The Last Phone Booth in Manhattan(50)

I carefully tiptoed through the house, but it didn’t matter. Squeaks and creaks reverberated out of the old maple floors, bouncing off every door and window. Bernadette (Peters), our grumpy basset hound, asleep in her usual spot by the fireplace, slowly raised her big droopy eyes to see who was there before curling back into her dog bed completely unperturbed.

I grabbed the handle of the refrigerator and wrenched it open, the small bulb inside bathing me in a cool white light. Catching my eye were two large Tupperware containers filled with some of our dinner’s leftovers stacked next to the pitcher of water. Maybe just a little snack? Grabbing one container with my left hand, I wedged a fork between my teeth, and grabbed a cup of water before making my way to the couch. Only, just as I leaned back into the cushion, a loud and resounding yelp sent me at least two feet into the air and the Tupperware of lasagna, as well as the water, flying across the room.

I slowly lifted the blanket off the couch. “Mom, is that you?”

“Of course, it’s me,” she said, kicking the blanket off her legs.

“Jeez, you scared the hell out of me. What are you doing down here?” I asked.

“The RLS makes your father impossible to sleep with. I end up on the couch at least four nights a week,” she managed through a yawn.

“I thought the doctor said Dad didn’t have restless leg syndrome?”

“What do they know? I’m the one who’s been sleeping next to the man for the past forty years.” Mom pointed to the far corner of the room. “Hey, Ave, you might want to pick the lasagna up off the floor before Bernadette finishes it all.”

I turned to look behind me. Bernadette had slurped up most of the mess and was polishing off whatever remained in the Tupperware.

“NOOO!” I cried, and rushed over to scoop up the leftovers until I realized that Bernadette was doing a better job of cleaning it up than I could, so I just let her go to town, while I found a spray bottle of disinfectant and some paper towels to do a final wipe down after she was done.

Without even having to be asked, Mom tightened the tie of her faded navy terry cloth robe, pushed up from the couch, and headed into the kitchen. Reaching into the fridge, she pulled out the second Tupperware and set the microwave to three minutes. When it finished, she pulled out the piping-hot dish and set it on the table. She poured a tall glass of milk, placed it beside the plate, and pulled a chair out, gesturing for me to take a seat.

“Thanks,” I said, giving the floor one last swipe before balling the dirty paper towels in my fist and tossing them into the trash. “You didn’t have to go to any trouble. I was planning on eating it cold.”

“Trouble? What trouble? I used the microwave.” She eased into the chair across from me.

I took a few bites of the lasagna and pushed the milk away from my plate.

“What’s wrong? You don’t like milk anymore?” Mom asked. “I can get you something else? I think we still have that bottle of wine you sent us for Christmas last year.” She went over to the sideboard, bent down, and shimmied a bottle out from the back. “Ahh, here it is. You like red, right?” she asked, holding it up.

“Mom, that’s an eight-hundred-dollar bottle of wine.”

She jerked the bottle away from her to examine the label, as if there was a price tag she’d somehow missed. “Why on God’s green planet would you ever send us an eight-hundred-dollar bottle of wine?!” Her voice shrieked to a whole new octave, clearly bowled over by the ridiculousness of the purchase. But it hadn’t been frivolous when we bought it, or so I thought. It was our attempt at a gesture of well wishes after having to reschedule yet another set of holiday plans with my folks.

“Well, you know Adam,” I said offhandedly, until the irony struck me between the ribs. “Knew Adam . . . Well, actually, turns out we didn’t, eh?”

Mom shifted her gaze, clearly uncomfortable at the mention of Adam, and turned back to where she kept the alcohol. “Here,” she said, pulling out a second bottle from the cabinet with a nondescript duck on the label, “this is an eleven-dollar bottle of wine. You can’t feel bad about drinking an eleven-dollar bottle of wine.”

I tilted my head to the side. “An entirely different kind of bad.” I waved the bottle toward me. “But go ahead, bring on the pain.”

Mom laughed and poured us both a glass of the cheap merlot and settled back down at the table. I took a sip and glanced around the living room, taking in the knickknacks, tchotchkes, and antique trinkets practically spilling off every shelf and stuffed into every cabinet. My parents weren’t exactly hoarders, their clutter more of an occupational byproduct, but no question Marie Kondo would have a field day in this place.

“I’m surprised you and Dad haven’t started selling any of this stuff yet. You know like less than a quarter of it’s going to fit into an RV, right? Unless you’re planning on renting a storage unit . . . or half a dozen? And I passed by the store today. It too is still crammed with inventory. Don’t you need to start unloading it all soon?”

Mom nodded. “I know, this house has become like a second showroom over the years. There’s a lot to go through.”

“I can help you tomorrow for a bit before I head back to the city? We can figure out if any of this stuff actually sparks joy.”

“It all sparks joy, that’s the problem,” she joked.