Robin Korb

Chapter 1

I, Mary Jane Barber, firmly believe it’s okay for someone to lose their crap after being told to pack away their mother's stuff in brown, value-saver moving boxes. Fourteen boxes, to be exact. One for each year Mom and I spent together. Boxes filled with clothes and jewelry and belts that will never make the trek from Wisconsin to California.

Neither will Mom's shoes. Her lovely, beautiful collection of shoes. She claims the right pair of shoes opens doors that would otherwise remain closed. If that were true, I’d put on a pair and hide Mom’s entire collection behind the door they opened. Instead, her shoes will end up being owned by strangers, like everything else.

Whenever I slip on Mom’s he-hiles – the weirdly cute name my two-year-old brain invented – I picture myself going someplace new. Meeting someone interesting. Doing something exciting. Mom did all these things as the head of surgery at Madison General. She and I would be doing these things together now that I'm starting high school.

She promised, and Mom never broke a promise. Then she stormed out of the house and never came back.

Two days later, Dad said, “We’re moving to California so you can get to know my mother.” I started calling Dad “Father” when he added, “Mary Jane, only pack what you need. Everything else must go.”

That was a week ago.

Today, I stare at the boxes, wondering why he doesn’t understand they hold more than bits of cloth or metal or leather. They hold memories. Good ones. Bad ones. Happy ones. Sad ones.

I hop to my feet and grab a rainbow's worth of sweaters off a shelf. Sweaters should never be hung on a hanger. I take in Mom's scent. It's sweet, a cross between fruit and flowers. It's as close to her being here as I'll get. I hug the sweaters, imagining their softness is Mom's comforting arms. Her perfume hugs me back from the inside out. I bury my face in the wools, cottons, and cashmeres—no synthetic or man-made fiber for Mom—and whisper, “I, MJ Barber, will never, not in a million years, forgive you for leaving without saying goodbye. Or I love you. Or even see you later.”

The pain from Mom being gone, inflicted nine days, two hours, and thirty-three minutes ago, grows deeper. I keep expecting her to walk in the front door. Maybe that’s why I still haven't cried. Or maybe it’s because I'm too numb. I lift my head and drop the sweaters into an empty box as something thumps into the window behind me. I spin around. A small Mountain Bluebird bumps against the window again and then again. Blue is Mom's favorite color. Was. Blue was her favorite color. I rush over, and the bird, seeing the movement, flies off.

I stroll to the section of the closet Mom designated for her floor-length evening gowns. Each one worn to a different Gala. Each one hangs on a padded velvet hanger. Each one calls my name, asking me to put it on. My fingers slip and fall into the blue silk, linger on the gray tulle, dance across the shimmery gold lamé, slide down the maroon silk, and stumble the width of the pink crepe. My hand jumps past the alluring lace-covered, red charmeuse mermaid dress to lift the last gown, a forest green, sweep train chiffon, off its hanger.

Mom wore this with a pair of Cinderella slippers, though hers were plastic and not glass, to Nixon’s inauguration last year. Dad didn’t think it was a good idea to go because of something called Watergate. So, Mom went by herself. Turns out Father was right. Nixon resigned earlier this month. I glide over to the ceiling-to-floor mirror in the corner of the closet and hold the gown in front of me.

Its elegance overshadows my bell-bottom cords and olive knit shirt.

Mom never let me try on any of her clothes. Shoes were okay as long as I didn't walk in them because my feet were smaller, and she didn’t want me to get hurt. But now that she's gone, who's to stop me from wearing this gown? Father? No. He couldn't bring himself to touch Mom's things, so he's downstairs packing up the kitchen.

I unzip the dress and slip it over my head. The chiffon engulfs me, falling until the hem bunches around my feet. The off-the-shoulders is more like off-the-arms. I zip the dress up as far as I can. Then, holding up the lacy straps, I sweep in a circle. When I come to a stop, the green fabric flutters like a sail in the breeze as it swirls and billows around me.

My breath catches at what I see in the mirror. I could easily be Mom when she was my age. We have the same thick, wavy brown hair, and our eyes look greener in this dress. Both of our perfectly sculpted eyebrows arch in the same spot. Mom swore we have the kind of face that belongs on the cover of a magazine. I don't see our faces the same way.

Mom had a face that radiated confidence. A face that kept me in line. A face that said she loved me more than life itself. One that I adored and hope to replicate someday.

My face, as it is, is pinched and easy to read. Mom always tapped my forehead, saying, “Sour thoughts create worry lines. And we can never let them see we’re worried, can we?”

She was so smart about those kinds of things.

I don't know how Mom, a juicy, red delicious, gave birth to a lemon. I'm convinced it has everything to do with Father. He's a lime. Equally sour but less popular. I turn away from the mirror to get Mom's plastic Cinderella slippers.

