Moving House

TW/CW: Death mentions, Disease (implied Cancer), Emotional Turmoil, Mourning/Grief, Mental Health

Moving house will always be described as a process in life no one truly enjoys. Yet, for someone who has moved so often, one would think I like it by now. I have packed, taped, and shoved so many boxes into the moving truck I have forgotten what I own. I know there are approximately fifteen different boxes of books that are horrendously heavy— a consequence of my knack for collecting hardback books instead of logical paperbacks. My arms are tired from carrying them in and out of the apartment. I am fortunate I’m on the first floor. I also know I have to find a way to fit my mattress in this stupid truck.

My Best Friend is helping me pack, asking me questions about items they don’t think I need, and asking if they can either keep the item or throw it away. “The less you have to take, the better,” they tell me. I nod my head, defending a stupid little flamingo ornament from my first trip to some random beach. Next, I’m waving my hand at a pair of matching salt-and-pepper shakers shaped like a dog my late Grandmother gave me because they “looked like my puppy.” They didn’t in the slightest, but it was the thought that mattered, and no one said no to Grandma. Saying no to Grandma was heresy in my family, and if someone was going to rebel, it sure wasn’t going to be me. But, it didn’t matter anymore. Grandma passed three months ago and now I am leaving.

“Hey, hey!” Fingers snap in my face. “Earth to Beanpole! I was talking to you!”

I blink and look at my Friend staring at me with their hands on their hips, a bemused look on their face.

“Sorry,” I say, “Just thinking.”

“You do that a lot lately. Are you sure you’re doing okay? I know losing your Grandma was a blow to you and your family.”

I nod without replying. I’ve been fine. We all knew it was looming over us. Grandma grew weaker and weaker over the past couple of years, until the last six months she crashed entirely. I moved back to this tiny little town where everyone knew everyone, and no one respected a single lick of privacy, only to be close to her and the rest of my relatives when the time came. 

The tiny town remained exactly the same as it did in my memories. One single gas station remained the hub of town activity, while the only bar in town opened early and closed late. The grocery store shelves were always half empty, leaving a single option for milk or butter, and the local park was still filled with broken swings and slides the town mayor never bothered to get fixed. I remember the broken traffic lights, and the old bridge my elementary classmates would play on after school. Nothing changed nor did I ever expect it, too. I hated this place during my childhood, and I hate it now.

For months, her will was the talk of any conversation, with cousins gathered together using hushed voices about what they were supposedly promised, while my Father would go to war defending my Grandma’s choices from his greedy brother and sister. When Grandma first got sick, both my aunt and uncle immediately changed their tunes and weren’t exactly subtle about their thoughts on the matter. Part of the reason I’d come home was at my Father’s request; I would never have come home otherwise.

But, I’d been fine. I didn’t cry at the funeral; I stayed strong for my Father. I was the pillar, I always had to be. I was reliable, like when Mom died. I was fine. The smile I give my friend is as genuine as I can make it, but I know my eyes look tired. I’ve hardly slept the last few weeks waiting in anticipation for today.

“I’m fine. If there was something going on, you’d be the first to know. You know that.”

I pat my friend on the head and turn to tape another box filled with stupid little shit I don’t need to bring with me, but also can’t bring myself to go through at this moment.

The apartment I’m leaving behind was nice, I think. I didn’t have a good eye for what was considered low-quality, but it served me well for the past few months. I was lucky the Landlord was my Grandma’s friend, otherwise, the rent would’ve been a massive hole in my wallet. Admittedly, there’s still a film of dust on the window sills, and I haven’t mopped as regularly as Mom used to tell me to do. I swept, and I always gave a promise to my Mom whenever I did. “See, I swept, I don’t always need to mop,” I’d say out loud in an empty room, getting no reply except for the raise of my dog’s head. The way they tilted their head at me led me to believe my dog felt I was losing it for talking out loud to a ghost, but at the moment, I didn’t comprehend anything beyond the fact I was talking to my Mom.

Mom died years ago, when I was still in high school, and for the past ten years, my only connection to this wretched family was my Father. The sole good man in a bloodline filled with greed and jealousy so potent I forgot my cousins were white, instead of green with envy.

