Death and Other Interruptions

Chapter Ten

For some reason, it hadn't occurred to me that packing my belongings while skirting the edges of Al's might be emotional; going back to the apartment alone had been intimidating enough that it had taken me two weeks of wearing the same two pairs of underwear to do it. And there's only so many times a pair of underwear can be turned inside out to be repurposed. I was also worried that there would be more journalists laying in wait for me, though the more rational part of my brain pointed out that it had been two weeks since I'd left; even journalists aren't that desperate.

Yet I had time today and I wasn't working on my lawsuit anyway. It was time. I just hadn't realized how overwhelmed I would be to see those familiar rooms. It was certainly not the best way to prepare for a relaxed night with friends—relaxed for them, I mean, as I would obviously be tensely faking relaxation the whole time no matter what.

But now I was sitting on the floor in my old bedroom, the one with the blankets still slightly rumpled from the last time Al and I had slept there, and wondering how the hell I was going to do this by myself, let alone at all. I wanted to call someone to help me, but didn't have anyone to call. Julia was already being so helpful, plus she had work. I also had an idea, though I'm not sure what the logic was behind it, that I had to do this alone, for me. It would be cathartic or healthy or whatever. I had clearly spent too much time listening to psychological bullshit after my father died. It was a stupid idea, and I wished I wasn't so overwhelmed by the simple exposure to Al's material belongings, but I was. I had been sitting here for 30 minutes and had yet to do anything the slightest bit useful, other than shift some clothing that had fallen from hangers so I could stare longingly at Al's shoes. He had loved his shoes. Especially anything with tassels. The man had a silly affinity for tassels, supremely unaware of how ancient they made him look. I missed his silly affinities.

My phone rang, jarring me out of my reverie.

"Hello?" I said, forgetting in my haze to check who was calling before I picked up.

"Jennifer?" It was Rashad, his accent soothing over the tinny sounds of my crappy phone.

"Hi, Rashad," I said, the timing of his call merging with the rush of emotions I'd felt upon coming back here, leaving me weak. I pulled my knees up and put my head down. I needed a hug.

"Jennifer, your mother says you're at your apartment. Yes?"

"Oh, no, did you go visit me? I'm so sorry I wasn't there. I'm at the apartment; I wanted to grab some clothing or something. I can come back though. I'm not exactly getting much done here anyway."

"Is it okay if I come to you there? I thought you might want some help. I have nothing else to do today." I could practically hear his shrug through the phone. I wanted to sob with gratitude. Why hadn't I called Rashad? Because I hadn't wanted to bother him, I remembered. That seemed a silly reason now.

"I don't want to bother you," I said, already hating myself for being polite. What if he listened to me?

"I'm coming," he answered firmly. "Already I am on the way." He hung up and I finally got up from the floor; I would wait in the living room for him to come.

We moved through the apartment quietly, our usual comfortable companionship taking on significance as he respectfully moved aside discarded laundry and scrap papers to hold up various items.

"This?" he would ask, and I would tell him which pile it belonged in: Staying, coming, or throwing. After about an hour, when the last pile remained empty, I realized I wasn't ready to throw anything away yet. Everything seemed so meaningful; I could attach importance to every piece of lint in the place. We eliminated that option and stuck to packing up my belongings, moving in the process Al's clothing and books and odds and ends into their own piles of Alness. Those I would face another day, when I was stronger and not spending an evening with friends.