The bird returns, landing on the window sill. The brightness of her blue feathers makes me think of Mom. She pecks the glass once. Her head moves from side to side, just like my best friend, Sheri. She’s supposed to help me pack Mom away. Sheri has a way of making even the darkest days bearable.

The bird pecks the glass again.

Forgetting about Mom’s shoes, I grab two handfuls of the gown and go to the window. The bluebird watches me. I squat, so I'm level with my new friend. “What do you want, little one? Are you lost? Tap two for yes and one for no.”

She double-taps the window.

“Hmmm, lost, you say.” My thighs aren’t used to squatting this long, but I don't move for fear of scaring her away. “Me, too.”

A single tap.

“I'm leaving tomorrow with Father. We're driving west. Will you be flying south?”

Double tap.

There's no way this bird understands me, but I pretend she does. “I turn fourteen in three days. I'm going to be celebrating it on the road. What fun, huh?”

I'm expecting a single tap, but she gives me nothing.

Mom always ordered a cake from the bakery for my birthday – a cherry chip with chocolate frosting and sprinkles. This will be my first birthday without our usual celebration of Chinese take-out and presents.

“Say, do you want to come, keep me company? Move to California, so you don't have to fly south?”

The bird tilts her head and blinks several times as if she's pondering the proposition. A mountainous cloud parks itself in front of the sun. With the glare gone, it's easier to see the reddish patch of feathers on my friend’s throat. It bleeds down to her chest. She taps the window once and leaves.

“Go ahead, abandon me.” I almost add, “Just like my mother,” but I don’t because Mom didn’t abandon me. It might’ve been easier if she had. Instead, she rolled her car into a tree and left me with him.

Chapter 2

The Mountain Bluebird is gone only a few seconds, and the ache in my heart pushes against my ribs.

“You could have stayed, kept me company,” I say, hoping the bird can hear me.

“Why are you talking to a bird?” I recognize the voice instantly. It’s Sheri Newton, my best friend, eavesdropping on a conversation that was meant only for me.

My thighs give out from squatting so long, and I fall onto my backside. “Well, she was here, and you weren't.”

“I know, I know, I'm an hour late. Sorry, but swimming practice went longer than expected.” Sheri offers me a hand. I take it, and she pulls me up so fast that I fly to my feet. She spins me around. “That dress is amazing.”

“Yeah, it is.” I shimmy out of the chiffon evening gown and slip it on its velvet hanger. “But a longer length in the back that sweeps the floor would make it pop, give it that wow factor.”

“Hey,” she says as she surveys the bedroom Mom had converted into her closet. The white walls, white shag carpet, and white shelves glisten from the sun shining through the two large windows. Mom dedicated an entire wall to her shoes. “Are you taking some of your mother’s stuff with you? Some of her shoes?”

Sheri's been my best friend since we were seven. She's tall, muscular, and the most outspoken person I know. She's the sweetener to my lemoniness. She's my human diary. I tell her everything. Well, almost everything. I haven’t shared what happened the night Mom died.

Two weeks ago, Mom took Sheri and me shopping. Mom bought us the same flared jeans and cotton blouses. We were going to twin it on our first day of ninth grade. We could still do it from different states, but what fun would that be?

“Father won't let me.” I hang the gown back with the others. I grab another large handful of sweaters, take in Mom's sunshine-in-a-box smell, then toss them into a box. “Our new house is small, so no extras. Mom's stuff is extra.”

“What he doesn't know won't hurt him, right?” she says as she tackles the drawers holding Mom's nightgowns and underthings.

Sheri has a point. How would Father know what was in my boxes? He wouldn't, not until he saw me wearing something of Mom’s. Then it would be too late.

“Plus, you’ve been drawing your mother’s clothes and shoes for years, making changes to them so they are a one-of-a-kind creation. Your mother would want you to take part of her to California.”

We both know that’s not true. Mom would’ve taken all her things with her if she could’ve. I tape the box of sweaters shut, write St Paul’s on the side with a black Sharpie, and push it into my parents’ bedroom. Later, Father will carry the boxes downstairs to the garage.

The Society of St Vincent de Paul is some kind of charity. They are coming tomorrow to pick up the stuff. Grandma Waters will be here to help because Father and I will be driving through Minnesota or South Dakota or Iowa, depending on which route we take.

We continue packing until I can't take Sheri's silence. “We'll keep in touch, won't we?”

“Of course we will, doofus.” She throws a handful of socks at me. One of the pairs has stethoscopes on them. I gave these to Mom years ago. They still look brand new. I stuff them in the back pocket of my Levi's. Sheri gives me a thumbs up. “You can't get rid of me that easily.”

This time, I'm quiet, thinking about tomorrow and saying goodbye to Sheri, most likely forever. The prospect of not having her around feels almost worse than Mom leaving. Who will I talk to?

