Under the sink in the hall bathroom, I find six free-with-purchase-Clinique bags with smears of brown eyeliner and blurs of eye shadow, sparkly like cement, bruising the bottom of each bag. There were backs of earrings and travel size shampoos. Baggies of Q-tips, their ends pulled and swabby. In one bag, a patent leather black one with a mirror in the top, there’s a wad of cards and papers. Unfolding it, I find my first driver’s license, my driver’s ed certificate, four outdated Kaiser cards, three bank cards from incarnations of my bank that don’t exist anymore, a phone card from before my parent’s area code changed, a movie ticket stub from Napoleon Dynamite, and a dollar bill from my grandfather where he’d underlined In God We Trust and written Jesus Loves You in his squat, all caps, font. I’m amazed not only by my apparent hoarder tendencies, but by the grouping of these items. That seemingly at one point they felt connected to me, whether in their perceived importance or maybe there was some other commonality I’ve since forgotten. Once I gather all the half-empty lotion bottles, hand soap refills and cheap shampoo, I dump them in the trash bag and head outside.
In the garage, my husband is sorting through a large plastic storage tub. He’s found his version of a stack of cards showing me his last Maine driver’s license that expired over seven years ago and a handful of hemp necklaces held together with a karabiner. He puts them in the garage sale pile pointing out the details of the glass beads, saying people will recognize quality handiwork. He tells me I should be proud of him for purging so much. Purging is our big word these days. I see half of the tub is cleared and the other half with recently re-packaged boxes and stuff. Getting rid of half won’t cut it, but this is just our first round. It feels like American Idol. We’re just doing auditions at this point and all the decent singers are put through. Once the truck is in our driveway in a month, let’s hope America’s voting will be more decisive.
We finally ordered (scheduled) the moving truck yesterday. After a lot of hemming and hawing about what would be the best method to get a bunch of stuff across the country in the cheapest way possible. In the end, I posted the question on Facebook and we went with the suggestions. I called ABF movers, the 18-wheelers who section off their trucks for cross-country moving people and you only pay for what you use. On the phone, I talked to Ronald who had a southern accent, even saying y’ll several times. I explained what we were looking for and he asked some questions. $3,300 minimum for five feet of truck space. Based on their online estimated-space-your-stuff-will-take-up calculator, we’ll need seven. $356 per additional foot, Ronald told me. I started thinking more of what we can leave. After the phone call, although the price makes me feel slightly nauseous, I felt a bit more settled because at least we have a truck, a method to move, and a date. It will come on July 10 and leave on the 11th. Jared will leave by the 12th, driving his car with Darby as his passenger. I will fly with Henry on the 16th or 17th and we’ll all meet in Maine. This is a plan. It feels secure. Settled.
When we were walking that night around the park with Henry wrapped in his pale-blue and brown, paw-print blanket and Darby running across the grass chasing rabbits, Jared said, “What if we only take what we can fit in our two cars?”
There is an appeal to this idea. Starting over completely. Not charging $4,452 to our credit cards. Not having to Tetris in all our stuff into 5-7 feet of truck. But simultaneously, this did not feel secure. This does not feel settled. Not that a cross-country move from San Diego to small-town central Maine is supposed to be a cinch, but we had a plan. We made a reservation.
This new idea made me angry. I noticed the dog was nowhere in sight and I yelled for him to come.
“Dabby! Come!” Henry’s little voice shouted from the stroller, slurred through his pacifier.
“Henry, don’t yell at Darby,” I chided, stomping across the grass, listening for Darby’s tags. “Darby!” I yelled again, being the model parent that I am. When Darby does not show up after my shouting and Henry’s shouting, I decided we will go home and leave him there. Because it was completely Darby’s fault that I was angry. Totally.
On the walk home (Darby caught up with us half-way, by the way) and for the majority of the next 24 hours, I pictured our two small cars and what we could fit in them. I imagined Henry’s room in the apartment we are moving to, subtracting his crib and carved, wooden, goose lamp. And while I could wrap my head around not having his thick, red wood, converts to a toddler bed crib, or leaving our less than two years old mattress set, I couldn’t let go of the wooden rocking chair my mother got when my brother was born. The rocking chair I’ve spent what feels like days in since Henry was born. In fact, where I spent hours of labor before he was born. One of the only pictures of me big-pregnant is the day he was born as I rocked in the chair. The chair my father bought in Washington and refinished for my pregnant mother, both of them thousands of miles away from their families, having their first child. And now, thousands of miles away from my parents and Jared’s parents, we’ve both rocked with our first child. His feet push through the rungs of the arms now, and he can climb into it to play trucks, but it’s still where I nurse him to sleep. The solid back sloping up with swirls in the wood like half-carved petals. I cannot picture a home without this.
On the next night, earlier tonight, when we went for our walk I tell Jared I’ve thought about it. Considered the allure of taking only the content of two tiny cars and driving across the country with our almost 2-year-old. But I can’t do it. There are a few items that won’t fit and I struggle to make a picture of a home without them. He’s surprised I considered it. I’m pretty sure he thought, based on my reaction, there was no budging.
So, with our plan planned again, we circled the park. The dog stayed in sight. The world was better.
Until I got home and looked under the sink and realized our American Idol moving was just beginning and we’re going to have to go through several rounds of eliminating weirdoes/weird crap before we can make it to Hollywood/Pittsfield.
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