A Quite Moving Day #2
Lana was right about that. I really did have no option but to sell. All you did was clean things up around here. No one signed
those papers but me.”
I fight the urge to go to her, to offer her support. I hate that she’s blaming herself. But the fact that she might be willing to forgive me—that alone fills my heart with a flicker of hope.
“It still stings knowing you worked with Lana and never spoke to me about it.” Irene looks down at her orthopedic slippers.
“I’d been your landlord for years and Lana just met you, but you trusted her more than the lady who put a roof over your head
and looked past your questionable fashion choices.” She squints at my pants. “Just because I’m old doesn’t mean I’ve lost
my senses.”
I nod furiously. “You’re absolutely right. I should’ve respected you more.” I pause, considering my words, how generic they
sound. I want her to understand how much I mean it. So I add, “You know, doing this job for even a few weeks—I realize how
truly hard it is. What an amazing landlady you’ve been to all these people.”
Her lips twitch at this. “Well, thanks. I’m sure when I’m alone at the retirement home with a room the size of my asshole,
those words will be of great comfort.” She shuffles toward a pile of shoeboxes that seem to have been repurposed for knitting
supplies. “Now, I should get a move on.”
I glance around her apartment—chaotic and worn with age. She grew up here. Some of the ancient furniture pieces probably belonged
to her parents. It hurts to think of her walking away from an entire life built within these walls. Everything she’s seen
and done taken away from her that fast.
“Irene, I want to help you.”
“Oh, good god.” She rolls her eyes. “We talked about this.”
I put up my hands in a placating gesture. “I know. And this time it’s you in the driver’s seat. But I’ve had my fair share
of run-ins with corporate assholes—hell, I used to be one. Maybe I can help you turn the tide.”
She finally backs away enough to let me past the threshold, and she shuffles to her favorite chair. “Okay, I’m listening.”
The firemen eventually collect us from Irene’s unit and help us carry the rest of our things down the stairs. The streetlamps
are on. Irene’s ancient car is parked on the street, so I help her load it up. I’m halfway inside the trunk trying to Tetris
the boxes into place when footsteps sound on the pavement behind us, along with a familiar wheezing sound.
I peer up and find Ernest straining against his leash with all his might, eyes bugging out as he leaps on his hind legs toward
me.
Sami laughs breathlessly. “I don’t know what’s gotten into the guy. He was like a horse to a barn as soon as we got up—” Sami
cuts himself off at the sight of me. His expression freezes.
A tight drumbeat pulses in my chest, and a flush creeps up my temples. I focus on the tube bouncing against my legs, petting
the soft fur of his head.
“Thank you, Sami,” Irene calls, yet she’s focused her knowing little grin on me. “Would you mind helping Mona with her boxes?
She left them in the lobby.”
“Oh, that’s okay,” I say quickly. “I can handle them. Plus, the firefighters are around.”
Sami’s jaw ticks. He keeps his attention directed at Irene as he says, “No problem. Those ones right there?” His thumb points
over his shoulder toward the entrance.
“Yeah.” I stand. “I’ll help. Irene, I’ll call you to go over things soon.”
“Of course, dear.” Her grin is still knowing as she settles into the driver’s seat. Ernest sticks his head out of the passenger
window and gets in one last scritch under his chin.
Sami’s already bounding toward the lobby. I chase after him. “Hey, Sami! You really don’t have to.”
“It’s all good,” he answers. His tone is flat as a pancake. He’s already stacked two of my boxes, hoisting them in his flexed arms. And I’m brought back to that first night when I burst into the diner. How I wish I could go back in time.
I pick up one of the boxes. “Sami, I’m really sorry. There’s so much I wish I could take back.”
“Same,” he mumbles as he makes his way outside.
He’s moving so fast I’m forced to chase after him. “Sami, please, can we at least talk?”
He finally stops short. And carefully places the boxes on the lawn next to the sidewalk. “Look, Mona. Could we skip all this?”
“Skip it?”
He rubs his chin, the scratch against his stubble audible in the quiet. “I’m just dealing with things getting harder and harder
for my business, and a lot of my customers—my friends—are fucked, and my parents are stressed, and that means Abu’s heart is . . . well, you know.” His face crumbles. Deep lines
crease his forehead, etched there like the days have been pressing down on him one by one.
I’ve been so focused on getting Sami to forgive me for what I did, I didn’t think about all the other ways he’s hurting right
now.
“Okay.” I nod. “I’m sorry. You’re right, I need to back off.”
