Eventually I wrote about when our car hydroplaned off the highway on a road trip to Wisconsin. Stuck in the mud and shaken up, we spent a night curled up in clothes we pulled from the suitcase, playing cards by flashlight and eating the popcorn I’d brought to give as gifts. After we were towed the next morning, Ash excitedly proclaimed it our best vacation ever. Yet as I read the story aloud to a nine-years-older Ash at the intervention—wiping my eyes so I could see the words on the paper I held—it didn’t seem to be stirring the same emotion in him as it was in me. Nothing had so far, and I was starting to worry that the intervention was a failure. I was too late.
“And so, here is what I will no longer do as long as you continue to do drugs,” I said, moving on to the last section of the letter or—as I secretly thought of it—the giant pack of lies I probably couldn’t actually follow through on if put to the test. “I’m not going to give you money anymore. And you can’t live here with me. Not if you’re using—and I mean anything. Pills. Marijuana. Anything.”
Ash didn’t flinch, just kept staring off sullenly at the wall, and I wondered if he had the same doubts about my resolve as I did—although I hadn’t yet dropped the bomb on him. The part that was true.
“And I’ve sold the house.”
That got his attention. He looked over at me for the first time. “You said you were only putting up the FOR SALE sign to test the market.”
I didn’t trust myself to improvise a response, so I just kept reading off the details of how the house was now in escrow and I’d soon be moving to a place that wasn’t big enough for him. If he wanted somewhere to live, he’d need to go to the Willows.
There’s a paper-rustling sound, and I am so deep in my thoughts I think at first I’m still clutching my intervention letter in my shaking hands. Then I realize it’s Dr. Paul on the other end of the phone line. He clears his throat. “I know it’s frustrating, Lucy. I’m going to ask you to give Ash time. It’s only been, what, five weeks now? He’s done excellent work since he’s gotten here, but he has a ways to go.”
“I don’t get it. Before he left, as awful as it was, at least he would talk to me.”
“Therapy stirs up all kinds of emotions. It takes a while to sort them out. So things often have to get uglier before they can get better.”
As soon as he says the words, I totally get it. It’s the therapeutic equivalent of “you have to make a mess to clean a mess.” The man is finally speaking my language. I want to crawl through the phone and hug him.
After we wind up the call, I pull out the photo of Ash I carry in my wallet. I dig a straight pin from the mini sewing kit I keep in my purse and tack the photo to the wall.
It’s my inspiration. It’s the reason I’m doing everything I’m doing right now. It’s how I put one foot in front of the other—and why I’m not going to let Marva bother me, no matter what she says or does.
I had a dozen of these candelabras, and now there are ten,” snaps Marva, leaning against the kitchen countertop. “They were right here. You threw them away, didn’t you?”
Ugh. It’s been days of this. Two weeks down, and I have little to show for it—which Will was quick to point out when he stopped by again.
“Marva, I did not throw away your candelabras. Either the others are here in the house, or you don’t have as many as you thought.”
She gives me a suspicious once-over, as if the moment her back is turned, I’m going to whip out two candelabras from where I’ve hidden them in my bra. “I know they’re here.” I’m twitchy and irritable at this point—and it’s not merely due to Marva’s rudeness. Because she’s willing to work only in fits and starts, I’m here from nine in the morning until ten at night. If in that time I get in a few hours’ work, I’m lucky. I’m worn-out from the boredom and from the low-grade stress eating away at me that the job is not moving as fast as it needs to be. I have no idea what that woman does all day. But I do know that for someone who is supposed to be a brilliant artist, she sure isn’t creating any art. I have yet to uncover so much as a single tube of paint.
The front doorbell rings. “I’ll get it,” I say, grateful for the excuse to step away from Marva for a moment.
I open the door to a UPS deliveryman. Next to him are three large boxes. “Delivery. Sign here.” He holds a signature pad out to me. I see him peeking in at the mess in the house. I block his view with my body.
“Marva, are you expecting packages?” I ask. “Is it okay if I sign?”