“Hey, if you don’t snap out of it, I’m gonna do something drastic,” Sheri says, which means anything is possible. She flings more socks my way. I pocket a pair of pink and black argyles and, angry at Father, throw the others in the box next to me. One. At. A. Time.

When I don't say anything, Sheri grabs a pair of clean panties from the box next to her and puts them on her head like one of her swim caps. The short, black hair from her pixie cut pokes out the leg holes.

Sheri plans to compete in the '76 Summer Olympics in Montreal. She's fantastic at swimming and diving and determined to out-gold medal Mark Spitz. I can't even open my eyes underwater. Even thinking about it sends a shudder through me.

“Do you remember all the times we snuck into this closet and touched your mother’s clothes or put on her shoes?” Sheri asks, grinning like she does when she's an overfilled balloon of happiness.

Before I can answer, she jets over and gives me an undies cap. Hers is pink. Mine is red. She's trying to lift my spirits, so I give in to her weirdness because it's our last day together. And it feels good. It makes me feel almost normal. We are still horsing around when Father's face peeks around the doorjamb. He's smiling, but his big, ole eyes are narrow, telling me he's mad. Mom taught me how to read them. He's never really yelled at me, but that's because Mom showed me how to stay on his good side. I still don't understand why Mom stayed with Father if he was so hard to live with.

Father has grayish-brown, shorty-short hair. His elongated nose holds up round, brown-rimmed glasses, making his large dark brown eyes look huge. Below that narrow nose is a faint scar he's insecure about, and it points like an arrow to his big front teeth. He's more like Jerry Mouse than Mickey Mouse, which is fitting since Jerry is his middle name. Well, to be precise, his name is Anthony Jerald Barber.

“Hey, Mr. Barber,” Sheri says, pulling the undie caps off our heads. She tosses the panties in a box on the way back to the drawers she was emptying. “Sorry, we were just having some fun.”

I wait for Father to explode, to yell at us for making so much noise, but he doesn't. Instead, he pats the door frame like it's someone's head and says, “That's good. You guys should have fun.” His googly eyes scan the closet. “I'm just checking to see how you're doing.”

And to make sure I'm getting rid of Mom's stuff.

“We're going to need more boxes,” I say like I'm reading the ingredients off a bottle of aspirins.

“How many?” He asks, his tone strangely upbeat.

“As many as it takes.” I raise my perfectly sculpted eyebrows, daring him to guess.

Sheri stares at me like I have Mom's horrendous purple Go-go boots tattooed on my forehead. Sheri turns to Father and, in her happy tone, says, “I'm thinking four.”

She's always liked Father. I did, too, when he was Dad. But now that he's Father—moving me somewhere I've never been before—my fondness for him walked out the door with Mom.

“Yes, four's good,” I say, keeping my tone void of emotion. “Wait, five would be better.”

“Aye, Captain,” Father says in a lame Scottish accent. He smiles, salutes us, and then leaves.

“Your father watches way too many reruns of Star Trek. I’d take David Cassidy or Henry Winkler over William Shatner every day and twice on Sunday. Wouldn’t you?” Sheri pulls out the next drawer and pours it into a box. After several silent minutes of me hurling clothes into boxes and Sheri pouring drawers in, she turns to me. “Why are you so mad at your father? It’s not like he planned any of this.”

“What?” My tone is sharp. But in my defense, the answer to that question should be obvious. We’re packing up Mom's stuff like she never existed. I go to state this fact in a softer tone, but my mouth spits out, “Did you seriously just ask me why I'm mad at my father?”

Sheri stands five feet away, frozen by my icy words.

The ventriloquist forces me to add, “Do you think I should be happy he's dragging me halfway across this stinking country when I’ve begged him to stay? It’s like he can’t wait to get away from Madison.” I try to stuff what’s left of my pent-up anger in a box, but I can’t. It's like I'm trapped in the backseat of a car careening down a hill toward a sharp curve with no steering, brakes, or driver. “Should I act like nothing's changed? Should I pretend that leaving my family and best friend is no big deal?”

She blinks and speaks to me the way I should’ve talked to her. “You don’t have to bite my head off because you’re mad at your parents.”

“And you don’t have to be so insensitive about what I’m going through,” I say, instantly regretting my dummified response.

The small white drawer in Sheri's hands tumbles to the ground, and all of Mom's black nylons spill out. Sheri's eyes glisten with tears. Tears I put there. Tears that I wish were mine. Tears that should be Father's. Guilt twists my stomach into a knot, which finally silences the ventriloquist. Before I can apologize, my best friend says, “You don’t have to be so mean when I’m only trying to help,” then shoves past me, running away from a life I can't.

I turn around. Father looms in the doorway with the flattened moving boxes in his hands. He gives me that stink-eyed look Mom warned me about. I should apologize to Sheri, but when Father takes a step toward me, I recoil, knowing I deserve that look and more. Instead of saying something, he drops the boxes and goes after Sheri, leaving me alone in a room that smells like Mom.