Chapter 10: His Books Were Still There
Mom was ready when I picked her up.
She had her coat on and her good shoes and she was standing at the door when I pulled up, which meant she had been watching for me.
That was something she'd done my whole life when she knew I needed her nearby.
We didn't talk much on the drive.
She held her handbag in her lap and looked out the window and occasionally reached over and patted my hand on the gear shift.
The apartment building looked the same from the outside.
Of course it did.
The lobby smelled the same — old carpet and the faint trace of the cleaning product the super had used for thirty years.
The elevator made the same sound between the second and third floors.
I unlocked the door with my key.
The candle smell was gone.
The plants Carla had kept on the bookshelf were gone.
The photographs I hadn't recognized were gone.
The chair was by the window where I had moved it.
And the closet door was slightly open, the way I'd left it when I'd checked the boxes.
Mom walked in slowly and stood in the center of the room.
She turned in a small circle, taking it in.
"She kept it clean," Mom said.
"She did."
"That's something, I suppose."
I opened the closet and took out the first box of books.
Set it on the coffee table.
Mom came over and we went through them together — his handwriting on the inside covers, the dates he'd written when he'd finished each one, the penciled notes in the margins that were sometimes just a single word, sometimes a whole sentence that had mattered to him enough to write down.
Mom picked up a small paperback, turned it over, and laughed softly.
"He read this three times.
He said it was the only book that ever made him feel like someone understood him."
"I remember."
She held it for a moment, then set it carefully on the shelf.
We put the books back together, one by one.
It took a long time.
We didn't rush.
When the shelf was full again, Mom sat down in the chair by the window and looked out at the street.
The afternoon light was coming through at a low angle.
She folded her hands in her lap.
"Are you going to keep it?" she asked.
"The apartment?"
"Yes," I said.
"I think I'm going to move back in for a while."
She nodded.
"Good.
It should have someone in it who loves it."
I sat on the arm of the couch and looked at the shelf.
All his books in the right order.
His handwriting on the spines.
"Mom," I said.
"I'm sorry I didn't see it sooner."
"You trusted your husband," she said.
"That's not something to be sorry for."
"You tried to protect me."
"That's what I'm for." She said it simply, without drama, the way she said everything that was most true.
"And you stepped in front of me in that kitchen when he moved toward me.
So I'd say we're even."
I looked at her.
She was watching the street below with a calm, unhurried expression.
The afternoon light caught the side of her face.
She looked, in that moment, exactly like herself — steady and clear and entirely undefeated.
"Come on," she said, without turning.
"Let's get dinner.
Somewhere nice.
You look like you haven't eaten properly in a week."
"I haven't."
"I know." She stood, smoothed her coat, and picked up her handbag.
"There's a place two streets over.
Your father liked it.
I haven't been since he passed."
"Then let's go," I said.
She took my arm at the door, the way she always had, and we walked out together.
The shelf was full.
The chair was by the window.
The key was in my pocket.
Some things, once taken, can be returned.
And some rooms, once emptied, can be filled again with exactly what belonged there.
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*Sometimes the people who try to erase us forget that we are not alone — and that the ones who love us have been paying attention all along.*
Have you ever had to fight to protect someone you love from people who should have been protecting them too?
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