Keepsake

by Kristina Riggle

  I remembered those sleepers, held them in my mind, and tried not to think about the other things in the truck bed behind us.

  We pulled up to a church in a ramshackle neighborhood and listened to Mary read off a piece of paper to pull around behind, near some double doors.

  A large black woman with corkscrew curls greeted us. Her name tag said “Serita.” Behind her I saw Ayana, and I stiffened and folded my arms, flashing back to when all this started, with her on my porch holding out that business card, talking judges and unsafe living environments. Ayana either didn’t notice or didn’t care. She waved and smiled brightly.

  “Welcome, and thank you!” Serita called out. “This is such a wonderful blessing. There’s a girl having a baby next week and that child was gonna be sleeping in a dresser drawer as of this morning.”

  She ran up to me and hugged me hard, like we were kin. “Hi, honey, I’m Serita. I run this place.”

  Ayana said, “Hi, Trish. This was such a great idea your sister had. I’m so glad she called me.”

  I detangled from Serita’s embrace. “I’m glad to be of some help.” I coughed over the words, and I caught Mary dart a concerned look in my direction. She was halfway between Ron, who was lifting down the first boxes, and where I stood. I shooed her toward the boxes, wanting her to understand I was fine as long as she didn’t keep staring at me like I was some volcano about to blow.

  “We rely on donations like yours to keep going,” Serita was saying. “I have such a heart for these girls. You know, in my day when a girl got herself pregnant there wasn’t much like this around. The people who cared had nothing to spare, the people who had the money just didn’t care. Thank goodness angels like you have some compassion.”

  “Hardly an angel, Serita.”

  Serita put her hand on her hip and looked down at me. “Who are you to say what an angel is?” She winked.

  A man came out from inside and wordlessly started helping Ron with the boxes. Mary drifted back to me and was staring at me so hard I wish we’d left her at home.

  As the boxes of my babies’ things disappeared through glass doors into the darkened interior of the church, sweat tickled my palms and my heart tugged in their direction.

  It will go away, I told myself. This feeling won’t last forever; they are just things. I thought of the sleepers I’d kept, and all the dozens of pictures I had of both boys as babies, the fact that I had both my boys, still, in my nice clean house. In fact, now that the house was clean, I could make space to scrapbook those pictures and display them properly. Get them at last out of those dusty shoeboxes.

  “You’re doing so good,” Ayana said, and I mentally corrected, Well. I’m doing so well.

  I hadn’t noticed a car pull up until a girl bopped out, then reached into the back to pull out a wiggly, chubby baby girl with a pink bow tied ludicrously into the tiny wisp of hair at the top of her head.

  A toddler followed her out of the car as well.

  “Hi, Miss Serita!” the girl called.

  “Hello, Luz,” Miss Serita called back.

  “I gotta go potty!” shrieked the toddler, starting a potty dance.

  The baby clapped, wriggled with her whole body, kicking her little legs where they dangled as young Luz had her in one arm, legs hanging free.

  Luz said to the boy, “Didn’t you already go? I asked you if you had to go.”

  The baby shocked me by reaching for me. The toddler was still begging for the potty. Luz groaned. “Miss Serita, can you watch Neveah? I’ve gotta get him to the potty.”

  “Looks like Miss Trish here can take her. Don’t worry, Luz, I’d go kung fu on her before I’d let her run off with your child.”

  I was hot in the direct sun, but a chill raced over my skin, even so. Luz held her baby closer to me, the little boy yanking on her other arm.

  I gulped hard. “Kung fu won’t be necessary,” I said, taking the little drooly thing in my arms.

  It was the first time I’d held a baby since I’d lost my own. I saw Ayana watching me carefully, so I looked away, and focused on the child.

  Neveah wiggled with delight as I made a funny face, then buried her own head in my shoulder. I patted her back and rocked slightly from side to side. Old habits never die, do they? I could see myself holding Drew’s baby. Hopefully, years and years from now.

  “Babies light up the whole world, don’t they?” Serita said.

  “That they do,” Ayana said.

