I understood that now.
“Matthew,” I said quietly.
He looked at me.
“Why are you afraid of answering me?”
“I’m not afraid.”
Jessica gave a short laugh.
His jaw tightened.
I waited.
He looked at her.
Then at me.
“I don’t know.”
“That is probably the most honest answer available.”
Jessica rolled her eyes.
“This is becoming therapy now?”
“No,” I said. “It is still trespassing.”
She turned toward me.
“There she is.”
“Who?”
“The cold version.”
Matthew whispered, “Jessica.”
“She doesn’t care about what this does to us.”
“I care very much about what this does to my son.”
Jessica’s expression flickered.
“And me?”
“I am still deciding.”
Her cheeks colored.
I walked past them.
The basement door stood beside the pantry.
Jessica moved quickly.
“Carol.”
I put my hand on the knob.
“What?”
“There’s no reason to go down there.”
“That makes two rooms you did not want me entering.”
“You’re trying to create problems.”
“I am finding them without effort.”
Matthew stepped beside me.
“I’ll go with her.”
Jessica stared at him.
“No.”
He looked back.
“Why not?”
“Because we can bring everything upstairs tomorrow.”
“My things are downstairs now.”
“Matthew.”
“What?”
Her voice dropped.
“We talked about this.”
I looked between them.
“About what?”
Neither answered.
I opened the door.
The basement smelled of cardboard and dust.
Boxes lined the stairs.
More were stacked along the finished wall.
Black marker labels covered their sides.
CAROL CLOTHES.
OLD PHOTOS.
KITCHEN.
GEORGE.
I stopped on the fourth step.
One box had my husband’s name written across it.
Not belongings.
Not memories.
Just GEORGE.
I touched the cardboard.
My hands began trembling.
Matthew saw.
“Mom.”
I swallowed.
“Who packed this?”
He did not answer.
Jessica called from upstairs.
“They were things nobody used.”
I turned.
“Come down here.”
“No.”
“Come down.”
“This is insane.”
Matthew looked at her.
“Jessica, come downstairs.”
She stared at him.
Then she descended.
I pointed to the box.
“Who wrote that?”
She glanced at it.
“I did.”
“You reduced thirty-eight years of marriage to a cardboard label.”
“It was organization.”
Matthew looked sick.
Jessica crossed her arms.
“You wanted to know where everything was.”
I crouched.
The box was not taped completely.
I opened the flaps.
George’s brown jacket lay on top.
I touched the collar.
The fabric still held the faint indentation where he folded it.
Beneath it sat his Cleveland Browns cap.
His reading glasses.
A wooden ruler from his workshop.
A photograph of Matthew at Little League.
The scorecard from our anniversary dinner.
I closed my eyes.
The basement disappeared for several seconds.
I could hear George laughing.
I could see him standing in the kitchen.
I could remember him complaining about the Browns.
Then Matthew knelt beside me.
“I’m sorry.”
I opened my eyes.
“For which part?”
His face collapsed slightly.
“All of it.”
Jessica sighed.
“This is exactly why we didn’t tell her beforehand.”
Matthew stood.
I stood too.
“What did you say?”
Jessica looked irritated.
“She gets attached to everything.”
Matthew stared at her.
“You said she would adjust.”
“She will.”
“You said she wouldn’t even notice half this stuff.”
“She wouldn’t have.”
I looked at him.
He noticed.
His face went pale again.
“You knew she was packing George’s things?”
He hesitated.
“I knew she was clearing space.”
“That is not what I asked.”
“No.”
Jessica laughed bitterly.
“Oh, come on.”
Matthew turned toward her.
“You told me you were only moving storage boxes.”
“That’s what these are.”
“My father’s jacket is not storage.”
“You complained about that jacket.”
“I said Mom would never throw it away.”
“Exactly.”
“That wasn’t permission.”
Jessica stared at him.
The balance between them shifted another inch.
I saw it.
She saw it too.
Her voice hardened.
“You are not doing this.”
“Doing what?”
“Pretending you had no part.”
“I had a part.”
“Then own it.”
“I am.”