Objects of My Affection

by Jill Smolinski

  “Could you keep it down?” I whisper. I grab on to his arm and pull him into the hallway. “She feels bad enough about selling her most precious possessions without you rubbing it in.”

  “Sorry. You’re right. But, man, if I was her, I couldn’t do it. It hurts to know this is all going to be split up. I am feeling actual, physical pain right now. Believe me, if I had the money, I’d be buying everything in there.”

  “Unless you’ve struck it rich since the last time I saw you, that’s not going to happen. I appreciate your input on this, but could you please bring it down a notch?”

  He gives me his puppy eyes. “Got it.”

  Those eyes get to me every time. “Tell you what. Would it help if I let you look around without me for a while? So you can dig in without me standing over your shoulders?”

  “Probably.”

  “Then have at it. I’ll be in the kitchen.” I start to go, but then turn back. “And please leave Marva alone. She really does prefer the quiet.”

  Nelson is sitting at the kitchen table. He’s managed to shove enough aside so he can prop up a small, portable DVD player. He pauses what he’s watching when I come in.

  I lean against the island. “Am I the only one she doesn’t like?”

  “What, did she throw you out? Is she having wild sex with the new guy?” Nelson asks.

  “I’m serious—she’s friendly to you, right?”

  “I wouldn’t say friendly, but I’ve had worse. Sick people tend to be grouchy. And that’s all I’m around all day.”

  I steal a cracker from an open box he has on the counter. “How sick is Marva? If they’ve brought you in, it must be pretty bad.”

  “Not really. For most folks, they’d have a friend or relative stop by, bring them food or run them to a doctor. But people who don’t have anybody, they hire me.”

  “It’s so sad. I mean, her son’s worthless, but I don’t see that she has any friends either. I wonder why she doesn’t.”

  “Dunno.” He clicks PLAY on the DVD player. “Want to watch the rest of this movie with me?”

  I kill an hour watching an entirely forgettable film. The credits roll, and Daniel still hasn’t come to the kitchen.

  When I go to check on him, he has the stool pulled up to Marva’s bedside again and he’s shaking his head and saying, “I can’t believe Karl Lagerfeld would do that.” I feel jealousy rise to my throat like bile. It’s completely irrational, but I want to shake Daniel and say, Marva is my eccentric artist! You don’t get to come in here and have her like you better.

  “So, Daniel,” I cut in, “have you had a chance to look at everything? Maybe you could give me a few minutes and go over your findings?”

  He jumps up and scoots the stool away back toward the wall. “In the nick of time, too. I’ve far overstayed my welcome.” He picks up Marva’s book and hands it back to her. “I can’t thank you enough for honoring me with your time.”

  Oh, brother—could he be any bigger a kiss-up? What—is he vying to get in the will?

  We head back out to the bungalow. As soon as we get there, Daniel plunks down on my couch. “I’ve got a plan.”

  “Oh, do you?” I say icily.

  He gives me a perplexed look, which makes me realize how silly I’m being. I stamp the jealousy. He’s being incredibly generous to help me. “You can take all the DVDs and VCR tapes for the yard sale,” he says. “Pretty much everything else in there is worth selling online or straight to collectors. There’s a place I know of that’s supposed to be good. They’ll take twenty percent off the top, but you’ll still come out way ahead. You said there are guys that can move it all?”

  When I tell him yes, he says, “Great. Oh, and don’t touch anything that’s behind the green chair. That’s what she wants to keep. As for the rest of the house, I told Marva I’d come back to look again when I had more time. Worst-case scenario, you let me into that yard sale first and I’ll check there’s nothing I missed.”

  “That’s a lot of work for you. What kind of commission are you thinking?”

  “Don’t worry about it. Glad to do it.”

  “That’s not fair—I need to pay you something.”

  He rubs the back of his neck. “Well, if you insist, Marva could pay me in merchandise. Like that Bettie Page pinup calendar. If that wound up hanging in some horny college kid’s dorm room, I’d hang myself.”

  “The calendar I would have thrown away because it’s out-of-date?”

