I open a fresh black garbage bag.
I crouch down on the floor and unzip the bag. The clothes inside were hastily shoved in there. She had a kitchen trash bag that she filled with laundry from the trip. I’m not going to wash it, I decide. I can let it go. I place it in the black bag.
She’d kept an outfit for her travel day. It’s neatly folded at the bottom of the bag. That can go to the Salvation Army. She also had four pairs of shoes, because she was my mother, lover of all footwear. They all look to be in pretty good shape, so I set them to the side with the travel outfit.
Hairbrush: garbage. Toiletries: garbage. Half-filled bottle of sunscreen: garbage.
Her makeup bag and her purse are the last two items in the suitcase.
I open the makeup bag. In addition to makeup, she has jewelry in there. A beaded necklace she wore at the Cuban restaurant, I remember. A pair of earrings she wore on New Year’s Eve. Something shiny and silver and delicate—oh.
It’s the bracelet Beckett gave her.
I remember how I lost mine somewhere on my last night in Aruba.
I decide to keep hers. I shove it in my pocket.
I take the black bag to the incinerator and the suitcase to the laundry room, hoping maybe someone else can use it. I pack the shoes, remaining jewelry, and travel outfit into a small kitchen garbage bag and put it in my room, since I won’t be able to take it to the Salvation Army until I return.
Now all that’s left is her purse.
I turn it over, emptying the contents onto the floor.
Gum. A pocket mirror. A charger. Hand sanitizer. Chapstick. An old granola bar. A travel-size pack of tissues. A pair of headphones. Hand lotion.
And her cell phone.
Knowing it’ll be dead, I grab the charger and plug it into the wall, then attach the phone to it and let it sit. I toss the granola bar and bring the other items to my bedroom. Now all that remains in Mom’s old room is a charging cell phone, whose service I cut off years ago.
I take a shower and pack my clothes. I run down the list, placing things into my bag and checking them off methodically. I roll the bag to the foyer, halve the ashes on the credenza and place the travel urn in a tote bag I bought for this trip. I put my passport in there, along with my wallet, keys, and travel itinerary.
When I’m finished and have changed into my pajamas, I go back into Mom’s room. It looks great: fresh, clean, and ready for something new. I have no idea what I’ll use it for. Maybe I’ll start a new exercise regimen. Maybe I’ll use it as a writing room. The possibilities are endless. But the whole apartment definitely feels lighter now, and I’m glad for that.
I pick her cell phone up off the floor, unplug it, turn off the light, and head back to my own room. Lying in bed, I power it on.
I punch in her password. 1-2-3-4. “So I’ll never forget it,” she used to say. I smile at the thought.
I tap the icon I’m looking for, and there it is. Just as I hoped it would be.
The very last picture taken of the two of us: the selfie she snapped right before my date with Beckett in Aruba.
“You see, Pretty Girl?” she whispers now, in a voice so soft I can barely hear it. “Look at how happy I was.”
I nod.
“Do you know why?”
“Why what, Mom?” I wonder.
“Why I was so happy?”
“Because you had a great week?” I guess.
“No, baby,” she says. “Because I had a greatlife.”
Chapter 37
Morning comes, and I go through the motions of getting ready for the day. It strikes me that I’m traveling alone for the first time. I mean, not counting the last time, coming home from my last trip to Aruba. But this is different. This will be just me for a whole week.
