quite sure I’m ready to go in there. There’s something I need to do first.
It’s exactly a week after the incident with Beckett outside the church when I decide that I should go back to Aruba. Some would say it’s a crazy move. Like, of all places, why would you go there? But the truth is, that was the happiest I ever saw my mom. It wasourtrip. A mother-daughter sojourn down to a glorious tropical island where it seldom rained and everyone was jovial. Shefitthere, singing to passersby, offering them leftovers from our table. She was as bright as the sun, and I owe it to her to celebrate that.
I go online, look up our hotel, and book a nice room. For one this time.
I buy myself a plane ticket through the JetBlue website, marveling at the fact that there was a time not long ago when I swore to myself I would never fly again.
My mom would never want to clip my wings, though.
I give myself some time. I’m not leaving right away. Two weeks from now, I’ll take her back there. That gives me two weeks to go through my mom’s bedroom. And I’ll get back into New York with a week to spare before the bookstore thing in Cape Cod. I can decide then if I want to keep it or cancel it.
I order a travel urn on Amazon—something a little more appropriate than a soup container. I won’t take all of her ashes, only some of them. The remainder will stay on the credenza. I also order a box of black contractor bags.
I wake the next day at sunrise. In the quiet of the apartment, with a pale orange glow radiating through the windows, I walk down the hallway and place my hand on the doorknob to my mother’s bedroom.
“It’s okay, Pretty Girl. I’m right here. You’re fine,” her voice assures me.
I turn the knob and open the door.
It’s just as it always was. A little musty, sure. The first thing I see is her suitcase from Aruba, which I hastily packed in a fog on January 2, two years ago. It’s the only sign of mess in the room; Mom was very neat and would never have left for a trip without making sure her home was in order. The queen-sized bed sits immediately to my left, like it has since I was a baby. Nightstands on either side are made of wood. They’re part of the bed frame, which includes a wood headboard and captain’s drawers underneath. She wasn’t a hoarder by any stretch of the imagination, but my mother was excellent at maximizing small spaces. Straight ahead of me is her dresser, and up ahead to my right is the chest of drawers. There are two closets in the room, both modestly sized, and a bathroom with a stand-up shower. Mom used to call it her “master suite.” Looking at it now as an adult, I suppose that for an apartment in Forest Hills, itisa pretty impressive room.
I don’t want to gut it. The idea is to put whatever items are in here that could continue to live on somewhere else to good use. I begin methodically. Mom kept her summer wardrobe in one closet and her winter wardrobe in the other. She had more shoes than I’d ever know what to do with. Under her bed, she kept costume jewelry; shoeboxes filled with song lyrics; fabrics, yarn, and other crafty items; and photo albums dating all the way back to her singing days. The dresser and chest of drawers held her underclothes, her T-shirts, tank tops, bulky sweaters, leggings, and still more shoes.
Once I get going, I’m able to develop a bit of a groove. If it’s in good condition, it goes in a bag that will end up being delivered to the Salvation Army. If it’s not wearable or it’s too beat up, it goes in a different bag that will end up in the incinerator down the hall. Once a bag is full, I take it out, either to the back of my Honda or to the trash. I put on music and allow myself to sing along, trying to make this task as easy and fluid as possible.
After a while, I don’t really feel how quickly the time passes, and sincethe sun sets late in the summer, I don’t realize that it’s past dinnertime until my stomach starts to growl.
I order Domino’s and grab a quick shower while it’s on its way.
I eat, watch a little television, and go to bed.
The next day, I get up and go back to work in her room.
This continues until Friday. I bring in a box and fill it with things I definitely want to keep: songbooks, a small painting she made of a bowl of fruit, letters she received from old friends many moons ago. I find that there’s not much by way of clothing that I want to keep, so I allow myself to let it go. I make trips to the Salvation Army as the back of my car fills up. I deposit items in the laundry room for others to consider: a lighted mirror, a barely used yoga mat, a lamp, a set of five-pound weights. I list the furniture on Facebook Marketplace, only because I’ll need people to lift it in order for it to be removed. Nothing’s worth very much, since it’s all pretty old. I write in my listings that the best offer can take it.
And for 150 dollars, the following Tuesday, two guys and a college-aged girl come to the apartment, disassemble the furniture, and haul it out of there.
When the room is emptied, I place the box of keepsakes in the back of my closet, and I go to Home Depot. I don’t know why, but I feel like the space deserves a fresh coat of paint. I pick two colors—Antique White and Island Blue—and paint three of the walls white and the fourth wall blue. I repaint all the trim a brighter shade of white. I use rollers and brushes and an extender pole and a stepladder, and I paint until my shoulders ache.
I finish on Thursday, exactly one day before I’m set to leave for my trip.
There’s just one thing left. The only item left in the room that needs to be sorted out.
Mom’s suitcase.
It’s late in the afternoon on Thursday. I still have to pack my own bag and go through my travel checklist, but I really want to finish this roombefore I get to any of that. It’s been more cathartic than I ever dreamed possible, and also a little strange because I haven’t heard my mother’s voice nearly as much as usual during this process.
I just need to get through the suitcase.