  Mary came closer. Her eyes asked me, Are you OK?

  I gave her a wan smile, nuzzled the baby’s hair, and inhaled.

  “Two babies already, that must be so hard,” I said quietly.

  “Oh, the boy is her baby brother. She’s on babysitting duty while her own mama is at work.” Serita paused for a peekaboo with the baby. “Luz is a sweet girl, and you know? Everyone makes mistakes.”

  “Nobody’s perfect,” I agreed, catching Mary’s eye.

  “Nobody but our Lord,” Serita said, then stage-whispered, “And sometimes, I wonder about him.” She burst out laughing then, confident that her Lord could take a joke.

  Luz returned and held her hands out for her baby. The little girl kicked and wriggled away from me and happily grabbed a fistful of her mother’s silky black hair. The boy clung to her knee. Ayana bent down to say hello to him, but he hid behind his sister’s leg.

  “Lemme get you those diapers, honey,” Serita said, and excused herself.

  The girl baby nuzzled her mom’s neck, and Luz patted her back and rocked her in place, much as I had.

  I pictured my mother holding her own newborn child, sneaking a few locks of hair, knowing the rest of her would be gone within days. I put my sunglasses on and blinked hard to regain control of myself.

  Serita put the box of diapers in Luz’s car. As I followed her progress, I saw Ron and the man from the church with the crib.

  They marched by me, disappearing inside.

  “No!” I shouted, chasing after them. Mary tried to touch my arm, and I shrugged her off. “I’m sorry, wait. I changed my mind. I can’t.” I was panting as if I’d run a distance, though I’d covered only a few yards.

  Ron set down his end of the crib, squared himself to me, and folded his arms. “Trish. We talked about this.”

  Ayana started, “Trish, remember what’s important is your children now, in the present day, who need you.”

  I wrapped my shaking hands around the crib rail. “I can’t. It’s all I’ve got left from . . .”

  “Not all you’ve got,” Mary said softly. “The sleepers. The pictures of the boys.”

  “I feel like I’m going to throw up. Or pass out. I can’t do it. Not this. Not yet.”

  Serita appeared at my side. “Honey, if it’s this hard, you don’t have to give it up. You truly don’t.”

  “Ma’am,” Ron began. “There are special circumstances . . .”

  Then I exclaimed, “Wait! They can’t take it. This crib has been recalled. See?” I leaned into the side and the one rail dropped down. “They can’t sell this kind anymore. And see how easy the side drops? Dangerous.”

  Ron scowled, his expression darkening. Ayana drooped in defeat. “She’s right. We forgot to check the model number.”

  Ron almost yanked it out of the hands of the church volunteer, who had to step double-time to keep up with his angry progress back to the truck. Ron shouted, “I’m gonna need to bungee this down. Gimme a minute.”

  Mary tried to rub my shoulder.

  “Not now, Mary.”

  Serita said, “Some things happen in God’s time, not ours.”

  I didn’t know if she was talking to me, or Mary, or all of us.

  I went back outside and blinked in the bright sunshine, even with my sunglasses still down, trying to hide my crazy-hoarder anxiety. My heart was slowing down to its
natural rhythm. I felt my world becoming stable again.

  Luz had loaded the toddler into the car and had the baby in her other arm.

  “Wait, young lady, can you hold on a minute?” I called out. “I’ll be right back.”

  I ducked inside, spotting my boxes where they lined the hall. I dug through these boxes I so recently packed, and it took me three tries to find it. I imagined Ayana watching me through the church doors, frowning.

  I walked back out into the hot parking lot and said to Luz next to her rusty Chevy, “Could you use another blanket at all? I just think this one is so adorable, I’d love for you to have it.”

  Luz took the blanket in her free hand, admiring the yellow duckies. She held it in front of her daughter. “What do you think, mija? Do we like the duckies?” The baby bounced so hard in place I thought she’d fall to the ground, and I made as if to catch her.

  “Oh, I got her,” Luz said. “She does it all the time. Thanks, though. For trying to catch her. And the blanket.”

  “You’re welcome. Take care, now.”