Grandma’s will talked about thousands of dollars to be designated, along with furniture, her own collectibles, and some rumor about her house, vehicles, and any other special things being included on that piece of paper. It was fortunate my Grandma put everything together before the rest of my family could stick their claws into her. A lawyer was called and summoned, and when the contents of her will were finally revealed, there was nothing but rage filling the room we all sat in.

Almost nothing was designated to aunts, uncles, and cousins, whereas my Father and I walked away with the majority of the money, and the majority of everything else. Thousands of dollars were put to my name, more money than I could have ever dreamed of achieving with my job, and with it, endless boxes of her first edition books, her own collectibles and nick-knacks, and endless photo books.

I can feel my friend staring at my back as I finish taping a box. Crouched, I looked over my shoulder at them. “Something wrong,” I ask, shuffling on the balls of my feet to turn and face them a little more.

They walk over to me, placing a hand on my back. Neither of us says anything as I drop my eyes from their inquiring stare, but when their fingers slide across the cotton of my shirt, a well of emotions rises and bubbles in my chest. I don’t look at them. I know if I do, I won’t be able to stop. I won’t be a pillar anymore; I won’t be this strong force in my family holding what bonds I have left together; I won’t be reliable. I’ve built my life on being reliable. I dropped my entire world back in the city to come home to this horrible little town at the behest of my father, so I could be reliable. I worked the job of three people for the pay of one because I wanted my manager to believe I was reliable. I was always the designated driver, always the ‘parent friend’ who made sure the group wasn’t doing anything illegal and stupid. If I cried now, if the wall I so carefully built broke now, I don’t think I could go back. I don’t think I could go back to being reliable.

“I know you’re hurting,” I hear them say. My teeth grit together tightly. I won’t cry. “If you keep living like this, you’ll never be content.” I won’t cry. “You’ll never be content with yourself.”

Their hand pauses as they shuffle beside me. I risk a glance and find them crouching, closing the gap between us as their arms slide around me. Their cheek settles on the back of my shoulder.

“I love you, and I care for you, and it hurts me to see you in so much pain. Don’t bother trying to deny it either, I know how you are. You bottle everything until it’s too much to bear, but you don’t let it explode. You’ve never let anything go.”

Heat rises to my cheeks and neck. I know I am red. My nose is threatening to spill and I know it is the same as Rudolph the Reindeer, who has songs and stories and movies written and created after it. But, I am not a special reindeer with songs written about me, nor do I have stories detailing my rise to legend, but I do have a friend cradling me despite our size differences.

I hugged my Father at my Grandma’s funeral. I held him while he cried, out of anguish and sorrow, out of anger and denial, and I remained there steadfast for him, as my friend does for me now.

“It’s okay to cry,” I hear them whisper, and they let go of me. I reach for them again, but they’re gone. My head whips side to side as I search for my friend, but they’ve vanished like they were never here at all. The room is empty, save for all the boxes I have yet to move, both taped shut and still open, ready to be filled. I shake my head, and quickly rub my eyes, before turning my attention to the box next to me. I am suddenly tired and the box seems to be filled with old books. I must have missed this one when doing the rest. 

Leaning over, I rifle between the different items: old yearbooks, some photo albums, and a general conglomeration of what I assume are remnants of an ancient past. In between what appears to be my senior year high school yearbook and a photo album from my toddler days, an envelope is tucked away. I squint, curiously, before plucking the envelope from the box. I don’t recognize it. It’s thick and brown, with no return address or even a stamp on it. 

Unfolding the flap, I tilt the envelope and pictures fall into my lap. Wallet size and 4-by-6 size pictures lay strewn about, some flipped over onto their fronts, and others facing right-side-up. Tears threaten to spill from my eyes as I lift a picture of my Grandma. She is smiling and happy, laughing about something, and I am beside her, grinning, clearly pleased with her reaction. Maybe I told a joke or some story, but the picture is dated: five years ago, long before she got sick.

The next picture is a punch to the gut. It’s my Mom’s face smiling back at me. She took a selfie on a beach, and there behind her were my dad and I, building sandcastles and the sun setting on the horizon. I remembered her gorgeous eyes as well as anyone, a bright and lively shade of green. She did not know pain in this picture, dated some fifteen years ago, and my heartbreak begins to well over my cheeks. I miss her. I missed them both. I knew of my Father’s pain, but I never considered my own.