  “You’re killing me.” He gets up and heads toward the door. “By the way, how are you handling Marva’s photos? I saw a snapshot in her room of her with Warhol. What are you going to do with that?”

  “Whatever she tells me to.”

  “What if she tells you to shred it?”

  “Then I’ll shred it.”

  “You can’t do that. That photo is a piece of history.”

  I shrug. “There’s too much in there. Can’t keep it all.”

  “But it means something.”

  “Daniel, some things have to go. If they’re in the way, they’re in the way. That’s how it is.”

  My words seem to incite him because his voice is steel as he says, “You can’t let go of everything. Some things are worth hanging on to.”

  I cannot believe that Daniel of all people would say that to me. He has the nerve to talk to me about hanging on—after he ran out on me when things got tough with Ash. Okay, ran out isn’t entirely accurate, but he did leave. I’d dared to think we were forever, and I hadn’t seen the end coming. I suppose if I thought back I could piece together when Daniel finally snapped, but I don’t want to. I prefer to forget the whole thing.

  Now here he is, in my life again, and it’s dredging everything up. What was I thinking? I was a fool to believe I’d be able to work with him.

  Daniel yanks open the door, his eyes not meeting mine. His voice is thick as he says, “I need to go.”

  It’s all I can do to bite back the urge to tell him not to come back. As much as I hate it, I need him.

  I’m just not sure I’m ready for all the mess that comes along with his help.

  chapter nine

  The good thing about investing in people rather than things is that people don’t have to be dusted.

  —Excerpt from Things Are Still Not People, unpublished draft of a sequel to Things Are Not People

  I manage to sleep in until 8:00 a.m. The first thought that pops into my head when I wake up is I get to call Ash in mere hours.

  The very thought gives me jitters. It’s my chance to reconnect with my son—to speak directly to him instead of having our conversation filtered through whatever drugs he’s on. It feels more important than a phone call. It’s a bridge. If I want him to be willing to talk to me again, I can’t mess this up.

  I’m mulling what I’ll say to Ash the entire time I’m getting ready for work. Mostly, I want to ask him questions—and not about his drug problem or his recovery. I’d prefer to avoid those topics. All I want to hear is the mundane, everyday stuff. How does he like the food there? What’s his roommate’s name? Do they get along? What’s his view from his room—can he see the ocean? I’ll have ten minutes on the phone with Ash, and what I crave is ten minutes of normal.

  Of course, they’re not going to let me do that. I’m sure Ash has a list a mile long of the issues we’re supposed to work on—all the ways I need to change so he can get better. Strange how I can look forward to and dread something simultaneously.

  To pass the time, I check my e-mails, which I haven’t done in several days. It appears my mom has discovered the FORWARD button. There must be fifty messages from her. I’m so busy sifting through them that I almost miss the e-mail from Daniel. He’s sent me the address for where to drop off Marva’s memorabilia. I feel a twinge of disappointment when it’s only that and a brief note: We’re on. Talked them down to 15% on the fee. I’ll supervise. Make sure it’s all boxed and sealed so I can itemize.—D.

  Not sure what els
e I expected it to say. I grab a yogurt and a banana for my breakfast. By the time I let myself into Marva’s house, it’s after ten o’clock. Nelson is in the kitchen watching a movie.

  “How’s our patient?” I ask.

  “Off bed rest. She’s in her office. I’m hanging around today, but mostly because I add class to this place. And she pays me.”

  I give a knock as I lean into Marva’s office. “Good morning. Glad to hear you’re feeling better.”

  She’s sitting in an easy chair, reading the newspaper. “Never felt bad. No idea what the fuss was about.”

  “So, Marva, as long as you’re up, I’m going to have the—” I stop midsentence. I’m about to tell her I’ll bring the crew in to clear out the theater room. Only the image of Marva with Daniel yesterday pops into my head—how excited he was to meet her. How different she was with him.

