The Boxes

Editor's note (I'm the editor):

What follows is the account of the last day of my marriage. Not the last day we were married, but the last day there was any possibility of being married. You are starting the story in medias res, so I'll just engage in a little exposition: my husband told me that we were being forced to sell our home or go into foreclosure. We'll get into all of that, of course, but this is the account of us (me) starting to get the house ready to sell.

There's one thing that always makes me feel more in control of a situation and that's action. So, knowing we would need to move some of our considerable clutter out of the house to show it, I rented a storage space near my office and spent Saturday packing up the more superfluous of my stuff--winter sweaters and jumpsuits and boxed fancy shoes and the like. 

Scott complains about our "stuff" all of the time, and by stuff he means my things. I am, and I know this, a terrible roommate. My assistant manager Daphne used to get mad at me for not keeping the cashwrap tidy. "Just put the receipts in the drawer, it's right here," she would say, slamming the drawer shut. My current assistant manager gives me shit for my messy desk. I am not dirty, but I am messy. I know this and I do try to do a good pickup when I have time. Back when we had a cleaning lady, I would spend a couple of hours on what I called a "hard pickup" and put everything in their place. 

And look, I have a lot of stuff. I have a lot of clothes. I did work in fashion for many years and I have probably 40 pairs of jeans. I have four versions of the same jumpsuit. I love crafts and I have stuff to make candles, vision boards, watercolors, I can decoupage anything. I can etch glass. With my glass etching stuff. I'm an artist, what can I say. 

So today I launched into the project of getting shit out of the way. I don't know what the realtor is going to recommend, but I've been down this road before. I wanted to clear surfaces and make the closet a place we could allow prospective buyers to experience as though a rabid clotheshorse didn't create an alternate dimension where sweaters go to die.

I purchased some boxes, some wrapping materials, a tape gun and got to work. I took all the pictures off the mantle, I put some fragile dresser items into a box, I ransacked my closet. It was almost comical the amount of crap I put in boxes only to have the place look---the same. Nevertheless I persisted. I boxed up shoes and purses and sweaters and sweatshirts. I also made a pile for the Salvation Army and bagged up those items, too. 

I stacked boxes neatly at the top of the stairs and realized that this was probably a lot. And that thought was interrupted by having to take Ryan to her friend's house. While I was out, I grabbed more boxes.

:::

The last time we moved, I did the same thing. I grabbed everything we weren't using or seemed expendable, put it in a box and sent it to storage. Scott would freak out about everything. I remember packing up his college textbooks and he went haywire. "What if I need those?" he asked frantically. This panic was informative. He didn't need those. He would never need those. A marketing textbook from 1996 was not going to provide any answers to problems in 2013, practical, existential or otherwise. I let it go. I don't know if he did. 

I packed up every inch of our house last time. I engaged the movers. I managed the move. 

This, by the way, is the difference between us. I can see what needs to be done, I am comfortable with an amount of chaos, my executive function...functions. In retrospect, I maybe should have anticipated a meltdown. 

But I didn't.

:::

When I got home from dropping Ryan off at a friend's house, Scott was home. And he was drunk. This is not unusual behavior. When he leaves the house on the weekends to do things, he is often drunk when he comes home. I don't know where he goes. And I'm not above having a glass of champs at the hair salon so live and let live.

I was going to jump back in and pack more, but Scott had disappeared upstairs. I assumed he'd passed out and when I went up there, I discovered I was right.

I will admit to being a little annoyed that I couldn't continue to work in the bedroom, but also happy to dial into the hall closet and remove coats and mittens, scarves and hats. 

But then he arose came downstairs and seemed upset. 

"What do we need to do with these?" he asked. 

"Well, eventually they need to go to the car and then to the storage space," I replied. I asked him where he'd gone after his haircut.

"Nowhere," he replied, his voice edged with contempt.

I didn't understand the hostility of his tone. "What to you mean, 'nowhere,'" I asked.

"I mean nowhere," he repeated, picking up a box. It was a strain for him. He stumbled under the weight, stutter stepped back a little, and staggered toward the door. 

I was nonplussed. He was drunk, liable to hurt himself. Still, I opened the door. 

He managed to get the box down the deck stairs, but dropped it on the walk.

"Fuck," he said. "Shit." His expression was one of pure disgust.

He managed to get the box into the back of the van, and came back inside, heavy sighing and mumbling expletives.

"Is something wrong?" I asked. 

But I knew what was wrong. He was drunk and disregulated.

"Let's just get this done," he said. 

"No," I countered. "Please don't."

He made a show of rolling his eyes. "Why?"

"Because you're going to drop something. Because you're going to hurt yourself."

He picked up another box. 

"Just open the door."

Scott went upstairs, where I had stacked some boxes. He picked up the smallest one. 

"That one's fragile," I said. 

"What?" he asked, that familiar sarcastic, annoyed edge in his voice. 

"It's fragile."

"What's in it?" he demanded.

"Fragile things," I said. 

The box had some porcelain figures in it. The mug I won for coming in third in my age division at a half marathon in Utah. 

"So what?" Scott said. 

"Can you just stop?" I asked. "Please just stop."

"Why?" He called.

"Because you're going to hurt yourself. Because you're going to drop boxes and break things."

"Then HELP," he yelled. "You never help."

That stopped me. I'd been "helping" all day.

