Page 57 of Somewhere Along The Line
The routine is a welcome relief.
“You called the organization about a pick-up?” I ask. I’m pleasantly surprised. When I gave him the postcard that showed up at my apartment, I assumed it would sit untouched for months.
“I did, and they’re coming next Saturday.” Dad’s eyes roam over my face to read my expression; he wants encouragement that this is a good idea, and I’m careful to give it to him. He shouldn’t witness any of the grief that lives alongside my pride in him taking this step.
“That’s amazing, Dad. In that case, wedohave a lot to work through.” I drum my fingers on the table as I think about the best way to sort through Mom’s stuff. “How about we go room by room and tag items with masking tape that we… that can be donated?”
I had started to say, “... that we want to donate,” but neither of uswantsthis. We want Mom here to continue to use her things for another two decades. It’s a matter of need, not want.
"Sounds fine, Jamie. I’ve already got some ideas.” He stands and makes his way to the junk drawer to grab a roll of masking tape and a permanent marker.
We’re really doing this.
“Should we start here?” My hands gesture toward the kitchen and end with a slap on the table where I currently sit. The apartment Dad’s eyeing in the city can’t hold a piece this large.
“Sold!” He cheers, writing DONATE on a piece of tape and smoothing it on the table. "The chairs should go too,” he says, adding labels to each of the five chairs surrounding me and the one I’m occupying.
I try not to think about my memories at this table: working with my dad on middle school math homework, my mom attaching a boutonniere to my suit before prom, Christmas dinners and Easter brunches, opening my college acceptance letters, and the other pieces of my life that existed right here.
I hope whoever gets this table makes fond memories with it.
“What about the hutch?” I ask. The large antique sits on the far wall, holding my parents’ wedding china and a collection of honeycomb goblets. We never use any of it.
“It should go,” Dad replies, glancing over to the hutch longingly but with conviction.
This process is unexpectedly seamless. No need, thus far, to discuss the improbability of stuffing a home’s-worth of furniture into a one-bedroom city apartment.
Dad and I continue throughout the first floor, tagging furniture pieces and discussing happy memories as we go. It feels light, the way it did when we used to pull weeds when I was a kid, working and talking and spending time together. The only thing missing is the dirt under my fingernails.
“So, James,” Dad says while tagging the armchair that sits in the corner of their—his—bedroom, “what’s the latest with that woman, Piper? Did you listen to my advice, or did you ignore it as usual?”
My eyes roll before the question leaves his mouth. Dad knows I’m captive; of course he’s using this time to follow up on my dating life. “I’ve seen her a few times since we last talked.”
On the train, in my car, at work, naked on my couch. I’ve seen the look on her face when she comes, and the memory dumps adrenaline straight into my veins. I’ve seen a lot of Piper these past few weeks, and it hasn’t been nearly enough.
“And?” Dad asks eagerly, as though I've been holding out this whole evening and now I’m going to confess we’re in love.
“And I don’t think it’s going anywhere,” I reply, pulling my bottom lip between my teeth at the corner. His face falls, shaking his head in disappointment.
“Dad, I told you not to get your hopes up. I told you when we talked that I couldn’t pursue her. I know I told you that.”
“I guess I thought you’d change your mind. I’m sorry you didn’t.” He moves to the nightstand at Mom’s side of the bed and rolls a clean piece of tape over the top.
If only he knew that Ididchange my mind, or maybe she changed my heart, and that’s the crux of the issue.
“I’m just trying to stay focused, and you should too,” I reply. “Let’s make it through this process with the house and get you settled downtown and then we’ll talk. You could be my wingman at the bar; I have a feeling the ladies would love you.”
The sentence hurts as it comes out of my mouth, pain rising from the depths and stinging my lips as the words leave. I meantyoungladies would love him, the kind he could set up with his hopeless, heartless son. I didn’t specify this, though, and the insinuation was that he could find another lady.
It’s too soon to talk about that.
“I’m sorry,” I mutter with quiet sheepishness, not meeting his gaze. “I just meant I have a lot on my plate, and it isn’t the right time to get wrapped up in a new relationship. That’s all.”
He nods and walks over to me, placing a hand on my shoulder. “You know, James, that’s the funny thing. Fate doesn't care if it’s the right time.”
He’s implying something about Piper, but I don’t push. Enough of today’s energy has been spent thinking and talking about the woman I’m trying to ignore.
I give Dad a tired nod and he gets the hint, changing the subject to his rumbling stomach and musing about dinner options. It’s a welcome distraction—from Piper, yes—but also from the emotional work of tagging things to donate.