The pile of pictures continues to grow in my lap, neatly stacked together with all the faces right-side-up as they should be. I collect one fallen upside-down, and when I am finally greeted with the picture, the dam which so securely held my emotions broke.

My Best Friend. Blonde-haired, coffee-colored eyes, and freckles for days and days. Smiling, grinning, from a hospital bed and me beside them. We each gave a thumbs up to the camera, while wires stuck out of their body from every point they could find. The machines littered the picture like a disease, the same one which claimed them, and I remember shaving their head for them once the medicine started making their hair fall out in clumps. I remember shaving my own in solidarity. I remember them. I remember all of them.

The room was filled with sobbing wails as I held the pictures to my chest. Pain wretches itself from my heart and fills the room with despair and agony, a surplus of twenty years worth of anguish, depression, and anxiety wondering who would be next. Denial, anger, and bargaining followed suit. Over and over again, I am faced with the stages of grieving, asking myself why, asking whatever deities exist why, asking questions I knew had no answers, and screaming for some God to fix their mistakes. The pictures fill my head with memories; I remember my old friends. I remember my family being proud of me when I graduated high school, and my Father brought a picture of Mom with him so she could be there too.

At some point, I was hunched over my knees as a fist lashed out to slam against the floor. Pain ripples through my hand and my arm, anchoring itself with the pain burning in my chest. My lungs feel constricted, squeezed by a python, crushing tighter and tighter. The hardwood floor beneath me is rough and old, scratched from old furniture, and small splinters poke out of the seams and into my knees. Jingling catches my attention as a wet nose presses itself against my cheek. Once, twice, and a third time. I raise my head and am met with the face of my dog, my beautiful, sweet dog, staring at me with those shining eyes. I pet their head, sniffling before they paw at my arm and whine. My lip quivers, as I carefully wrap my arms around them, burying my face into fur, crying as their tail thumps against the floor.

I stayed there for a long while, before releasing them from my grip and leaning onto my heels. I am exhausted. My eyes hurt and they feel swollen. They have to be red as freshly grown tomatoes, puffy and inflamed, while the red from my eyes bleeds into my cheeks, flushing pale skin with warmth. I cough and hold my throat. It’s raw, scratchy, and hurts to swallow. I fear there is more to come, but my wall is broken and now I must contend with the fragmented pieces of my emotional state. Sniffling, I collect the stack of photos and tuck them carefully away into the envelope. Delicately, I rise to my feet and wipe my face again. I need to finish packing; I’ve already delayed it too long.

My dog barks suddenly. I look and see my dad approaching the apartment. I wave pathetically and the moment he steps through the door and sees my bloodshot eyes and puffy face, he is immediately in front of me, asking what happened. I don’t say anything. Instead, I duck my head and place it against his shoulder. His arms come around me, and slowly, I raise mine to wrap around him.

I sob again into my Father’s shoulder. I don’t know how long we stay together, holding one another in our pains and in our tragedies, but I know it is him and I against the world. His shirt is soaked from my crying, a massive dark spot presenting my anguish to the world. I want to be content, with myself, with life, with who I am. I want to be as my Grandma was, as my Mother was, and as my Best Friend was. Content with their lives. Happy. My father rubs my back, and I distantly hear him ask if I’ve eaten lunch yet.

I shake my head no. I can’t remember the last time I have eaten. My Father pats my head when I lean away, and brushes a calloused thumb across my face, clearing away my tear trails. He smiles at me, a soft grin, with crinkled but tired eyes, and my dog barks at me. I want to believe they’re both encouraging me in their own ways. I sniff and attempt a smile at my Father.

I want to be like my Grandma, like my Mom, like my Best Friend. I want to be content. I want to be happy. I want to be happy for them, for my dad, and for my dog.

But, I want to be happy for myself, as they all, living and dead, would want for me. I followed my dad out of the apartment. I lock the door and the moving van. Moving can wait.

For now, lunch with my Father, and the first step toward healing.