Chapter 7 Scarlett
SCARLETT
My parents are moving to a smaller home, so I’ve arrived at their house armed with three empty boxes.
I’ve done this every time I’ve come by this week, and I haven’t left until the boxes were filled with things that I can donate to Goodwill for them.
It’s worse than pulling teeth, trying to get my mom to let go of things.
It’s like pulling teeth that can talk to you and make you feel guilty in two different languages.
My mom and dad have lived in this four-bedroom house in Santa Monica ever since I was an undergrad.
After Adam and I divorced and sold the place in Larchmont Village, I bought a small house in the same neighborhood to be closer to them.
Whenever Noah is staying with me during the week, one or both of my parents pick him up from school and keep him until I get him after work.
It’s been pretty great. But now that they’re both retired, they’ve sold the house and bought a condo near The Grove.
It’s close to my office, which is a half-hour drive from Noah’s school at best, and my mom insists that she will continue to pick him up and keep him after school once they’ve moved.
I would insist on hiring a part-time nanny because I don’t want to trouble her, but since I’ve known my mother my entire life and have never once been able to change her mind about anything she insists on—I’ve honored the traditional Chinese tradition of adamantly refusing her offer three times, even though we both know that I’m just being polite and that surrender is inevitable.
But I can be stubborn too, and I am not leaving here tonight until I have three full boxes to take with me, and we all know it, including Noah.
If he wants to get home in time to get his science report done, he needs to help me pack things up.
Of course, he doesn’t actually care if he gets his science homework done or not, so he’s no help to me at all.
He and my dad are watching The Great British Baking Show and totally pretending not to hear my conversation with the great, lovely, and very strong-willed Evelyn Chan Shepard.
“Again?! What happened to the boxes I gave you yesterday, huh?”
“I dropped them off at Goodwill on my way to work this morning. And there’s still plenty of stuff in this house that you don’t use and don’t need to take with you to the condo.”
“Pah!” She waves her hand dismissively. “You worry too much, Scarlett. Stop worrying so much.”
She’s not wrong. I do worry too much. But she’s also not right about everything… At least that’s what I keep telling myself.
She takes the boxes from me and places them by the front door. “You need to relax. You drink too much coffee.”
How dare you.
“You need to get out of that head.”
“I am out of my head.” I’m not. I never am. But I’m pretty sure she can’t actually read my mind.
She gives me a look, like she can totally read my mind.
She wags a perfectly manicured finger at me.
“You try to put things in boxes and take them away—same way you try to put words on feelings and put them in boxes and then get rid of them. Life does not work that way, Scarlett. Sit down and have some tea.”
I feel attacked.
I haven’t been here for more than a minute, and already my mother, who hasn’t read one psychology book in her life, has analyzed me and completely dismissed my awesome coping mechanisms.
This will not stand.
This aggression will not stand.
It’s not that simple. I’m not projecting my own mental and emotional state onto my mother’s belongings.
I mean, yes, maybe in some way all this stuff drives me crazy because it looks like how the inside of my head feels.
But it’s not like every item in this house represents a thought about Dylan Brodie that I want to put into a box and take to Goodwill and be like—here, give them to someone who can actually use them because neither my mind nor my vagina can handle this right now.
I mean, that’s not what this is.
This is about my mom and her emotional attachment to stuff she doesn’t need.
My mother moved here from a small town in China, for grad school.
She has remained in the US ever since because my father hasn’t been able to go much longer than a day without seeing her—and they met during her first week of classes.
She says she thought my dad was Steve McQueen when he walked over to say hello.
She realized she was sorely mistaken as soon as he started asking if she’d like to go see E.T.
with him that weekend and told her he had already seen it five times.
They ended up seeing that movie together three times while it was still in the theaters and got engaged two months later…
Le sigh…Your parents’ love story always sounds so easy and simple compared to your own.
Anyway, I wouldn’t label her as a hoarder. The items she’s collected ever since she met my dad have never quite become what anyone would consider disruptive clutter. She just gets attached to things. But she’s very good at storing and hiding them too.
In her house and in her mind.