She’s wiping her hands on a napkin and hustling over. “Yes, sign.” For a moment she looks like a different person, and I realize it’s because she’s happy.
“What are they?” I ask as the UPS man walks away.
Marva calls to Niko out front. He’s leaning against the bed of his truck, enjoying the sunshine since he doesn’t really have anything else to do. “You there. Help bring this inside.”
He jumps up and trots over. “Looking pretty crowded in there,” he says, peering into the living room. “How about I put them in the mudroom instead?”
My heart sinks. My beautiful clean mudroom.
Marva nods, and Niko grabs a dolly from his truck. Marva trails after him, fussing at him to be careful as he wheels the boxes around back to the mudroom.
Once the boxes are set on the floor, I press Marva. “So what’s in them?”
Instead of answering me, she kneels down and starts sawing at the packing tape on one of the boxes with a butcher knife. Then she yanks open the flaps, sending packing peanuts flying.
She gives a grunt of effort as she tries to wrestle out a large object.
“Let me get that for you.” Niko lifts out what appears to be a glass bowl easily two feet in diameter—although it’s hard to tell since it’s so thoroughly wrapped in Bubble Wrap. He sets it on the floor.
“You bought a bowl?” I ask.
“Three of them,” Marva says. “They’re by Dale Chihuly—I’ve always meant to buy some of his pieces. He’s amazing. Truly changing the way people think about blown glass.” She snaps her fingers at Niko. “Scissors. I need a scissors.”
Niko goes to the kitchen and starts digging through drawers.
I can only stand there. Stunned. Flabbergasted. My head is lifting off my shoulders … it’s floating around the room … and now it’s exploding into a thousand tiny fragments. She bought stuff? I’m killing myself trying to clear out her house and she’s bringing new stuff in? “This is un … un … believable,” I stammer.
Marva is picking at the tape with her fingers. “I know. These were too stunning to pass up. They’re bowls within bowls. So innovative.”
“What the … ,” I say. “What on earth are you doing … shopping …”
“I realize I’m downsizing. But sometimes a woman has to splurge.” She points to where Niko is holding the scissors he found toward me. “Be a dear. Pass me those.”
I grab the scissors and toss them on the floor, away from Marva. “What is the point of my being here? Why bring me in if you’re going to … to … sabotage everything!”
“Heavens, it’s a couple bowls. There’s no need to get hysterical.”
“I am not hysterical!” I notice Niko taking a cautious step back, away from the crazy lady, but I don’t care. For once, I’m going to stand up for myself. “And for the record, it’s not a couple bowls. A couple is two. This is three. That’s a few. And they’re big. And the entire point is that you can’t—”
“You are not honestly about to tell me what I can and cannot do.”
“Isn’t that what you hired me for? Because you needed an expert to help you get your home organized?”
“Please. How expert does anyone need to be to throw things in a trash can. A trained monkey could do the job.” She hoists herself up from her knees, casually brushing Styrofoam peanuts off her clothes. “At least a monkey would have been entertaining.”
That’s it. I’m done.
I’m done with her meanness, and her condescending at
titude … and her plain insane hoarding. There’s no getting through to her. She has no real intention of clearing out this house. I’m wasting my time.
“You’re right. You don’t need me. Good luck.” With that, I turn on my heel and walk out.
Crap. My purse.
I head back in, grab it, and head out again. On my way, I stop at the bungalow for the blow-up exercise ball I’d borrowed from Heather so I could do ab exercises in my downtime, which I haven’t, but now I never will. Oh, and my stapler. And coffee mug.
I’m shoving the ball into the back of my car when Niko ambles up. He flips the front seat up so the ball goes flying into the car. I stumble on top of it.
“Thank you,” I say, getting up and smoothing down my shirt.
“You’re not quitting, are you?”
“As a matter of fact I am.”
“C’mon. She’s a whack job. Don’t let her get to you.”