The next box he grabbed, he dropped on the deck. 

"Scott!" I yelled, "That is fragile." 

"Who cares?" he countered.

"I do. That's my shit."

"It's your shit," he said. "Of course it is."

I would like to butt in and say that if I had done that to his belongings, he would have been apoplectic.

"Stop," I said again. "Just stop."

But he wouldn't stop. I went upstairs to grab a box, a nervous response to "not helping." When I got to the foot of the stairs, Scott met me, and demanded I hand over the box.

"No," I said. "I've got it."

"Give it to me," he demanded. 

"No."

And so we were at an impasse. A no, yes, no, yes impasse. I asked him yet again to stop. He was dropping boxes, he would hurt himself. He was drunk.

"Give me the box." he said. 

"I am asking you nicely to stop," I said.

"No."

"Once again, I am asking you nicely to stop."

"No."

And so I had to take stock of the situation. He was being physically intimidating. He was not being reasonable. He was not acting in a way consistent with empathy or compassion. So I had to survey my options. 

I contemplated asking Kai to come out of his room. I contemplated a continued showdown. 

But in the end I handed over the box. Then I grabbed my phone and keys, and I walked out the front door. 

:::

I sat on the curb, contemplating what had just happened. I knew that Scotts behavior was crazy. I knew my best move was removing myself. But damn. I wondered if he would fall down the stairs, if there would be other collateral damage.

After a few minutes, he texted me:

Where are you?

I texted back: I left.

Scott: Can we just do a storage drop?

Me: No. It's by my office. I see Diana tomorrow and I'll do it then.

Scott: Why don't we do one today and another tomorrow?

Me: Because you are not acting in a way that feels safe to me.

Scott: Jesus.

Scott: Make everything dramatic and hard.

Scott: I've never done anything to make you not feel safe.

Scott: All I do is shit to make you feel safe.

Me: You intimidated me into handing you a box after I asked you repeatedly to stop. You dropped all my boxes and refused to be reasonable. I tried to draw a boundary and you stepped right over it. Don't try to make this about me.

Scott: Good lord, it's just boxes.

Scott: Let's get them in the storage unit. It's not a big deal.

Me: Dude I said no. Please stop.

Scott: This is why nothing gets done.

Scott: Do whatever you want to do. That's your thing.

Scott: You do whatever you want, whenever you want, and I'm just supposed to deal with it. It must be nice.

Scott: I've tried to absorb everything. It's really hard. Can you just give me a break?

I didn't answer him. I went for a walk and called my sister. This kind of exchange is Scott's bread and butter, designed to make me feel guilty, frivolous, lazy, for the argument to devolve into lists of things I do that he can then insist are trivial, inconsequential, insignificant. This time it didn't work. Well, it worked a little. I was packing up my things, not his.

"No, that's fucked up," my sister assured me.

I walked around my neighborhood in a daze, wondering what I should do with myself, when it was safe to go home, replaying the events in my head.

When I finally walked back in the door, the house was quiet. I assumed that Scott went upstairs to sleep it off, and I busied myself by drinking a beer and TikToking. After some time I wandered outside to the garage to see if all the boxes had been stacked in the car or if some were just in the garage.

The car was gone.

:::

Where had he gone? Scenarios played in my head. Had he rented a new storage space? Was he driving to Willowbrook? I wondered if he had simply driven to the Chicago River and dumped everything in the water. I knew a moment of grief over my Manolos and my expert fake Louis Vuittons.

I finally texted him: Where did you take the boxes?

Scott: I had to run to Target for an errand.

:::

When he got back with his errand supplies, blue plastic cups and a package of bacon, he didn't mention the incident at all. He made himself a hot dog and asked if I was hungry.

"I'm good," I said.

"Well I haven't eaten all day," he said, "So I'll make this fish." He indicated one of the Home Chef meals.

That would track with him being very drunk.

He set to work making dinner for Kai and Ryan and the two of us. I had brought some corn home from the farmer's market, and he was very complimentary about it. Like over the top.

I set about finding a bottle of rose, and asked if I could open it.

"Of course," he said, "It's wine, it should be enjoyed."

I asked him again where he had gone after his haircut.

"Oh you'd love it, we should totally go there," he said, describing having enjoyed a beer, a martini and a sandwich..

"I thought you said you hadn't eaten," I reminded him, confused.

"No they make this great sandwich," he said, beginning to describe it in detail.

I listened vaguely, with a feeling like shifting sands. I didn't know what had happened or what to believe.

I went upstairs to tidy a little bit, and managed to spill some very heavy perfume on the duvet. I knew Scott hated that smell so I put it in the wash.

Exhausted and out of sorts, I decided to sleep in the spare bedroom. There were sheets on that bed, and I was still reeling from the day's events.

The next morning I woke up to his texts.

Scott: Are you coming to bed?

And then: Let's just end it. That's what you want, isn't it?

I texted him back.

Me: How about we start with an apology for your insane behavior yesterday?

He never replied. Nor did he apologize.

I went to my hair colorist and, as promised, the storage unit. I unloaded the car onto a cart and wheeled my boxes into the elevator and up to unit 3013, then I went home. I wasn't sure what I would find, but at home it was business as usual. No mention of the fight, where I'd been, the late night text.

But there was one change. I was ready to start planning my escape.