Come home, Robin said this morning. Just come home.
I hate to keep breaking her heart. But I don’t want to go back there right now.
As I walk, people scurry past, a couple of them wearing masks like the man in the coffee shop. Just like that SARS, or the bird flu, there’s apparently a strangely named disease from a faraway place that won’t impact us much at all, I’m sure. But people are always ready to give in to panic; me, I tend to underreact. My father would accuse me of being “worldly,” which to him meant that I dwelled in the material. That I suffered under the delusion of permanence, that I erroneously believed that the things I could see and touch had any meaning at all. He’d see those people wearing masks as a sign, the white horse of the apocalypse—pestilence.
It’s almost as if because I shared my past, spoken words out loud, that I’ve given my father permission to invade my thoughts. This is why I’ve buried it all so deep. To speak of it is a conjuring, thoughts and phrases, unwanted memories coming back as alive and vivid, so near. I should never have told you. I had constructed my life so that I never had to. I could have taken it to my grave, so to speak. Too late for regrets, though. What’s done is done.
There’s a narrow old man standing by the entrance to the facility, hands in the pocket of his peacoat, a plaid cap, chunky shoes. He’s not quite as tall as I am, rubs at his jaw as I approach. His face is a landscape of lines and shadows.
“Joe?”
He nods, sticks out his hand and I take it in mine. It’s papery and warm. He holds me with his gaze, taking measure it feels like. Whatever he sees, he offers me a slight smile.
“I’m Wren.”
“You’re younger than I thought you’d be.”
“I’m older than I look.” Not quite thirty, I look younger. I still get carded. I crave gravitas, the respectability that comes with age. But it seems elusive.
He nods again and then turns to head inside the gate. I follow him through a labyrinth of concrete hallways, punctuated by metal door after metal door. When we get to number 39, he comes to a stop. He bends to unlock a padlock, and hauls the door open with a clanging that echoes off the long passage.
I’m tense, my shoulders aching, wondering what pieces of yourself you might have left behind. A powerful waft of moldy damp air makes my sinuses tingle.
Joe flips on a light. The space is orderly, rows of boxes carefully marked: tax documents, bedding, Marty’s artwork, Millie’s clothes, photographs, letters. There’s an old wingback chair, a dresser, a steamer truck, a standing lamp. I feel the urge to start rifling through. The detritus of living life, how it collects, how we hold on to it, how it defines us. It tells a story, and I love the stories people have to tell. I feel a craving to understand Joe, know about the life he’s lived. But there in the center of the room, there’s a single unmarked box.
He bends down for it and hoists it up. It looks light; there can’t be much in there. But I am greedy for it, for any piece of you.
I take the money from my pocket in a thick white envelope.
“You said five thousand?” I say.
He frowns, takes a step back. “Are you sure you want to do that? Cover your boyfriend’s debt. You were my daughter? I wouldn’t let you bail out some deadbeat.”
I look down at the cash in my hand. He has a point.
“I’m not doing it for him,” I say. “I’m doing it for you.”
He smiles, eyes crinkling. I can see he’s amused, trying to figure me out. “You don’t even know me.”
He’s right on some level. But I think how we treat any one person is how we treat the world, how we treat ourselves. If I can right a wrong, it’s far more valuable than the sum of five thousand dollars. Maybe it restores Joe’s faith or maybe someday he pays it forward. This is why, I think, people bring me their problems and ask me to solve them. I’m always going to try to fix and help.
“Please,” I say when he doesn’t take it. “I’m happy to do it.”
Finally, he reaches for it. I notice a tremor in his hand. “Thank you, young lady.”
He hands me the box.
“Do you mind?” I say.
“Go ahead.” Joe takes a seat in the wingback chair.
I sit on the floor with the box and start to look through it. Your watch—large white face with Roman numerals, black leather band. I admired it once for its simplicity. You said it was your grandfather’s, given to him by your father, that it meant something to you. Why would you leave it behind? Probably just another lie.