I climb behind the steering wheel and start the car. I’m about to pull away when I remember none of this is Niko’s fault. Just because Marva has no manners doesn’t mean I don’t. “It was nice meeting you,” I say, which is true—Niko’s been the one nice thing about this place. Then I roll up the window and pull away.
I spend the next two hours driving around. The stereo is cranked so I’m basically a mobile boom box. There’s nothing like a little Clash and Talking Heads to work off steam. Feeling the need for speed, I hit the freeway, only to drive smack into rush-hour traffic. I’m practically at a standstill, inching along at barely five miles an hour.
Doesn’t matter.
I’ve got nowhere to be, and no particular time to be there.
It’s two days later that I remember I left my photo of Ash pinned to Marva’s bungalow wall. It’s the only one I have of him. The rest are buried in storage, in a box marked PHOTO ALBUMS AND FRAMES that—according to my checklist of my storage-unit contents—is at the very bottom of everything. Left-hand corner.
So that settles it: I’m going back in to get Ash’s photo.
I wait until the afternoon, when Marva usually naps. Cleverly, I park outside her property so my car won’t alert anyone to my being here. Niko’s truck is in the driveway. I glance around for him. Nope, no sign. I dart behind his truck and then tiptoe up the driveway to the bungalow.
When I step inside, Niko is there, sleeping on the couch. He’s lying on his back, a nicely muscled arm flung over his forehead, his lips slightly parted. I have a crazy urge to run my finger over those lips, as if I were Princess Charming deciding if she wanted to awaken the sleeping hottie. Instead I push the door shut behind me.
Ahem.
He startles awake. “Oh, hey,” he says, sitting up and rubbing his hands over his face. “You’re back.”
“I’m not back. I’m grabbing something I left behind.” I unpin the photo of Ash from the wall.
“I noticed that picture. Your boyfriend?”
“Yeah, right.”
“What?” His face is blank. He honestly doesn’t see why a teenager couldn’t be my boyfriend.
“It’s my son, thank you, you sicko.”
“Serious? Man, you must’ve had him when you were like five.”
“I was a child bride,” I say coyly. I was twenty when I had Ash, but that still made me younger than most of the other moms I knew. I’d been five months along walking down the aisle. Although Ash wasn’t planned and the marriage was a step shy of shotgun, the moment the doctor held my new baby boy up—purple, wide-eyed, and totally pissed off—I was hit by the love truck.
I tuck the photo back into my wallet. “That’s all I came for. I’ll be off now.”
“So you got another job?”
I wince, reflecting back on the fruitless e-mails and calls I’d made yesterday. “Not yet, but I’m sure something will turn up.”
I’m about to reach for the doorknob when he says, “She never unpacked the other boxes.”
“What? Marva?”
“After you tore out of here, she had me put the one bowl back in the box. Never touched the others.”
That surprises me, I’ll admit. But it could mean anything. “She probably ordered more of them and is waiting for the rest to arrive.”
He shakes his head. “I think she felt bad.”
“Oh, please. Marva has no feelings.”
“Why don’t you talk to her? I’ll bet if you—”
“Talk to her? What would possibly be the point? She won’t listen to anything I have to say.”
“Maybe she won’t. Then again she might. Did you ever ask why she bought all those bowls?”
“I don’t need to ask. She’s certifiably insane. That’s why.”
“You were doing more than any of the rest of us were able to. At least you got her to throw some things away. Besides”—he comes over to me and casually slides the purse strap back up my arm where it’d slipped—“I’d much rather look at you while I’m working than those ugly cousins of mine.”
Is it me, or did the room get a whole lot warmer? I step outside the bungalow, so flustered that I forget I’m supposed to be stealthy. Marva is across the way sitting in the mudroom, having a cigarette. Even though I have to look through the oak trees, windows, and screens to see her, I can tell she notices me. Neither of us makes any sort of gesture of greeting.
Cranky old bag.
There is no way I’m coming crawling back to her.
She can rot in her own filth forever, for all I care.
