Back in the Burbs by Tracy Wolff
Chapter Thirty-Four
“Oh wow.” Sarah stops at the doorway and stares into the first of my aunt’s guest rooms. To be fair, it isn’t like any of us can get beyond the doorway; the room is so packed with clutter anyway.
Boxes, sewing mannequins, piles and piles of books, bolts of cloth, and baskets of yarn and ribbon cover every available spot.
“You sure you guys want to do this today?” I ask. “We could go downstairs and make margaritas and chocolate chip cookies instead.”
“It’s nine o’clock in the morning,” Nick says.
“Is that supposed to mean something to me?” I joke.
Nick takes a step closer, and the nice, wide upstairs hall gets a whole lot narrower. “Nope, just noting the time.”
“How about we make a plan to clear half the room today?” Sarah says. “We uncover the bed and tackle the side of the room closest to the door. Once we’ve done that, lunch—and margaritas at the Mexican restaurant down the street—is my treat. I found out a couple of weeks ago that they make really good virgin piña coladas.”
“Margaritas for lunch it is,” Nick says.
I look from them to the stacks and stacks of stuff crammed into every nook and cranny, then back again. “Or dinner…”
“Or dinner.” Sarah laughs as she turns in the doorway and takes a step into the hallway and a deep breath. “But I say we all take a box of trash bags and do our worst between now and one o’clock. Whoever manages to fill the most bags wins.”
“What do they win?” Nick asks.
I peek into the room—well, as much as I can because it’s just stuff from the floor to the ceiling.
“Winner gets their pick of whatever treasures we uncover in here.” I spot a pyramid of yarn in a million different colors. I’ve cleaned out so many rooms in the last week that standing here, trying to come up with a plan of attack for this room, feels overwhelming.
“Oooh, good idea!” Sarah does a little clap-dance move. “I want the hat.”
She points at the giant Kentucky Derby–style hat on the mannequin in the farthest corner of the room. My jaw unhinges. What in the hell? It’s hot pink (Aunt Maggie seems to have had a favorite color) and covered in pink roses and two nearly life-size flamingos that are also wearing flowery hats. It’s a monstrosity. It’s amazing. It’s sooooo Aunt Maggie.
“Sorry, I want that hat,” Nick teases her with an easy grin that makes my heart go pitter-patter even as I wonder what’s up.
He’s never been as easy around me as he is with Sarah. He smiles at her, laughs with her, and teases her while he’s all tense and grumpy and smoldering whenever he and I are alone together.
He is helpful, absolutely. Even thoughtful. But there’s definitely a lot more grump and smolder when he’s dealing with me. Then again, as I watch him literally reach up and tweak her ponytail, I admit that maybe I’m okay with the differences.
If Nick is going to tweak something of mine, I definitely don’t want it to be my ponytail.
Not that I want him to tweak anything, I assure myself. The last thing I want to do is add a new man to my life before I’m even officially divorced from the old man.
I clear my throat—and my mind—then say, “So it’s agreed. The hat is the prize.” I give Nick the side-eye. “I’ve got to admit, I’m kind of dying to see you in it.”
“Hot pink is my favorite color,” he shoots back.
“Mine too!” Sarah rubs her palms together and squeezes her way into the room. “So get ready to lose, buddy.”
He rolls his eyes in response, but he’s grinning, too, even before my newfound sister starts the countdown. “On your mark, get set, go!”
I’d like to say we leap into the room and get to work at the word “go,” but the truth is, beyond Sarah, we can’t get into the room. Instead, Nick and I each bend down and start grabbing stuff and pulling it into the hallway while Sarah does the same just inside the doorway. In an unspoken agreement, Nick and I make sure to grab the heavier stuff, leaving things like pillows and small material bolts for Sarah to lift.
I’m all for getting help cleaning out this room. But I draw the line at letting the pregnant woman lift anything heavier than her purse. Apparently, Nick feels exactly the same way, because anytime Sarah reaches for anything bigger than a shoebox, he magically gets there first.