  I watched that car pull out of the parking lot and down the road and remained watching until Luz and her baby had faded into the stream of traffic, no more than a speck among other moving specks, rushing through life.

  Back in my driveway, Mary unfolded herself gracefully from the truck and hopped down. I followed out her side, instead of getting out behind Ron. The whole drive home I could feel his radiating frustration about the crib.

  We both went immediately to the back to look; it had survived the trip perfectly intact. I drooped with relief, not realizing I’d been tense. But Ron had fastened it securely in his truck, using blankets to protect its wood spindles where it was braced against the side of the truck bed.

  “You did good, T,” Ron said, but I could hear the downcast note in his voice. “I’ll get this back in there, I guess.” He started unwinding the crib with brisk, businesslike movements.

  “I should go,” Mary said, walking away from Ron and the truck, already rooting in her purse for her keys. “Let you two talk.”

  “You could stay,” I said, but I realized I didn’t mean it. I felt wrung out like a mop and desired nothing more than a nap after the morning I’d had.

  “Nah, that’s OK. You’re tired.”

  We stopped in front of her sedan and stood there in a weird, prolonged silence, broken only by distant birds chirping and the clanging of Ron disentangling the crib.

  “I’m sorry about the way I left. Earlier. After the ring got stolen,” Mary said at last.

  “Me, too. I mean, about what I did. Let’s stop that, shall we? This fighting and not speaking? Mom wouldn’t want that.”

  Mary nodded. “Of course. Definitely. Well. I should go, I guess. You look tired.”

  Ron called, “Ready, T.” He opened the tailgate to the truck and climbed on, pulling the crib back where we could reach it from the ground.

  I sighed with pleasure at the sight of the crib. I still needed it. Right or wrong, I needed it. “I’ll help you in a minute,” I called to him. He nodded, then leaned against the tailgate, looking down at his boots.

  I looked down at Mother’s ring and said to Mary, “I think Mom did this. Gave you the idea to come see me, so you could help me get this stuff out of here.”

  “Oh, come on.” Mary kicked a piece of gravel in my drive.

  “You never act on intuition, and yet this time you did.”

  She tilted her head up, as if addressing the birds in the trees. “ ‘There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.’ ”

  “Horatio?”

  “I was quoting Hamlet.”

  “Of course you were.”

  Mary squinted in the sun. “OK, speaking of intuition. I’ve got an adoption registry site all lined up on my computer.”

  My mouth fell open. “Me, too.”

  “Yeah?”

  I laughed. “I can’t tell you how many times I’ve stared at that site thinking I should call you. I didn’t want to do it without you. I guess curiosity got the better of me, after all.”

  “So, OK then. Let’s do it. Let’s try to find Laura.”

  A swarm of arguments buzzed around my head, the same ones I’d considered as my mouse arrow hovered over the adoption site, nearly every day since my fight with Mary. Laura might not want to be found, she might hate us, we might hate her, it could throw everything up in the air . . .

  “Tomorrow. Call me tomorrow and I’ll come over and we’ll talk about it. I’d like to see your place for a change.”

  “As long as you promise not to mess up my throw pillows,” Mary warned, shaking her finger.

  I gaped at her for a second, until her face broke into a sideways grin. “Gotcha.”

  We hugged each other hard, and I watched her drive down the driveway and all the way until she was out of sight. I chuckled to hear her singing along with Mötley Crüe, “Home Sweet Home.”

  I glanced down at my hand. Mother’s ring bounced the bright sunshine back to me.

  Acknowledgments

  Thank you ever so much to my family, for putting up with my book-tour absences, my fretting, and for not once making me feel guilty for chasing this dream. Love you.

  Thank you to my agent, Kristin Nelson, for having my back. Lucky gives his regards to Chutney. Thanks also to Lindsay Mergens for the advice on many things and assistance in writing book club questions, because you’re much better at it than I am. Thank you as well to my Twitter comrade, Sara Megibow, and Anita Mumm.