I inherited her thick shiny hair and spatial awareness, but it would have been great if she’d also passed along that particular trait. As well as her ability to meet the love of her life and effortlessly stay with him forever. That would also have been nice.
“Did you eat lunch today, Scarlett? You sound hungry. Why are you so stressed, huh? Stay for dinner. I’m making your favorite noodles and stir fry.”
I totally want noodles and stir fry right now, dammit.
“We have to let the dogs out, and we need to get home so Noah can work on his science report.” I raise my Mom Voice so my son can hear me. “It’s due tomorrow.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he mutters.
“Nah! You both need to eat. You eat here. I make extra. You watch TV with the boys.”
“Don’t try to change the subject. Did you get any packing done today? You can’t leave it all to the last minute.”
“What difference does it make if we do it now or last minute? There’s a Chinese saying—It’s all the same whether you carry it in the front or on the back. It means who cares how you do something as long as it gets done?”
I truly love that my mother spouts Chinese proverbial wisdom when she’s being totally irrational and difficult.
“Yes. There’s an English saying—If I had a nickel for every time you told me that, I’d have as many nickels as you have things that should be given away.
” I go over to the display cabinet in the dining area.
Each shelf is jammed full of salt and pepper shakers, mismatched china sets and serveware—gifts that have never been used.
“Why don’t we go through this cabinet tonight.
We’ll focus on this right here.” I pull out a charger plate that I know for a fact has never been used and get all Marie Kondo up in her face.
“Does this rattan charger plate bring you joy?”
She gives me another one of her looks, the one that tells me I’m not leaving this house with any of her belongings tonight.
“Or how about this—if you can tell me what a charger plate is used for, then you can keep it.”
She calmly takes the plate from me and places it back where it was in the cabinet.
“Scarlett. Stop being so stubborn. Stop picking on me.”
“I’m not picking on you. I’m trying to help you.” And I’m trying not to obsess about Dylan Brodie, shut up.
“Aiya!” That’s the exclamation she makes when she’s truly exasperated with me.
“I will pack up those boxes myself. When you come by next time, you can look through what’s in them and decide if you want any of these things that I have been keeping for you.
My only child. Decide if Noah and your future second husband and my future grandchildren would appreciate having them.
If not…” She shrugs, like it’s no big deal. “You can give them away to strangers.”
I look over her shoulder at my dad. As always, he doesn’t argue with my mom or even suggest that perhaps she should consider my side of the argument. He just sits there, where she can’t see him. Silently pleading with his eyes. Wordlessly begging me to convince her to get rid of those things.
Coward.
After resisting Dylan today, I don’t have any energy left to convince another person of anything.
“Okay,” I say to her. “You win.”
“Well, no. I don’t win. I still have to put things into boxes for you.” She retreats to the kitchen, but she’s smiling. “You need a boyfriend to harass. I need a break.”
I’m not going anywhere near this topic with her tonight. “Noah! Time to go, kiddo!”
“The episode’s not over!”
“It is for you, young man. Let’s go.”
Noah groans as he stands up, shoulders slouched. “That is so mean, and my life is so unfair.”
My dad pauses the show. “We can finish watching it next time you’re here.”
“You promise you won’t watch it without me?”
“Tell you what.” My dad pauses for effect, and I just know that means a really cheesy pun is coming.
“I promise I won’t watch it without you.
But if I break my promise—you can have this watch.
” He shows Noah his wristwatch. “This is a very special watch, did I tell you? It was given to me by Will Smith. Ever heard of him?”
“Wait. Will Smith from Jaden Smith?”
“No. Another guy named Will Smith. But he got the watch from Johnny Depp.”
“Wait. Johnny Depp the pirate?”
“No. Just a guy named Johnny Depp.”
I recognize that as a variation on a Clark Griswold joke from Vacation because my dad has told it many times.
He changes the names of the celebrities every time, depending on who he’s talking to, which is actually very sweet and impressive.
Unfortunately, my eight-year-old son doesn’t seem to think so.
Noah frowns and scrunches up his face. “You’re weird, Grandpa.”
