The Place Holder

Packing tape rips on the holder’s teeth. We work together to keep the sticky side from tangling. We’re boxed in a fortress of cardboard. The box in front says Kitchen Shit. We wish we had labeled it better. The azalea bush blooms outside. It’ll help the open house succeed.

We stack the boxes against the wall. A crayon-drawn house sits above the outlet. Jim suggested framing it as Katie’s Cape because one side of the roof sloped steeply. It adds some character to the otherwise stark white room. We laugh. On the sheet of things to do, we pencil in 'repaint walls'.

We split apart.

I wait by the window. The movers arrived early. The neighbor is mad. He can’t get his car out. We won’t miss him. She talks both sides down like a family court moderator.

She hurries back inside. Bags burst at the seams, filled like refugees escaping war, fabrics catching on hooks and zippers, bras hanging limp from corners like deflated balloons. Single socks sneak in every corner with dust bunnies and rogue Hot Wheels cars on a mission to get left behind. We grab the hamper. Any remaining items flood the plastic container. We pause. The middle cushion sags from all the times Katie and Russell snuggled under blankets for a movie. The leather wore out over time from Jim constantly sitting in the same spot during the game for good luck. The new buyers don’t want it, and it won’t be moved. We push it closer to the wall, suddenly concerned for its well-being when it will most likely decorate some college student’s first apartment now. We grab the stained blankets, covered in dog hair that carry a scent that would drive away a raccoon.

We split apart.

I wait by the door. She shoves the blankets into the overflowing dumpster down the street. One apartment tenant eyes her two floors up. Smoke curls through the open window. She returns. The men file out of the truck like troops. She directs them through the front door. Their boots stomp up the oak stairs. The baby gate clatters to the floor. We join in the master bedroom. A full-sized bed sits naked, stripped of sheets, pillows, and a mattress. Plastic wrap strangles its posts. We’ve had this bed since grad school. It felt so big back then, when upgrading from a twin. It felt big when Jim talked about moving in. It felt big when putting it in the master bedroom. It felt big when the news came that a baby might not be possible. Now it feels too small.

The doorbell rings. Susan wants to know how she can help. She’s got her sunglasses on despite the gray overcast. We reassure her that the book club is still happening. Her lip quivers.

We split.

I sit on the porch while she hugs Susan in the driveway. Her shoulders shake lightly. Susan’s hands dance around her body as if operated by strings. “No, no, I’m so happy for you guys!” Her face breaks into a smile, her voice trembles with a laugh, but her cheeks glisten. They chat for a bit. Susan grabs clothes for donation. She blows kisses. Susan turns down the street. She dabs her eyes with the heel of her palm.

We collect the shoes. Fill up the plastic bags. Near the bottom are Katie’s first sandals, little tan shoes with two blue straps and a bow on each side. We remember when she first put them on, then promptly kicked them off. She pulled herself up to a stand in the same room. She took her first steps in the hallway. So did Russell. For both kids, this is the only place they’ve ever called home. We drop the sandals in the donation pile. The imprint of small black toes darkens their soles. We pick them up again; maybe one of our friends wants them. Maybe we’ll just hold on to them until after the move. They tumble and settle at the bottom of the bag again.

Drawers hang open like gaping mouths void of all their teeth. The cabinets gasp at us as we pass. Colors catch our eye. Pens, rubber bands, Schrödinger's batteries that may or may not work, along with every invitation we didn’t have the courage to toss, sit scrunched together in the junk drawer. We debate dumping the entire drawer in the trash and finally embracing the KonMari Method. Instead, we leave that project for Jim. Men lumber past us. Music blares from the back of the truck. The muffled hum of a drill fills the background. The dining room table crumples into legs and squares neatly tied together. The same dining room table where Russell tried mashed peas for the first time, Katie stamped Christmas cards, and Jim’s mom told them she had cancer. It will see the new house; she won’t.

The dog’s water bowl spills. We grab paper towels. Grocery bags brim with Izzie 2.0’s things for the new house. Izzie 1.0 is buried out back. Russell was only three months old when she passed. We planted a large Hydrangea on top. I don’t think it qualifies as a rare species. If they dig it up, I hope they don’t think it’s a body underneath.

Wood crashes onto cement.

We split.

She races toward the truck. The vanity is in two. A man shouts obscenities. She grabs her hair. I listen as she lies through her teeth about the value of the piece.

“Don’t worry about it; I've had it for years. I'm surprised it’s lasted this long!” she says with a wave of her hand.

She’s apologetic as if she’d kicked it off the truck. She loves that piece and will cry about it later, but for now she’ll flatten herself for them as a form of appeasement. I hope in the new house, she grows a spine.

We’re upset. Pictures tilt at odd angles, mirroring a fun house. The fan jerks overhead, grinding rhythmically. Holes pock the walls. The house feels both empty and cluttered. The claustrophobic feeling of sitting in a sterile dental chair, surrounded by shelves of bagged utensils in varying sizes, comes to mind. We’re running out of time. A deep, dark, black skid mark runs down the middle of the living room from something dragged out. We sit cross-legged on the floor, working our fingers against it. Waxy, black strips darken our fingers, giving us dirt-colored French tips. We sit back. Six years ago, we sat in this room on lawn chairs with a pizza, hoping the couch would come before December.

A man’s voice calls out down the hall. “Mrs., we’re all done!”

We make it to the front door. She takes the floral wreath off its hook. I bite back tears. She hugs it.

I’m stuck.

She steps into the car with Jim. She peers back at me. I miss her.

I want to come with her. She asked me to stay. She asked when she left the kid’s height scribbled on the doorway. She asked when she told Susan; of course, she’d be back. She’s too fond of this place not to leave a little bit of herself behind. She wants her memories embedded in the walls and the house protected just as she remembers it.

I sit.

I can feel myself fade as they drive away. The next people will find the house warmer because of me. I’ll linger as long as I can. As long as she’ll let this piece of her live. I guess I’ll know soon enough, when she feels settled in the new place and ready to let go of me.