“My goodness, we thought she was keeping a girl hostage or something.”
“You two are overthinking,” Patterson said, “but it’s understandable since you moved in a few years after Emily died.”
“So Barbara has always lived in that house?” I asked.
“Yes. Emily grew up there. Her room is upstairs at the front.”
Patterson pointed across the street toward a window with pale curtains.
“I heard that Barbara locked the door after the funeral.”
“Where did you hear that?”
“I knew the family well. Emily used to water my plants when I traveled. I attended the funeral.”
She removed her glasses.
“Barbara also has a son, David. He was 19 when Emily died. He left for college the following year and has never come back.”
“Did they stop speaking?” Anna asked.
“Not completely. They exchange short calls at Christmas and birthdays. But he never came home.”
“Why?”
Patterson hesitated.
“Emily died after leaving the house during an argument with Barbara. A drunk driver hit her while she was walking along the highway. David blamed his mother for pushing her out the door. Barbara blamed herself too.”
My stomach tightened.
“Why is she clearing the room now?”
“I don’t know,” Patterson said. “But Barbara has not looked well.”
That night, I lay awake picturing the photographs inside that bag.
I thought about Barbara keeping Emily’s room untouched for 11 years, then suddenly sending pieces of it away.
“She is erasing her,” I said.
Anna turned toward me.
“You do not know that.”
“She is giving away everything.”
“You saw one bag.”
“I saw photographs.”
“And you invaded her privacy to do it.”
Her voice was sharper than usual.
I stared at the ceiling.
“What kind of mother throws away her dead daughter’s belongings?”
Anna sat up.
“A grieving one. We do not know what is going on with her, so let’s not judge.”
I said nothing.
The next morning, Barbara waved from her driveway.
I pretended not to see her.
Anna saw that too.
“You are judging her because you are ashamed of what she is doing,” she said that evening.
“I am just trying to figure out what is going on.”
“No. You are turning her into a bad person without even knowing what is going on.”
That stayed with me.
Two mornings later, I heard a dull thump outside.
Barbara was on one knee beside the curb. One hand was spread against the pavement.
The other still gripped the top of a trash bag.
Anna was already moving toward the door.
“Come on.”
We ran across the street.
Barbara tried to rise.
“I’m fine,” she said.
She was not fine.
Up close, her skin had a gray cast beneath her makeup.
Her scarf had slipped, revealing patches of hair loss.
She looked smaller than the bag beside her.
“Do not stand yet,” Anna said, kneeling.
“The truck will be here soon,” Barbara whispered.
“The bag can wait.”
“No. Please. It is the last pickup before Saturday.”
Anna and I helped her into the house.
Her kitchen was bright and spotless, but pill bottles stood beside the sink.
A calendar on the refrigerator was crowded with medical appointments.
We seated her at the table.
Anna brought water while I stood awkwardly near the doorway.
Barbara looked at me, and I couldn’t help but blurt out.
“I opened one of the bags.”
A flash of anger passed over her face before she resumed her normal look.
“I am sorry.”
“You had no right.”
“I know.”
“No, I don’t think you did know. You have no business going through my private items.”
I lowered my eyes.
“You are right.”
Barbara studied me for a moment, then looked at Anna.
“Thank you for helping me in.”
Anna sat beside her. “Are you sick?”
Barbara touched the edge of her scarf.
“Stage-four ovarian cancer. The doctors think I have one or two months.”
I sat down without meaning to.
“My son is coming home Saturday,” she continued. “David. He has not been inside this house since he left.”
“We spoke to Patterson,” I said. “We had no business prying, but we were simply worried. We are sorry about what happened to your daughter.”
Barbara nodded, looking exhausted and holding back tears.
“The trash bag contains her things, but not all of them are trash. The black bags with green tags go to a charity for teenage girls. Clothes, books, school supplies. The unlabelled trash bags are for damaged things. I keep some personal things.”
I thought of the frames.
“I saw photographs.”
“Duplicates. I had boxes of them. Some were in my room, others in Emily’s, and others in her brother’s room.”
Her voice tightened.
“I am not throwing my daughter’s valuables into a landfill.”
Shame moved through me so sharply I almost could not breathe.
“Why clear the room now?” Anna asked gently.
“Because David is coming to say goodbye to me.”
Barbara wrapped both hands around the glass.
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