I’m debating the best way to make my exit—should I strut boldly as if I don’t see her, or give a friendly wave first, as if I don’t care?—when I see the nurse, Nelson, come into the mudroom from the kitchen. He’s dragging the IV pole behind him, chattering on as he bends over Marva and pushes up her sweater sleeve.
Crud.
I can’t do it.
As much as my pride wants to, I can’t.
I can’t leave Marva in this mess.
As I stand here looking at Marva, I think about Ash, and how many people have been handling what I should have been able to do for him—first the interventionist, and now a team of teachers and therapists a thousand miles away. There’s nothing I can do right now in regard to him but wait, and hope, leaving me feeling utterly impotent.
Yet before me is someone who desperately needs help, and it so happens this time around I’ve got the skills required. I can throw stuff away. And, sure, so can a trained monkey, but last time I checked, there aren’t any of those here.
I turn to Niko. “Wish me luck.” Then I walk up the path to the house and let myself in through the back door.
Nelson grins when he sees me. “Look what the cat dragged in.”
I bend down so I can look Marva right in the eyes. “You and me,” I say. “We need to talk.”
chapter five
Step one to eliminating clutter from your life is to confront it, scary though that may be.
—Things Are Not People
Have a smoke with me,” Marva says after Nelson leaves.
“I don’t smoke.”
She pulls out a pack and shakes it at me. One cigarette slides forward. “Live a little.”
“Really, I’m fine.”
“If you’re going to insist that I talk”—her lip curls up on the word talk—“the least you can do is have a cigarette with me.”
I pluck the cigarette from the pack. “Just this once.” If this is what it takes, fine. I’d set myself on fire if I thought it’d make this job any easier.
Marva lights her cigarette, then hands the lighter to me. It’s one of those nondescript metal lighters, the refillable kind. I tuck the cigarette in my mouth and flick the lighter. Flick it again. Nothing. Again. Nothing. I hand it back. “It’s broken.”
“Have you ever had a cigarette?”
“I told you I don’t smoke.”
“Christ Almighty.” She flicks the lighter, then holds the flame out to me. I lean forward and puff enough to ignite the tip. Then I hold the cigar
ette away from me, so the ashes will fall directly into the ashtray once they burn long enough.
“So, Marva …,” I begin, then falter.
I’m not prepared for this impromptu heart-to-heart. I’d only been planning to grab a photo and run, which would certainly have been the easier route. Because if there are some perfect words that will convince Marva that things between us need to change, they’re eluding me.
She doesn’t seem to notice I’m not talking. She’s gazing out at the yard at what appears to be nothing in particular.
I take a puff on the cigarette, stalling.
Marva scowls. “What, are you planning to run for president? Inhale.”
I look at the cigarette in my hand. “I thought I was.” I try again, this time sucking in. My throat feels as if a comet flew down it.
“So let’s hear it. Hit me with the lecture,” she says as I sputter out a cough.
I hack and harrumph more until I’m able to speak. “First, I have a question,” I finally say. It’s the one that’s been eating at me. May as well ask it. “Why did you agree to clear out your house if you don’t want to?”
“What makes you think I don’t want to?”
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
She looks at me. “You’re asking why I want to clear out my house?”
I nod.
“I would think that would be evident.”
“It is to me. It would help me if I could understand why it is to you. No offense, but you let it get this way. And you seem to be fighting pretty hard to keep it this way. I realize you’re only cleaning out your house because Will is making you do it, but you still need to—”
“Will is not making me do it.” Her voice is hard.
“Well, not forcing you”—I smile in an attempt at levity, since what I said apparently chafed her—“but since he’s the one who wants the house cleared—”
Marva doesn’t let me finish. “You are operating under a misconception, my dear. Will is merely helping move this project forward at my request.” My disbelief must show because she adds, “Oh, he drones on about how things have to be done a certain way, but that’s an annoyance I’m willing to bear in exchange for his handling—shall we say—the management tasks. It’s been quite a while since I’ve had to hire handymen, and I wasn’t eager to do it. When I mentioned to Will my intention to clean the place up, he gladly took the ball and ran with it.”
Objects of My Affection Page 7