  Maybe I’ve been too focused on business? It’s why I’m here, and Marva’s certainly made it clear she’s not interested in establishing any sort of personal relationship with me. But still …

  I lean on the edge of an antique writing desk. “I didn’t get around to showing this room to Daniel yesterday when he was here,” I say in what I hope is an inviting, chatty tone, borrowed from all those days I was laid off and watched The View. “So many beautiful paintings. I’m afraid once I bring him in here, I won’t be able to get him out.”

  Marva doesn’t look up from her paper. “Mmm-hmm. He was a nice young man. Seemed to know his stuff. How long have the two of you been sleeping together?”

  “Wha—?” Didn’t see that one coming. “I … uh … he and I aren’t …”

  “He strikes me as a considerate lover. Is he?”

  “Daniel and I aren’t—” Marva is now peering at me over the top of her thick-rimmed reading glasses, her expression politely interested. “That is, we aren’t anymore. We used to be. He’s an ex-boyfriend. We split about seven months ago. But, yes, as a matter of fact, he was.”

  “That’s good. There’s nothing worse than a man who wants a woman to do all the work. You’d be surprised at how many great men are dreadful in the sack.”

  I’m dying to ask her the juicy details: What great men? Did you sleep with anybody I’d know? And what made you suspect there was something between Daniel and me? Too chicken to do so, I instead say, “These paintings are stunning. Do you have a favorite?”

  She gazes about, as if she can’t recall what’s in here. “I suppose that’s rather like choosing a favorite food. It depends upon one’s mood.”

  “How about Woman, Freshly Tossed? Is that here?”

  “No.” She picks up the paper again, briskly opening it with a snapping sound—a clear signal that our conversation has ended. “That one is not here.”

  My phone is fully charged. I’m sitting on the couch in the bungalow. Five minutes to go until I call Ash. I’ve told Niko—who has had the crew packing up the theater room all afternoon while I’d itemized—that no one is to disturb me from five o’clock to five ten. When he cracked a joke about how it couldn’t be that hot a date if it was only ten minutes, I couldn’t resist telling him the real reason. Sort of. I may have edited out the part about rehab. The essence, anyway, is that I haven’t talked to my son in a long time, and I will be. In five minutes.

  Four now.

  At last I call and get through to Dr. Paul. “I’ve got Ash with me here. I’m going to put you on speakerphone. The two of you can talk. I’ll be here if you need me.” There’s a clatter, some clicking, and then Dr. Paul again. “Can you hear me?”

  My mouth has gone dry. “Yes.” I’d been anticipating a one-on-one with Ash. Now this feels like a performance, with Dr. Paul as both audience and judge. I’m playing the role of Mom, and I can’t remember any of my lines.

  “Hi, Ash,” I say.

  “Hey.”

  “It’s nice to hear your voice. I’m glad you were willing to talk to me.”

  “Yeah. Okay.” This is mumbled.

  Now what? I was close enough to this boy at one point that I once licked melted Popsicle off his face when I didn’t have a cloth—now I haven’t a thing to say to him. Although I could start with an apology for licking his face.

  “How is everything going?” I ask.

  “Cool.”

  “How do you like the food?”

  “It’s cool.”

  “Do you have a roommate?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Do you like him?”

  “Yeah, he’s cool.”

  I’m dying here. I’m covered in flop sweat. Only about twenty seconds into the conversation—one I’ve been looking forward to for weeks—and I can’t wait for it to be over.

  I put in an appeal. “Dr. Paul? What are Ash and I supposed to be talking about?”

  “Whatever you’d like,” he says.

  Whatever I’d like. I’d like for our conversation to be less awkward. But it doesn’t appear that’s going to be happening anytime soon.

  “Everything is going well here,” I say. “I have a new job. I’m helping a woman clean out her home. It’s super-cluttered.” I give a weak laugh. “You remember what a neat freak I can be.”

  “Yeah. That sounds cool.”

  I decide to wait Ash out—if I don’t say anything, he’ll step up and do more than give me one- and two-word answers. A solid minute ticks by with neither of us saying a word. Finally, Dr. Paul takes pity on me. “Ash, maybe you want to talk to your mom about what we were discussing right before she called.”

  There’s a low mumbling between the two of them.