Twenty minutes later, we have a ton of boxes and other things piled in my hallway and we’ve—kind of—made a path to the bed in the center of the room.
“Now what?” Sarah asks as she looks around with wide eyes.
I get it. It seems like a lot when it’s all piled up in one room. Now that it’s spread out, it’s completely overwhelming. But if the last week has taught me anything, it’s that you just keep sorting and pitching. Sorting and pitching. Eventually you get to the bottom.
“I say we sort,” Nick says. “Trash in one pile. Things for charity in a second pile. Things that need to be saved in a third pile. And everything we’re not sure of in a fourth pile that we can look at once we’ve got the first couple of rounds of items clear.”
“Sounds like a plan to me.” I open the lid on the first small box I get to and let out a yelp.
“What’s wrong?” Nick rushes to my side and pulls the box away.
He takes one look and nearly drops it entirely.
“Not so brave now, huh?” I say as we look down at dozens of dismembered dolls’ heads staring back at us with blank eyes.
“I thought it was a rat or something.” He starts to close the flaps back up on the box. “This is so much worse.”
Sarah comes over and stops him to look in before taking a step back, her palm pressed to her chest. “Sooooo much worse.”
“I say trash,” Nick decides, careful not to look inside the box again.
I can’t blame him.
“Like there was ever a doubt?” I hold open my half-filled trash bag so he can empty the box into it. “What in the world could Aunt Maggie have possibly had planned for those?”
“Uh, sorry to break it to you, Mallory.” Sarah takes the now-empty box from Nick and starts to break it down. “But I’m pretty sure she didn’t have a plan for any of this stuff.”
I stare down into the bag full of disembodied heads. “I’m not so sure that’s a bad thing.”
A few of the items are total what-were-you-thinking-Aunt-Maggie, but honestly, we try to treat everything as special to her. With kindness regarding her hoarding compulsion while we decide what to do with the item. After all, these things meant something to her. I can even pick out various collections as memories of things she did over the years, memories she couldn’t bring herself to part with. But the disembodied baby doll heads? That’s just straight-up creepy. Sorry, Aunt Maggie.
“Definitely not a bad thing,” Nick agrees as he holds up what looks very much like a stuffed raccoon. And not of the fluffy stuffed-animal variety, either.
“Was that—” I break off in horror, taking as many steps back as possible before I’m butt-to-headless-torso with a mannequin.
“Once alive?” Sarah lets out a squeal of glee instead of horror. “Oh, yeah. Mr. Buttons here is definitely the result of a taxidermist.”
“Mr. Buttons?” Nick and I ask at the same time.
“That’s what Aunt Maggie used to call him when she brought him out for our breakfast dates. She would make him dance on the kitchen counter.”
Nick and I exchange vaguely nauseated looks.
“Because that’s not weird at all,” I say.
Sarah shrugs. “It didn’t seem weird when I was little.”
“I’m not even sure what to say to that,” I tell her. “Except here.” I take the raccoon from Nick and hand it to her. “My gift to you.”
“Should she even be carrying that thing when she’s pregnant?” Nick’s brows hit his hairline.
“It’s not a litter box,” I answer with a roll of my eyes. “It’s not going to give her toxoplasmosis.”
He leans in closer. “You sure about that?”
“I thought I was sure,” I say as doubt creeps in. “You know what? I’ll hang on to him until you have the baby. Then I’ll give him back.”
Sarah laughs, but she dutifully relinquishes her hold on Mr. Buttons. And I dutifully add him to the brand-new pile for saved items. I’m proud I don’t toss him, even if I do hold him out as far as my arms will allow.
Nick gives me an amused grin before diving into the closest box to him. I grin back before doing the same.
We work pretty much nonstop for the next hour, the only sound being one of my aunt’s Cat Stevens albums drifting up the stairs and an occasional squeak from one of us.
At least until Nick opens up the top of a large, fancy chest and then drops it right back down with a muttered curse. Several seconds go by before he bends and opens the chest again; then he stands over it, peering into its depths as he laughs and laughs and laughs.