by Meg Wolfe
consumed an entire pot of coffee. But she felt happier than she had in a long time. She grabbed the list and added to it: take all magazines and newspapers to the big public recycling bins at the grocery store, sort through the baking things and dishes in the upper cabinets, weed out the cookbooks. Then she added: Moving sale.
Charlotte looked at the clock again and realized that Ellis, in Paris, would likely be awake, and hopefully not in class or at practice. The conversation had to happen sometime. She decided not to say anything about Olivia, at least not until more was known. She smoothed out her hair; she was nervous about breaking the news to Ellis that she had to sell their home. Then she set up the computer for video chat.
It was a lovely morning over there, the sun through the dorm window illuminating Ellis’ cheerful face. Mother and daughter shared the same blue eyes, high forehead, long nose, and long neck, but Ellis had her father’s light freckled coloring and curly dark brown hair, which Charlotte thought so much more attractive than her own straight drab hair and sallow complexion. They caught up on the small things of life and school, with Ellis doing most of the talking, happy and excited. Charlotte swallowed hard, feeling a lump in her throat.
“Mom, what’s wrong? You look like you’re going to cry.”
“Oh, I just miss you, that’s all. It’s so quiet around here and I wish I could be there, too.”
“Why don’t you fly over, then? I have a long weekend in a couple of weeks and we can go all over Paris and shop and—” Ellis stopped as Charlotte shook her head in regret.
“I can’t, Ellis. Something’s come up, and it’s one of the reasons for the unplanned chat.” Charlotte went on to explain about the magazines shutting down, the finances, and the need to sell up and downsize.
Ellis’ reaction was better than Charlotte had hoped for—serious, but not crushed. “Mom, I think you’re doing the right thing. It’s a great chance for you to do something else with your life, too, when you think about it. I mean,” she wisecracked, “I’m Dad’s problem now, right?”
“Oh, you were never a problem for me, you know that!” Charlotte laughed. “I was worried that you’d be upset that I was selling our home, that you wouldn’t be able to come back to it anymore.”
“You know, just as long as you’re there, it’s home.” Her smile was as sweet as it was when she was small.
“You’re great, kid, you really are.”
“It’s no problem, honestly, Mom. I had a home with Dad, too, in Elm Grove, and now I’m at home here, and I think I’ll probably always be able to be at home wherever I need to go. So it’s all good. It’s a great house, but there’s lots of great houses in the world, and I’m sure you’ll find another great place to live, too.”
“I just wish I knew where. But I need to do all this very soon. I want to know what to do about your piano, the sheet music, and the other things you have here. I can sell them and put the money in your savings account, or I can put them in storage if your Dad would be willing to pay the fee.”
“Oh, that’s right, my piano,” said Ellis. “I love it, but I’ve outgrown it, you know? If I stay with piano I’m going to want a proper grand, and if I stay in Paris or in Europe a long time, I might not ever need it again.”
“If you stay with piano? What do you mean? What else would you play?”
“I’m really getting into electronic music and composition. There’s some amazing stuff happening and it’s right now, not just resurrecting the past.”
Charlotte just smiled through the edges of her dismay, reminding herself that teenagers liked to try this, try that. “I’m sure you’ll find your path, wherever it leads. What does your dad say about it?”
“Oh, he’s pretty cool about it.” Ellis smiled wryly, as if she knew what Charlotte was thinking. “Don’t worry, Mom, I’m not throwing away all those years of piano, I’m still playing and in fact I’m starting on the middle-period Beethoven Sonatas now.” She went on to describe her piano teacher and his style. Then Ellis turned to look elsewhere in her room; Charlotte heard a girl speaking French and Ellis answered her in French, as well. The girl, whose short, side-parted black hair nearly obscured her pretty face, appeared behind Ellis, and waved at Charlotte.
Ellis explained. “Mom, this is my roommate Camille. She says hello, and nice to meet you.”
Charlotte waved back with her own bonjour, and Camille went on her way.
“So what about your piano? Do you want to talk to your Dad first, since it was Grandma and Grandpa Anthony who gave it to you?”