“You’re welcome, kid.” My dad saunters over to put his arm around me.
He lowers his voice. “Thanks for trying.” He nods over at the cabinet in the dining room.
“Maybe if I take her to the mall for a few hours this weekend, you could just come over and take whatever you think we don’t need.
Leave the door unlocked when you leave. We’ll pretend we were robbed. ” He shrugs. “Worth a shot.”
“She’d just use the insurance money to replace it with more stuff. She has to consent to getting rid of it. That’s how decluttering works. In the home and in the mind.”
“Right.” He winks at me. He’s not good at winking—it always just looks like he has something in his eye—but I get what he’s going for.
We both look over to check on Noah, who had for some reason emptied out everything in his backpack into a pile on the living room floor and is now very slowly and carefully placing it all back into his bag.
“Oh! I saw a really funny GIF on Facebook today. I’ll send it to you.”
“Great. I can’t wait to see it.”
My dad has been spending a lot of time on Facebook since retiring, and he has somehow only recently discovered that he can send people GIFs in emails.
So he has been sending me emails full of GIFs.
Not in response to anything as part of a conversation.
Just a bunch of GIFs. I got my overactive brain from him.
“You doing okay, Daddy?”
“Oh, you know. Every day is a holiday. Unfortunately, the holiday is Groundhog Day.”
“Oh wait!” Noah jumps up. “What day is today?”
“The day before tomorrow,” my dad quips. “And two days after the day before yesterday.”
Noah heaves an anguished sigh. “Is it Thursday?”
“According to a Facebook post I saw today, it’s Thirsty Thursday.”
“Dad!”
“What?”
“Please tell me the GIF you’re going to send me wasn’t from a Thirsty Thursday post.”
“No, it was from Forrest Gump, I think.”
“Mom! We have to call Dad.”
“Now? You’ll see him tomorrow afternoon.”
“Yeah, but I forgot tomorrow’s the last day for us to tell Mrs. Bean who we’re bringing for the thing. You know, for the thing next week? I have to ask Dad to come to class and talk about being an actor. About working.”
“If you can call that work,” my dad mutters.
“Oh, right. I got that email. She didn’t say you have to ask your dad.
You have to ask someone that you respect to come talk about their job.
” I’m not saying I blame my son for wanting to ask his TV star dad to talk to his class—but I’m pretty sure every third student at that school is related to an actor.
I mean, come on. “I can pretty much guarantee you he’ll be on set that day.
It’s a Wednesday, right? It’s too late for him to get them to change his schedule. ”
“But you have to call and ask. That’s part of the assignment.”
“Actually, the assignment is for you to ask someone.” I pull out my phone. “You want to call him now? I can text him first to see if he’s on set.”
Noah frowns and considers this. He doesn’t want to call his own father to ask if he can come talk to his class because he knows he’ll say no.
Adam’s always nice to him. He’ll always do what he says he’ll do, when he says he’ll do it.
But he rarely agrees to do things that aren’t work-related when his show’s in production. That’s how it’s always been.
Here’s what I’d tweet right now if I tweeted:
I don’t know who needs to hear this right now, but FUCK YOU, ADAM!!!
“You know, I’m pretty sure I’m free next Wednesday,” my dad says. “I think your class would really like to hear about how I got into academia. Specifically, comparative literature. Kids love that stuff.”
Noah pretends to fall asleep, snoring for a few seconds, and then snaps his head back. “Fine. But no singing.”
“Well, if I’m going to be up there in front of a bunch of kids, it would be rude not to sing at least one Billy Joel song.”
“Or I could come to your class and dance for you.” I drop my bag and dance like Monica from Friends on that New Year’s Eve episode.
The Routine. I do it whenever I want to make him laugh or embarrass him in public or forget that his father seems to care more about pretending to save lives on television than being a part of his real son’s life on a daily basis.
If I ever get married again—if I ever even go out on another date again in my life—it will be with someone who shows my son he’ll go out of his way to make time for him, the way my dad always did for me.
That’s why I can’t date an actor.
There.
All my thoughts about Dylan just went into one big box.