I went in.
The house was full of boxes. Boxes everywhere. Stacked in the hallway, in the living room, in the kitchen. Some of them were labeled in neat black marker. KITCHEN. BEDROOM. BOOKS. BATHROOM.
Vanessa made coffee. We sat at her kitchen table, which was the only piece of furniture that had made it into the kitchen so far, surrounded by boxes.
She told me she’d just gotten divorced. Six months ago. She was forty-four. She’d been married for fifteen years. No kids. She’d been living in a condo downtown since the divorce, and she hated it, and she wanted a real house with a yard. She worked in pharmaceutical sales. She traveled a lot.
“So what happened?” I asked. “With the divorce? If you don’t mind me asking.”
Her smile didn’t move. But her eyes went somewhere else for a second.
“It just didn’t work out,” she said. “You know how it is. People grow apart.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.” She waved her hand. “Best thing that ever happened to me. I’m free now. I can do whatever I want.”
She said it brightly. Like an advertisement. Like something she’d practiced.
I didn’t believe her. I don’t know why. Something in her voice.
“Can I help you unpack?” I asked. “I’ve got the afternoon off.”
She looked surprised. “Really? You’d do that?”
“Sure. It’s what neighbors do.”
So I spent three hours that afternoon helping Vanessa unpack her kitchen. Dishes. Glasses. Pots and pans. A very expensive knife set. We put things in cabinets. She told me about her job. I told her about Irvin and Maddie. She laughed at my stories. She had a nice laugh, when it was real.
Near the end of the afternoon, I went out to her garage to break down some empty boxes for recycling.
In the corner of the garage, there was a box I hadn’t seen before. A big one. It was taped shut. On the side, in angry black marker, someone had written one word:
