Everything Must Go

Rose hadn’t planned to stop at the thrift store, even though she should apologize for yesterday. She had planned to buy creamer, pick up her prescription, and get home before the rain started. But there in the front window, wedged between a realistic plastic duck and an old toaster, was a vintage cookie jar, the one with decorative ceramic cookies all around it. It even had the walnut on top used to lift the lid.

              She had one exactly like it; a smile bloomed on her face. Her grandson had fumbled the lid once while sneaking cookies and had broken off a piece of the ceramic snickerdoodle on the lid’s side.

              It was rare to see these cookie jars anymore, with everyone snapping them up for their value or fond memories. Then she thought a bit snidely, “Mothers these days don’t bake cookies and have them in cookie jars on the counter anymore.”

She leaned toward the window, surprised to see it had the same exact damage as hers at home. Her smile faded. “What's the chances of that?” she speculated out loud. First her bean pot yesterday, now this!

A breeze skittered leaves past her feet as she stared through the store window. She rubbed her arms, pinked from the cold. How had she forgotten her coat?

She saw a customer eyeing her cookie jar and moved to enter the store just as someone else was leaving.

She hurried to the cookie jar, as the clerk, ignoring Rose, started a conversation with the other customer.

The lid was taped on to prevent customers from taking it off. It was so much like hers, she thought; it was more than eerie. How many of these cookie jars had a cookie nicked off just so?

“That’s a nice piece, a 1950s Napco Cookies All-Over Jar,” the clerk told the woman next to Rose. “They run about $60.00, so I have to put a $55.00 tag on it, even with a nick.”

“I am familiar with that nick,” Rose commented.

Neither the clerk nor the customer looked at Rose. “Well, I mean, not this jar's nick, of course,” Rose said quickly, feeling flustered. “I have one exactly like this at home, same nick and all.”

The clerk nodded at the other woman. “Oh, I bet there are still a few of them out there. I remember my grandma having one too,” she assured her. “It would look great on your countertop.” The bell over the door rang, announcing a new customer and sending the clerk off to tail after them.

Rose just stared.

She wanted to believe that if she walked home and opened the cupboard, the jar would be there. She hadn’t used it in decades but kept it in case her grandson ever visited. She would never damn well donate it to this consignment shop for a dollar or so.

“This is ridiculous!” she sputtered as the customer cradled the jar, intending to buy it. “I think that’s mine,” she called out halfheartedly, trailing along behind the woman, feeling a bit lost and angry.

Just yesterday she had passed the window and seen a brown bean pot like the one she had made in clay class in her forties. It had the lopsided handle she’d been teased about incessantly. A light sheen of blue glaze covered the outside, something she’d thought would be decorative, but it had clashed terribly with the brown.

She tried to argue that it was her pot, but the clerk didn’t give her the time of day, moving from shelf to shelf, sorting and puttering through the store.

Rose wasn’t one to raise her voice or make a scene, but being treated so rudely was hurtful. She had dramatically waved her arms and raised her voice in a way she never had before— startling even herself. And a glass vase nearby had somehow fallen off a shelf, knocking over a few others, scattering glass everywhere.

That had made quite a mess, and she had fled, horrified and completely embarrassed. She had thought to come in today and apologize… maybe, until she had seen the cookie jar.

Something’s not right, Rose thought. She had been forgetting more than usual, and the thought of losing her mind was worse than her fear of spiders or even walking the streets at night.

As long as she kept doing the things she was used to, surely it would all sort out. She liked to walk to town, chat with a few friends at the tea shop, and run a few errands once or twice a week.

But lately something had been very different.  Her friends didn’t turn her way when she called after them, leaving her puzzled and hurt.  When she found an empty seat in the tea shop, the waitress never came by to see what she wanted.

She stood blinking, even more confused. She tried to think if she had done anything to offend anybody. It was easy to do when you’re old and cranky. It had been a few days since her children had called. Well, maybe, Rose thought, not even sure about that, as she didn’t know where her phone had gone off to.

She trailed out of the store as another customer was leaving. Perhaps the shopkeeper’s ignoring her was penance for being so rude the other day.

Outside, she pressed her fingers to her forehead, trying to figure out how her day had tumbled into such disarray. Maybe going home and making a cup of tea would settle things down. She needed to stop thinking that everything she saw in the store was hers. That was so ridiculous. The last thing she wanted was to encourage any kind of craziness.

