In the beginning, I focus on the apartment. I rearrange the furniture in the living room and the children’s room, then move on—plastic containers in the kitchen, autumn clothes in the wardrobe, worn shoes in the entryway. And finally, the books, now barely fitting on shelves and in cabinets. I pack them into shopping bags and stack them in the pantry. It’s a temporary solution, but it will do for now.
As breakfast simmers, I try to talk myself out of tackling the garage. It would be a huge undertaking, especially now, in this bitter cold. But I can’t shake my compulsion to tidy. I even persuade my husband to help. We’ve lived here a long time, —long enough to accumulate far too much in the carport. Against the wall are piles of boxes and dusty paper bags. It would be good to sort through them before Christmas. After breakfast, with the children at their grandparents’, we begin.
What frustrates me most is how we’re tossing out moldy, sealed boxes without even checking what’s in them their contents. We’re making good progress, but when I try to lift the top box from a pile at the back of the garage. I hesitate. It’s far too heavy. I call for my husband. The box thuds to the tiled floor, —but there’s no rattle, no clang. Just weight. We slice the tape open with a knife. More books.
Relics of childhood, ancient storybooks, dog-eared volumes long read and reread. We leaf through them, brush off the dust. We decide to place them in clean boxes and take them to my recently deceased grandparents’ now-empty house. They’ll be safer there, until we get new shelves, —or move somewhere larger. The top two layers are in surprisingly good shape. But then comes the reckoning. The bottom layer is another expression coated in thick mold, and we handle the books with gloves. I pass the cleaner ones to my husband, who sorts them into a separate pile. We’ve both brought beloved volumes into this shared life, but they’ve been sealed away so long, we can’t remember which belonged to whom. What can’t be saved, we discard. I hold a dark green hardcover in my hands. At first, I want to keep it—but then I notice mold on one of its corners. I peel off my glove and reach inside. I need to know how deeply the damage has spread. The mold feels soft, but damp. The smell turns my stomach. I can’t bear it. I walk toward the trash bin—but stop. I turn around and place the book gently on top of the salvage pile. It might be his. It might still be saved. After we finish sweeping the garage, we sort through the rescued books again. We turn pages, laugh, drift through memories. The green book is last. I see it in his movement—he recognizes it. He opens it, scans a few lines, then looks at me:
—Should I tear it out?
I know at once what he means. We’ve done this before—discarded a book for the words on its first page. That was long ago. Long enough that we don’t need to sacrifice a whole book for a few poisonous lines. It’s not my husband’s fault who wrote them. But those words have to go. Now. I feel a flicker of curiosity, but I don’t read them. I have a sense of what they say—and the thought makes my stomach clench. My husband rips the page out, crumples it, and tosses it into the trash. The ball of paper lands with a thud atop the discarded junk.
Even after gloves and washing, the smell of mold clings to my fingers that night. But it doesn’t matter. It feels good to lie down with the knowledge that our space has become just a little more orderly. The saved books—old, yet new again—rest clean and drying on the table. The green one among them. My husband reads on the couch. The children are back, tucked away in their rooms. My exhaustion is likely from the garage project and the approaching cold front. In the final moment before sleep, the image of the paper ball falling into the trash flashes before me. And now, I can read the brief message scribbled on it:
“Know that I love you deeply. Whatever may come, we belong to each other. We will always be together.”
And then the image dissolves.
I close my eyes. But in the dark silence of the trash bin, something stirs. The lid snaps open. The paper ball rolls through the stairwell—then up to the second floor. With a dull thud, it hits the front door and comes to a stop. I rise. The apartment is dark. Everyone else is asleep. I walk to the door. I peer through the peephole. The hallway light is on. A woman stands outside, holding the crumpled paper. I recognize her immediately. Smug. Beautiful. Her curly hair spills lazily over her shoulders. Despite the cold, she wears a light summer dress. Her lovely face is framed by arched eyebrows and a wide, gleaming smile. Only her eyes betray her—there’s a sick shine there. She’s pleased. Pleased to see me open the door in a crumpled robe, my hair a mess, old scratched glasses perched on my nose. There’s no resemblance between us. Only a shared name. That always infuriated me. The hatred must show on my face, because she lifts a brow and says, surprised:
—But… you called me.
I step aside. Let her in. I’m furious—because she’s right. This moment had to come. The moment we finally meet. Flesh and blood. I can see her up close—the woman who poisoned my marriage for three years. Who corroded my days. I seat her at the dining table. Pour two glasses of water. Sit down across from her.
She never could let go of the man I married. She did everything she could to win him back. It began during my first pregnancy. When I was most vulnerable. I had to fight—compete—for someone who had already chosen me. And I did this with one child, then two, in our lives. My husband loved me. But she would not let go. I was helpless. I drifted. In the end, it came to nothing. But it took years to mend the space between us. And still, the feeling lingered. That something was missing. That something wasn’t right—not in the closets, the pantry, or the garage.
—The day I gave birth to my daughter, you congratulated me. But not for the baby. It was more like a thank-you. You thanked me for getting out of your way. For giving you the chance—while I lay in a hospital bed—to slip into my place, legs wide open.
She says nothing. She rises. Walks to the door. For a moment, I sit frozen—hardly believing what’s just happened. Then I run after her. No one is there. But on the ground, I spot the crumpled paper. I scoop it up and rush to the trash bin. Toss it in. Slam the lid shut. Then return to bed.
I wake early. My body trembles from exhaustion. Half-asleep, I start the coffee. I wonder why I feel so drained—when I see the two glasses of water on the table. That’s when the memory returns, slow and uncertain. My legs falter. I sit down. The scent of coffee draws my husband to the kitchen.
—Bad night?
I smile, and simply say:
—Just strange dreams…
The warmth of the coffee seeps into my limbs. I begin to feel human again. I sniff my fingers. No trace of mold. I glance at the green book. It’s nearly dry now. And if it isn’t—we’ll have it rebound.
Photos: Anett Gyenge-Rusz
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