  Have I mentioned how lucky I am to work with Lucia Macro? Because I am. Thank you, Lucia, for making this book better yet, and for caring, about the book and the author, both. Thank you to many more wonderful people at HarperCollins: Esi Sogah, Tavia Kowalchuk, Shawn Nicholls, Pam Jaffee, Megan Traynor, Jennifer Hart, Liate Stehlik, Mumtaz Mustafa, and Christine Maddalena, who has moved on, but will be missed. You never forget your first (publicist).

  I’m so grateful to Elizabeth Graham for her thoughtful early reads. You manage to be thorough, yet gracious and supportive, and that’s like gold.

  Huge thanks to my research sources, who help me seem very smart about lots of things. My friend Courtney L. Crooks, Ph.D., LP, helped me write a good Seth, and taught me the difference between a psychiatrist and a psychologist. Dr. Vern Boersma and Lu Reyes helped me understand the lives of migrant workers in the 1960s. Detective Pete Kemme helped me navigate the world of social services and write an accurate Ayana. Thank you to Maggie Dana and her friend, and to Danielle Schaaf’s sister, Ann Johnson, for making sure I don’t use the wrong slang for the 1960s.

  Besides watching umpteen television documentary episodes about compulsive hoarding, I read the amazing and invaluable Stuff by Randy O. Frost and Gail Steketee. I highly recommend it if you want to understand at a layperson’s level about compulsive hoarding. I also read the self-help workbook Buried in Treasures: Help for Compulsive Acquiring, Saving, and Hoarding by Frost and Steketee plus David F. Tolin, and Overcoming Compulsive Hoarding by Fugen Neziroglu, Jerome Bubrick, and Jose A. Yaryura-Tobias. For insight into unwed mothers who surrendered children for adoption in the 1960s and 1970s, I consulted The Girls Who Went Away by Ann Fessler. Thank you to Susan Ito for pointing me in the direction of that amazing and important book.

  P. S.

  Insights, Interviews & More . . .

  About the author

  Meet Kristina Riggle

  KRISTINA RIGGLE is a former journalist and one-time holiday temp bookseller, and the short fiction coeditor for the e-zine Literary Mama. Her debut, Real Life & Liars, was a Target Breakout pick and a Great Lakes, Great Reads selection by the Great Lakes Independent Booksellers Association. Her other novels have been recognized by independent booksellers as an Indie Next Notable book as well as a Midwest Connections pick. She lives in Wes
t Michigan with her husband, two kids, and dog.

  About the book

  Q&A with Kristina Riggle

  Why did you choose to write about hoarding?

  I’ve long been fascinated with compulsions. An early, unpublished manuscript featured a character with OCD (obsessive compulsive disorder)—tapping rituals, in the case of that book. Years ago, I watched an episode of Oprah featuring a hoarder whose physical appearance was stylish and neat. Her home was beautiful from the outside. She was intelligent, articulate, and composed. Inside her home, however, was a horror show of filth and debris. I was struck when she characterized herself as a perfectionist and showed the producers a clean, unsullied garbage can. She couldn’t bear to put anything inside it and ruin its perfection. Astonishing. It’s only natural that I would eventually write about something that fascinates me, so, here we are.

  How did you research this novel?

  The nonfiction book Stuff: Compulsive Hoarding and the Meaning of Things by Randy O. Frost and Gail Steketee was a tremendous resource, and I urge anyone interested in this topic to go read it. The same authors, along with David F. Tolin, also wrote a workbook called Buried in Treasures: Help for Compulsive Acquiring, Saving, and Hoarding, which is meant as a self-help guide for hoarders. I filled it out “in character” as Trish. That was tremendously helpful as far as figuring out exactly what kind of hoarder she would be. There are many varieties of hoarding. It is not a cookie-cutter disorder. I read other books, too (see the acknowledgments section for a list). Of course, I watched the hoarding reality shows currently popular on cable TV. I have mixed feelings about the shows. Seeing hoarders in action as they tried to part with their items was illuminating for me as a writer. They are educational and they seem to help some of the people featured. But the shows also feel exploitive and seem to oversimplify hoarding. In comparison, the books I consulted were more nuanced and realistic.