“Great.” Sami’s expression evens out. He looks at the boxes on the lawn. “Here okay? Or can I bring them to a car?”
“Here’s great. I still need to grab a few more things before I call an Uber.” My mouth is suddenly dry. “I’ll have to track
down a firefighter for that, so I guess . . . I guess I won’t be seeing you again.”
His head dips, his eyes briefly closing. “Good luck with everything, Mona. I’m sure you’ll land on your feet.” He raps his
knuckles on the pile of boxes, then moves to cross the street.
But before he steps onto the tarmac, he pauses. I don’t allow myself to hope.
“You were right about me, though.” He doesn’t turn to face me.
I watch the tight hunch of his shoulder blades as he stares ahead at the diner.
“I shouldn’t have clung to the past so hard.
I should’ve listened about appealing to new customers.
Made some changes while I still could. Maybe it could’ve saved things.
” He lets out a huff. “Anyway, back to it.”
I watch as he makes his way to the empty restaurant and out of my life for the last time.
My mom is still not home when my Uber driver drops me off with my big boxes of clothes and toiletries, and one more small
box I rescued from deep in my closet. I bring everything to my room, and then sit on my bed with my dad’s box, running my
thumb over his handwriting.
The flap of paper is still hanging open from when I removed the tape during my last attempt to open the package. But every
time I move a finger to rip the paper, I hesitate. When I finally lock eyes with Alice, she blows a tiny, disappointed bubble
at me, and I know she’s right.
I meant to open this package a million times before, only to stop myself. Then it nearly went up in flames. Because we don’t get
forever. I need to rip the Band-Aid off before my chance slips away.
I pull at the paper, a strange certainty hitting me before it even tears. It’s like something takes over, and I tear it open
without hesitation.
Pez.
A whole bunch of them. Still in their individual boxes.
It almost feels like a prank. Like my dad is playing some joke on me from beyond the grave.
Princess Peach, Darth Vader, a random bunny, Woody from Toy Story.
I look from Alice’s bowl back to the box in disbelief.
For five years, he didn’t have any reason to give me a Pez dispenser.
But every time I saw him, he did anyway, saying: “It’s interest owing.
” And suddenly, all his words—all his apologies—seem to hang in the air around me, enveloping me like water.
I stare into the abyss of Pez and notice a piece of paper is buried among them. I tug and pull out a Mylar envelope. On top
is written Mona. All the moments I treasure and the ones I wished I’d done differently.
I pull the pictures out slowly. There’s a photo of me from the kindergarten play he slept through; I remember the way my little
heart was crushed seeing his empty seat next to Mom’s. A snapshot of nine-year-old me sitting on top of a toboggan; he was
too hungover to pull the sled up after one run. Photos from my graduations and Christmases—me in my itchy stockings and felt
dresses. (Not pictured: when he passed out under the tree in the middle of wrapping presents when I was seven, ruining the
Santa myth.)
The photos continue into my teen and adult years.
But when I reach what should be the end—the years when I stopped talking to him—it doesn’t stop.
Next he has a printout of my corporate headshot, my updates on LinkedIn about my promotion. The next is a newspaper clipping
of an ad I ran during my first solo campaign.
All the moments of celebration that I didn’t include him in.
All those years when he was sober, but I still didn’t see him. The moments when I couldn’t forgive him—and neither could he.
I hold back the tears as I look again at the box. He had been quietly collecting all those Pez dispensers for years. He was
so sorry.
But I was so mad.
I never even got to say goodbye to him. Those last few weeks, when he was trying to reach out to me and have coffee, I could’ve told him that I loved him. That I knew he was trying his best. When my mom told me he was in the hospital, I couldn’t even go.
It hits me like a fresh shock: He’s never coming back. How can a person just be gone? How can it end without ending? Without there being a goodbye?
Burnsland Cemetery is not even a ten-minute walk from my mom’s place, but it feels like crossing a desert.
I haven’t been here since the funeral. I turn down the second sidewalk where he’s kept, and without a doubt I know which one
is his. Its grey stone and arched shape have imprinted in my brain.
I feel like the stone is staring at me as I complete my approach. Accusing. Disappointed. Sad.
I take a deep breath. The dry tears tighten my cheeks as I begin to speak. “I wish things were different too,” I start. “It
wasn’t always okay, how I grew up. There will be memories I’ll struggle with for as long as live.” I pause, resting my hand
on the cold stone. “But I knew you loved me. I knew how sorry you were, how much regret you lived with. I understood how hard
it was for you too.” My lungs constrict.