“Good idea. I’ll send you an email later today after I talk to him. I packed up everything I definitely wanted to keep before I left, and those are the big boxes in my bedroom closet. If you could hang on to those or put them in storage, that would be great. And save my music books. Everything else you can sell. I can sort out the boxes and music when I’m home next time.”
“Any idea when that would be?”
Ellis shrugged. “I really don’t know, Mom. It’s kind of expensive and it costs so much more to live in Paris than it does back home. I always thought Parisians would be chic and glamorous, but it’s only the wealthy ones who are. The rest of the people really have a hard time making ends meet, and now I know why.”
“Well, I sympathize with them, although I shouldn’t complain, really. Still trying to get used to the idea of what I have to do. I started cleaning up this kitchen because the real estate agent is coming tomorrow morning, and it suddenly hit me that I’m becoming a hoarder, and I hate that, and I’ve just been clearing it all out.” She turned the laptop so Ellis could see the cleared-off counters and the stuff she’d boxed up.
“Wow!” Ellis exclaimed.
Charlotte turned the laptop back around. “Looks different, doesn’t it?”
“It looks amazing! Reminds me of Helene’s kitchen.”
Charlotte felt a glow of satisfaction. “Helene’s kitchen was the inspiration. I’ve got a lot to learn from her, I think. That reminds me, I met Helene’s neighbor Simon Norwich today. He spoke highly of you.”
Ellis nodded and grinned. “Say hi to him for me, will you? He’s so cool and funny.” She leaned forward, as if speaking in confidence. “You should ask him out, Mom.”
Charlotte was taken aback and shook her head. “Not going to happen! But I will tell him you said hello, and Helene as well.”
“Thanks. Look, Mom, I’ve got to get to practice, I’ve got a piano room reserved for ten minutes from now, and it’s an eleven minute walk—”
They did their usual affectionate goodbyes with promises and reassurances, and ended the chat. Charlotte thought she would be in tears at the end of the “call,” but instead found herself calm and even a bit content. This was going to be the new normal. As she went through the archway to go upstairs to bed, she passed Ellis’ baby grand piano, which sat forlorn in the corner of the living room. Its only purpose now was as a shiny black compositional element whose open lid pointed to the apex of the cathedral ceiling. Charlotte closed it, and knew for certain this was the beginning of the end.
Four
Saturday, September 14th
At eight-o-five in the morning, Charlotte stood in the middle of her walk-in closet, swaddled in a bathrobe after her shower, and glared at the mass of clothing piled on the floor. She should have felt much worse, given the events of the day before, drinking a pot of coffee late at night and getting less than five hours of sleep, but she was energized by the prospect of talking to the real estate agent, Lola McKennie, and getting this whole life change thing going. She had Ellis’ support, too, and that counted for a lot. At the moment, however, she was convinced that her stuff “knew” she was getting rid of it, and was conspiring to give her a hard time. The clothes had been so crammed together, that the rod had popped out of its bracket when she tugged at a hanger. It had then swung down to the floor, creating a waist-high mountain of shirts, jackets, dresses, skirts, pants, sweaters and coats in many
colors and fabrics, some pieces going back to her college days.
She began to get dressed, automatically, in jeans, tee, and chambray overshirt, pulling each thing from the pile. Then she paused. I’ve got all these nice things and no place to wear them. I’m not living the life I bought the clothes for.
So what life was that? The lunching-lady life? The endless cocktail party life? The life of constant vacation? The executive woman life? The perfect wife and mother life?
None of the above.
Reality: she was a middle-aged writer, a single empty-nester, and broke broke broke.
She looked at herself in a full-view mirror for all of five seconds, then went back to the closet and quickly undressed. This was not business as usual. This was the beginning of a new life. As a member of the style and design media, she had written and promoted many an article with the theme: New Life = Wardrobe Makeover! She found and pulled on skinny black jeans (barely acknowledging to herself that Simon was the inspiration) and a black tank top, and slipped on a supple pearl gray silk safari-style shirt with the sleeves rolled up and tabbed and the front left unbuttoned and draped. Another look in the mirror. It was still warm enough for flat black thong sandals. A bit of lip color. Silver hoop earrings. A head shake to fluff up almost-dry hair. A silver bracelet Ellis gave her last Christmas. It was a good look for her, not too dumpy, but still
