Damn These Uncontrollable Tears

Chapter 4: The Things We Kept

I spent Sunday morning at Evelyn's house and Sunday afternoon avoiding the apartment.

Camille had brought her brother, Mark, who was tall, quiet, and built like someone who had spent years lifting heavy furniture without asking for help. He carried boxes to his truck while I wrapped plates in newspaper.

"Camille says you met Mom at the funeral," he said.

"I did."

He waited.

"I mean, I didn't know her. I came in by accident."

"Camille told me."

"I'm sorry if that was strange."

He folded a dish towel and put it into a box. "My mother liked strangers. She used to say friends were just people who hadn't had enough time to tell their stories yet."

I smiled. "That sounds like her."

"You barely knew her."

"I know."

Mark looked down at the towel in his hands. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean that the way it came out."

"It's okay."

He gave me a short nod, then carried the box outside.

The day went by in small, practical tasks. I wrapped bowls. Camille sorted photographs. Mark hauled furniture. We found old board games and a jar of buttons, two water-damaged novels, and a stack of birthday cards Evelyn had kept in a shoebox.

One card had a note written inside by a child: Thank you for reading to me when I was scared. I looked at the words, then handed the card to Camille.

She sat down on the floor with it. "I didn't know she kept these."

"She must have cared about them."

"I should've asked her more about the center."

"You still can," I said, then regretted it. "I mean, you can look through what she left. Or ask people who knew her there."

"I know what you meant."

She turned the card over and read the front. The illustration showed a fox curled up beneath a blanket.

"What do you do?" she asked.

"I work at the Harbor Literacy Center."

Her head lifted. "You do?"

"I'm the program coordinator. I schedule volunteers, run the adult classes, and handle donations."

"Mom used to volunteer there."

"I know. I looked at the photo."

"I thought you said you didn't know her."

"I didn't. But I knew her name from some of the old volunteer records. I never connected it to you."

Camille set the card beside her. "Could you tell me what she was like there?"

"I can tell you what people have said."

"That's what I mean."

I told her what I knew. Evelyn had read to children on Wednesday afternoons. She had helped adults practice for citizenship interviews and job applications. She had organized a book sale every spring, even after her knees began to hurt.

"People still talk about her," I said.

Camille rubbed her thumb along the edge of the card. "She never told me any of that."

"Maybe it wasn't something she thought she had to tell."

"I wish she had."

I understood the wish. I had made a thousand of them after the last conversation I'd had with my father, who had died before I got old enough to ask him better questions. I wanted to tell Camille that grief came with empty rooms that no amount of looking could fill. Instead, I sat down beside her.

She rested her hand over the old card. "I don't know what to do with all of this."

"You don't have to decide today."

"I have a week before the landlord takes the house."

"Then you have a week."

She let out a breath. "You say things like they're allowed to be simple."

"Most things aren't. But we can pretend for a minute."

We worked until late afternoon. Before I left, Camille asked if I could help her at the literacy center on Wednesday. She wanted to see the place where her mother had spent so much time.

I said yes.

The apartment was quiet when I returned. Owen's shoes were gone from the hall. I set my bag down and went to the kitchen. On the counter, I found a note in his handwriting.

I'm staying with Ben for now. We need to figure out the lease and the wedding deposits. I'll wait for you to tell me when you're ready.

I read it twice. Nothing in it was insulting. Nothing was even unreasonable. That made it harder to hate him.

I went to the bedroom and opened the dresser. Half his clothes were gone. He had taken his laptop and the navy suit he'd planned to wear at the wedding. My dress still hung in its garment bag at the back of the closet.

I reached for the zipper and stopped.

My eyes filled. I didn't fight the tears. I sat on the edge of the bed and let them come. I had spent so long trying to prove that they didn't control me, I'd never asked whether I could stop treating them like an enemy.

My phone rang.

Owen's name appeared on the screen.

I wiped my cheek and answered. "Hi."

"Are you home?"

"Yes."

"Can we talk about the lease?"

"Not tonight."

"I'm not asking to talk about us. Just logistics."

"I know. I still can't tonight."

A pause.

"Are you crying?" he asked.

I looked at the phone. "Yes."

"Lena, I don't want this to turn into another conversation where I'm the bad guy."

I felt the familiar shame rush up my neck. My voice wavered.

"You don't have to make me feel better," I said. "You can just let me cry."

"I'm trying to be practical."

"So am I."

"Then when can we talk?"

"Tomorrow. At the apartment. About the lease and the deposits."

"Okay."

"I'm not discussing the relationship tomorrow."

He exhaled. "Okay."

I ended the call before I could take back the boundary.

Then I folded the note and put it in a drawer.