“This is a pretty nice basement,” Chris comments as he follows me. He doesn’t miss a thing. I said the same thing when I saw it. It looks more like a big loft type office space than a storage area but I guess this isn’t an ordinary apartment building.
When we get to the door of our space I let out a small breath. Last time I was here I was putting Cal’s things away. I never imagined that when I came back to get them it would be like this.
“It’d be easier if you stayed but if you don’t want to, I get it,” his eyes sympathetic and his voice warm. I plaster on my practiced smile. I haven’t used it in a little while and I hope it’s still effective,
“No, it’s fine and there’s a lot of stuff,” I say with a laugh, opening the door. There are at least twenty boxes here.
“Wow,” he says as we step in. I fold my arms.
“Over there are the clothes he wore for work, shoes, underwear…” I turn to the other wall. “Those are more casual things. You’d probably feel more comfortable in them,” I say. I started referring to him and Cal as the same person when we first got here. It’s what I’ve been wanting to do for so long but since he started acting weird I thought it might be better if I stopped.
“This is a lot of stuff,” he says, resting his hands on his head and letting out an overwhelmed sigh.
“He liked to have a lot of things,” I chuckle, nodding my head.
“Can we start here?” he asks, pointing to boxes of things that I don’t think are his taste at all.
“Sure,” I say with a shrug. He starts pulling down boxes from the top rows. He opens the first box and it reveals Cal’s variety of button ups, upwards of two hundred dollars a shirt. I see him frown as he goes through an endless array of them. He opens another box, revealing his blazers and vests. Box three is full of endless ties.
“What do you think?” I ask quietly observing him as he picks through each. He looks up at me as if he had forgotten I was standing here. He shakes his head.
As he returns to a standing position, he sighs. “None of this is really me,” he shrugs. He pulls out a smaller box tucked inside one of the larger ones he pulled down. I already know what it contains. Cal’s watches. His eyes widen when he opens the box. He picks one up, examines it, then looks over at me.
“Rolex, Cartier, there’s like twenty of these,” he says in disbelief.
“He liked watches,” I shrug with a laugh.
Chris isn’t finding this funny.
“There’s enough money in this box to buy someone a car,” he says disdainfully. “I bet he only eats caviar and escargot,” he jokes and I feel a little offended.
“Uhm no,” I say folding my arms.
“It just a little a hoity toity,” he laughs, scratching his head and I feel my defenses rise.
“He likes nice things but he’s far from being a snob if that’s what you mean.”
“It’s hard to tell by looking in these boxes. I thought I’d recognize myself somewhere in all this. So far I’m not seeing anything.”
“This building, his clothes, all this stuff. It just isn’t me,” he says as he pulls another box from the pile. His words hit a nerve and I feel myself biting my lip. I start to think that if his tastes are so different from Cal’s that I’m probably not ‘him’ either.
“The school does a clothing drive every year. Selling this stuff could make a lot of money for the fundraiser,” he says and I hear my breath catch.
“You want to sell all of it?” I ask abruptly. His glance catches mine.
“I mean, if that’s okay with you. I just think most of this is unnecessary. It’s definitely not my style.”
I swallow the lump in my throat. He wants to sell it. All of it…
My face is getting hot and my heartbeat speeds up. Screw the homework assignment and the visit to the doctor. I thought that this would be progress, that by him seeing his doctor and coming here he would somehow connect with Cal, that these things would help him to not hate that part of himself. But after everything that’s happened I’m beginning to think that he didn’t come here to connect with Cal. He came here to sweep him under the rug and tie up loose ends. The next time he comes he’ll probably be selling the apartment and closing accounts.
“I’m going back upstairs,” I say as evenly as I can.
“Lauren, you’re not mad at me are you?” he asks putting down the box and locking eyes with me. Of course I’m mad but I can’t say it.
I break away from his stare and reaffix my fake smile.
“I’m not upset. It’s your stuff. You can do what you want with it,” I say, trying to neutralize the bitterness in my voice as I head towards the exit.
“Floor thirty, suite B,” I tell him before I head out of the storage room. As I head to the elevator, a single tear falls. I don’t know why I’m so upset. They’re his things to sell. What he’s doing isn’t wrong. They’re not even my things, and if he wants to use it for charity, for God’s sake, it’s fine. Still it feels like a dagger in my heart. Just another major reminder that he’s not Cal he’s Chris and Chris hates Cal.
“Hey, wait, Lauren,” he calls after me. I stop but I can’t face him.
“I’m sorry,” he says. I can hear his sincerity.
“I really appreciate you coming down here with me. Not just here, but to Chicago and to see my doctor. I know none of this is easy for you,” he says and I feel him standing close behind me. I close my eyes and wish his arms would wrap around me, that he’d pull me close to him and tell me everything is going to be okay, but I know that’s not going to happen.
As I step into the elevator I turn to face him.
“I know Chris,” I say taking a deep breath. When the door closes I let another tear fall.
When he returns I’m sitting on the couch with the TV on a random channel I’m not even paying attention to. It’s just on for distraction. He was down there for about twenty more minutes after I left. Probably organizing what needs to go first.
He’s sorry, which is great, but it doesn’t help. In fact, sorry makes it worse. There’s almost nothing worse in the world than someone feeling sorry for me. I don’t want his pity. His pity means he believes that I’m in need of it, that my situation is a complete lost cause. Maybe it is, and if anyone would know, Chris would.
“I talked to your mom and let her know we’ll be later than we thought,” I tell him when he enters the room.
“Caylen’s doing okay?” he asks and I nod.
“Your mom said she just went to sleep,” I feel the couch shift with his weight as he sits beside me. I don’t look at him. I can’t, sometimes it’s just best that I don’t.
“That’s good,” he replies. I want to ask him if he asked about her when he was supposedly talking to his parents but I don’t.
We both sit in silence and after a minute he gets off the couch. He walks over to our sofa table, picks up one of the pictures and examines it. I turn my attention back to the Property Brothers even though I’ve seen the episode a hundred times.
“I’ve seen this picture before,” he says and sits back down beside me. I glance over at the picture of Caylen when she was only a few months old.