  “Lucy,” Dr. Paul says. “Can I confirm for Ash that he’s free to say anything to you?”

  With loins girded, I say, “Sure.”

  We observe another near minute of silence. At last Ash says, “I’m starting to understand why it is I got into drugs.”

  “You are?”

  Please don’t say it’s because of me … please don’t say it’s because of me …

  “I do it—that is, I did it—because I didn’t have a dad around.”

  Whew. It’s not my fault. Thank you thank you thank you …

  “And you weren’t strict enough,” he continues, “like a dad would have been. If I’d had one.”

  Crap.

  “And you never noticed what was going on. Ever. Even when it was so frigging obvious.”

  “Like what?” I ask, though I’m already mentally ticking off a list of what I hope he doesn’t say. The foil on his windows he said was because the streetlights bothered him … the white powder that was “caffeine” … his ability to stay awake for days on end …

  “Come on, you didn’t see a two-foot bong in my room?”

  “Oh, I saw it.” I sound defensive but, darn it, somebody needs to defend me. “At the time, it seemed the lesser of a lot of evils.”

  I hear more mumbling, and then “I guess what I’m saying is that I’m pissed I got into any of it at all. And when I did, that you didn’t stop me.”

  “You’re mad that I didn’t stop you from doing drugs.”

  “If you had, I wouldn’t be an addict now.”

  Addict.

  It’s the word I’ve been avoiding through all of this. Even as I was sending him away, it was for his drug problem, his drug use. At the time, Ash certainly didn’t think he had a problem. I had the problem for not understanding that he was just a guy that liked to party. Now he’s using the A-word.

  He’s faced it, and I suppose it’s time I did, too.

  Ash is an addict. I’m the mother of an addict.

  “Ash, I tried to stop you. I did everything I knew to—”

  “You tried too late.”

  Dr. Paul finally decides to earn some of that money I’m paying him and pipes in, “Ash, I’m going to challenge what you said. I don’t believe you. You’re here. Making progress on your recovery. So why would you do that if it’s too late?”

  I press my lips together, resisting the urge to answer for Ash, to
supply the answer I’d like to hear.

  “Nah, it’s not too late,” Ash replies at last.

  We finish the call soon after, ending on what I consider a high note. In celebration, I grab a yogurt from my minifridge. Being cherry-cheesecake-flavored, it’s the closest thing to a treat I have on hand. I pop it open and take a spoonful, immediately pitying anyone who thinks this is what cheesecake tastes like.

  As I eat, Ash’s words run through my head. It’s not too late.

  Until I heard him say it, I hadn’t realized how badly I needed some acknowledgment from him that he believes he can succeed in rehab. Since sending him off, I’ve been shouldering the hope on my own. With those simple words, even with all the crap that preceded them, I at last feel that Ash has hope, too. He’s the one that actually has to do the work—as much as I’d love to jump in and do it for him, I can’t—so this feels like an important step.

  I’m chucking the empty yogurt container in the trash when there’s a knock on the door. I open it, and Niko is standing there, smiling so broadly that it’s as if I peeled back the curtains to let in a ray of sunshine.

  “I was leaving for the day,” he says. “Thought I’d stop by to see how your call went. You were so excited about it.”

  Since I’m still enjoying that Niko doesn’t know about Ash’s situation—freeing me from having to worry about whether he thinks less of me because of it—I merely answer, “Fine, thanks.”

  “Just fine? You wanna talk about it?”

  “Not really.”

  He nods. “You know the best way to not talk?”

  “What’s that?”

  “Drinking. Come on, let’s go. There’s a great pub just a half a mile from here. I’ll buy.”

  Out of habit I’m about to protest—tell him all the reasons I can’t go with him. Then I think, why not? I’m a single woman—in fact, I’m an empty nester, although no one would ever call this cluttered bungalow empty, except perhaps Marva. I’m finally feeling freed of some of my fears about Ash, at least for the moment. He’ll be back soon enough, and my focus will have to be on him again. I suppose there’s no reason I can’t squeeze in a little fun while I have the chance.