Being old was like a spectator sport, she thought, where everyone watched you for signs of dementia, Alzheimer’s, or any old age behavior, for that matter. Not as if you didn’t stare at your reflection every morning to see if you were still in there. Why, her own family had nearly driven her crazy with their hovering, speculation, and worry the last few months.

Then the next thing she knew, she was here in town without her coat and wearing a ridiculous dress she wouldn’t be caught dead in. (So she had declared to her friends weeks ago, with a twinge of guilt since her daughter had given it to her.)

It was the last insult to her mind, all this not knowing.

Where were her friends? Her purse? Even her family felt absent.

She stopped abruptly, patting down her arms and front. Had she left her purse in the shop?  “Rose,” she scolded, “you are not going back there right now.”

Someone passed so close she stumbled aside, glaring at their back as they loped off. Everything about this day was so wrong!

If she could just lie down for a bit and close her eyes, things would be better.

As she walked home, she saw the decorations for Halloween looped over tree branches and bushes, set up on porches, each house more elaborate than the last. Her house, though, was stark in its lack of decoration. That made her stop and stare.

Someone must have stolen all her decorations! Bad enough that someone was raiding her kitchen things, but stealing her decorations! What was the world coming to? She loved Halloween!

 Rose had always decorated with clever homemade things, none of that cheap plastic stuff from the dollar store. She had always helped make her grandson’s costumes and stood back proudly as he went up to the door with the other children. She had a lot of decorating to do if she was going to be ready for Halloween. Maybe no one had stolen anything; maybe she was just behind.

She admitted that keeping her place up had been getting more difficult. Things were beginning to pile up until the piles had piles, and it was harder than ever to find anything. It had become so overwhelming that sometimes she didn’t even want to go home.

Her front door was locked. In utter disbelief, she tried to turn the knob. Either her hand had forgotten how, or the knob was broken. The door wasn’t going to open, and of course, she didn’t have a key…

From her porch swing, she saw neighbors pass by.

She called and waved. Chasing after the first few—well, chasing was a generous description; she hadn’t chased anything in years—got her no help.

Whatever she had done to make everyone ostracize her must have been terrible, because they walked by with barely a glance her way. Ignoring her calls. She had become a pariah.

She settled on her swing, hands over her face, and actually wept.

Or tried to; even her eyes weren’t working correctly. Surely this much shame, sadness, and loss should have produced a torrent of tears.

There were none.

She couldn’t even muster wet sniffles.

Rose sat there on her porch until the sun rose the next day. That was a feat she marveled at. She couldn’t remember the last time she sat so long without aching and groaning when she stood.  Maybe that new turmeric supplement was working.

Before she knew it, she was back at the thrift store. This, she thought, was where she would begin making her apologies. Maybe she would even find her purse. She was getting flustered at the door when another customer came up behind her and pulled it open. Rose slipped inside with her.

Rose wanted to wait a bit before she approached the clerk with her apology and questions about her purse. Everything felt unbalanced and strange. Perhaps if she just went up and down the racks as she used to, her fingers brushing the different fabrics while she eyed the knick-knacks, she would regain that sense of everything being all right with the world.

She wandered up and down the women’s clothing aisle, then moved to the men’s, thinking about Raymond. She smiled; they used to be Rosy and Raymond and so in love. Sixty years together didn’t feel long enough when you had the right person by your side.

She was brushing her hand over the tops of the shirts and jackets when she spied one she would have never parted with in a million years.

Her fingers brushed the worn tweed woven in different colors of brown. This was something she had no doubt about: it was Raymond’s jacket, complete with the patch on the elbow that she had put there herself. It had been hanging in the back of her closet. She had never even washed it; she didn’t want to lose Raymond’s scent, that bit of leather and cigar that lingered on the fabric.

Now and then she had taken to lying on the bed with it bunched up in her arms. A silly thing she wouldn’t admit to, but unless you’ve loved someone that long and hard, you wouldn’t understand that sort of loss.

She swelled with indignation, and if she was truthful, full-out rage. Someone had been taking things out of her house and putting them here on consignment. She could get over a bean pot, possibly the cookie jar, but never, never Raymond’s jacket.

This was outright thievery!

She wanted to break every glass vase in the store, knock over mannequins and rip clothing from the hangers. Rose positively shook with rage, fingers curling, nostrils flaring, ready to scream the vilest curses she could think of when—

The bell buzzed from the back of the thrift store, announcing a new donation drop-off. The store clerk turned and hurried past without noticing her.

Rose suddenly deflated when she heard her daughter's familiar voice.

“Sorry I’m late; there’s just been so much to do. We need to catch our flight, and I’m just hurrying to drop off these last things.”

Rose watched in sinking puzzlement as her daughter brought in a large box marked Rose—Kitchen in black marker. Another box on top read Mom’s—Clothing.

And suddenly Rose was livid. Her own daughter! She rushed toward her.

“What in God's name do you think you're doing?”

Nothing happened.

Her daughter set the boxes on the counter, ignoring her.

Rose got right in front of her.

“Those are my things!” she sputtered. Her daughter walked right past her, back out to get more boxes.

It was her own daughter! Her own daughter Mila was stealing her things! It was like the world had stopped and the ground had dropped out from beneath her. How was this even possible? She thought she knew her daughter better than this. They didn’t need money, certainly not the little bits of money they might get from a consignment shop. What was really happening here?

Pain, loss, and betrayal washed over Rose.

She almost didn’t hear what the clerk had been saying. “I know this can’t be easy,” the clerk said softly. “Especially with it happening so suddenly.”

Mila stood next to the boxes. “I just keep thinking Mom’s going to walk through that door and tell me I put something in the wrong box.” Her small laugh sounded more like a sob. “I thought we would have more time.”

“This was your mother’s favorite store, you know. We’ll make sure that the proceeds go to the animal rescue she supported.”

Mila nodded, and Rose noticed the lines of grief on her face, how bedraggled and weary she looked.

“But I’m not lost,” Rose whispered. “I’m right here.” She called out shakily to her daughter, but neither Mila nor the clerk turned her way.

Rose twirled wildly, looking for something to throw.

When was the last time anybody had really noticed her?

When had anyone called her name and really looked at her or even waved?

Or worse yet, when had they answered her?

She tried to remember the last time she had been with anyone, doing anything ordinary.

It had been at the tea shop, she decided, at their favorite table with good ol’ Ruthie, Beatrice, and Sal. But Sal had been hovering over her face, saying something she couldn’t make out. “Rose? Rosie, are you OK?” She could see his lips moving and the worry on his face.

What was she doing on the tea shop floor? That was no respectable place to be at her age. First everything was painted gray and then all too bright, and then, well, Rose didn’t really know what was then…

Rose moved swiftly and grabbed something, really grabbed it, putting every bit of energy and effort into grasping Raymond’s hanging jacket and flinging it towards the register where her daughter and the clerk stood.

Rose was panting by then. “Mila, Mila, pleeease,” she wailed out to her daughter.

“Oh my,” the clerk sputtered as the jacket flung itself from the rack. “I can sure tell it's Halloween time; a lot of weird things are happening here,” she said with a wink.

As the clerk picked up the jacket to rehang it, Mila hurried over and examined the patch at the elbow. “Oh no, I think this was my father’s,” she said, turning to the clerk. She clutched it to her chest.  “I need to buy this back. I am not sure how it got here.”

“No need, honey. It's yours.” She patted Mila's shoulder.

Rose watched all of this with wide, understanding eyes.

She was lost.

There were no idiots giving away all her things or stealing her Halloween decorations. Her daughter was dealing with all those piles…

Mila stood clutching Raymond’s jacket, looking toward the front window. The cookie jar was gone; somebody had bought it.

“She spent her whole life gathering these things around her, and she loved them,” Mila told the clerk. “I hope they go to homes where people love them too.”

Rose had noticed the empty spot between the ridiculous plastic duck and the old toaster; she thought it would hurt more, but it didn’t.

That cookie jar could go, as could the bean pot. Everything must go, she realized. Let other people hang her decorations. Raymond’s jacket was tucked safely underneath her daughter’s arm, and that mattered.

Rose trailed the other two to the back of the thrift store, stepping outside into the weak October sunlight. She watched Mila carefully fold Raymond’s jacket and lay it on the passenger seat before getting in. There were a few smaller boxes in the car, things Mila had apparently decided to keep.

Rose smiled.

“Well, it’s certainly one way to clean out the house,” Rose muttered as she watched her daughter drive away.

She followed the clerk back into the store. Maybe she could supervise who bought some of her other things. Just because everything had to go didn’t mean they had to go willy-nilly.

Somebody, after all, ought to make sure her things went home with just the right people.