The Attic

The pile of boxes neatly tucked into the back half of the attic appeared to have grown over the years, still twelve cardboard and six plastic bins, but the weight of them had changed somehow.  

My life. The one before Roger, Holden, or the version of me that stood here choking on dust.

The boxes were old; some of them reused a few times. All those lovely little places we lived, sometimes for months and a few times for more than a year. I spread them out, dragging them around so I could see the full bulk. I had made a deal with myself that I would open them here and only take down the things I couldn’t live without.

There were a few, marked in a way that I knew exactly what was in them. Then a few others that were going to be an utter surprise. My chest fluttered.

There were two phases of my life here. The stuff of mine and Julian’s I packed before the hospital. Then the stuff I packed of mine after, when it was just me living in a sad studio apartment by the water.

If I thought too hard about it, I could still smell the mold and mildew in the air of that grimy little place. Nasty stuff, but at the time I needed something fast and cheap. That was exactly what I got.

I pushed over the bass amp. It was a huge thing, boxy and black, lighter than you would expect for its size but still heavier than I could manage down the attic stairs on my own.

In the days before, I would throw colorful cloths over them, adorn them with candles, frames, or some other nonsense to make them look less threatening. I am not sure why I kept them. Maybe that’s not true. I know why I kept them.

I started to drift, pulled by the charm of warm scents and soft fabrics. I gave my head a jiggle and set my knife to the seam of the first box. I knew this one.

Books, photo albums, and our prized collection of cassette tapes, along with a hundred or so CDs. I pushed the box nearer the stairwell. This one would go downstairs. Getting too far into it now would stop my momentum.

I went through box after box, collecting treasures I had all but forgotten and set them near the stairs. I was grinning ear to ear by the time I finished.

I carted everything down the two flights of wrapping stairs, leaving them in piles and stacks throughout the living room. A mess I would manage later.

I had removed all of Roger’s goodies two weeks ago. Things he decided he didn’t love enough to take to the new house. He assured me it was out of consideration — to leave our house whole.

He was like that, using some excuse to make his actions come off better than they were. I sat through countless discussions about how thoughtful he was being for both Holden and I.

I can tell you the mallards and frames of country club art were not what was on Holden’s mind as Roger and Kit Kat wheeled out suitcases of his father’s clothes.  

I had returned all that selfless generosity this week by packing his shit up and delivering it to any community service group who would have it.

No one wanted the mallards. They all went to the Goodwill. All thirty-three of them.

Once all the boxes were unpacked, and out of the way, I found Julian’s guitars. They were propped against the wall. The dark cases leaning on each other like tired soldiers, untouched for years. I think it was Roger who stuffed them behind the boxes. I don’t think he wanted me or Holden seeing them.

Roger found it embarrassing that my first husband was a musician. Going as far as to tell our friends Julian was an artist who died young, and changing the subject quickly, of course only to spare my feelings.

A quiver ran through my hands as I opened the first case. I knew who waited just beyond the thick black husk. Julian left marks on the cases, tiny indicators so we knew who lived in which one.

There were four in all. His acoustic six-string, one mid-grade electric, and two bass guitars — the very best we could afford. A box of random percussion equipment ranging from a shaker shaped like an avocado to an electric sound machine from the 1970s hung out behind the acoustic.

I gave his favorite bass a good look over. She looked great considering she had been stored away for so many years. Her neck was straight as an arrow, and even her pickups looked decent, a little cloudy but nothing that a polish wouldn’t fix. I plugged her in — the crackle of the amp sent a ripple across my skin.

So long since I had heard that sound. Twenty long, twisting years. I struck a chord. The note fell flat. I spent thirty minutes trying to tune it by ear, fearing any second a string would pop and give me a nice welt.
            But she held in there, and even if the strings were shot, she sang a little as I muddled through a few clumsy notes.

A soft humming caught my attention. I looked up towards the stairwell, expecting to see Holden. But there was nothing. I waited, but the sound didn’t return, vanishing as quickly as it had come. I went back to tapping on the strings until my fingers burned.

Rummaging around in the last remaining tote, I located all the guitar stands and put them back together. I had four, but only three were in good enough shape to be trusted. I set up both amps and the guitars along the wall. I lugged over a shelf and unpacked the rest of the odds and ends.

For the first time, I was grateful Roger had finished out the attic. The space looked like a proper music room. That is, if you ignored the stacks of Christmas decorations in the far corner.

“What’s all this?” Holden said from the stairs. The sudden interruption turned me inside out, and I screamed in response. By the time I caught my breath, he was teary-eyed with laughter.

“Oh, my God. Holden, you scared me half to death.” I bent over, pressing my hand against my heart.

“You think I was a ghost?”

I followed him downstairs, and we stood before the stacks of goodies I had salvaged. He poked through the piles, curious but reserved. No sixteen-year-old boy wanted to look too interested in his mother’s life.

“This him?” He turned a framed picture towards me. Julian and I sitting on a pier, our hair whipping in the wind.

“Yes, that’s Julian.”

“He’s nice looking.”

“I thought so.”

“Looks like he could come right out of that picture. Alive, you know?”

“He was bigger than life.”

He eyed the photo for another beat or two and put it up on the mantel next to one of him and I when he was eight.

“Hey, you want to go through some old music later? I have a box full.”

“Yeah, maybe.”  

He picked up Julian’s jewelry box. It was an old metal tin. Something cool he found in a thrift store. Holden rattled the contents. I took the box and showed him how to open it.

A scent wafted out, and my heart melted, though I managed not to well up with tears. We poked around in the box. Holden admired a few old pins, and some hideous cufflinks left over from a show. We were mid-laugh when I spotted a tiny plastic bag. I knew it on sight. Julian’s wedding ring. My attempt to ignore it failed when Holden held it up for inspection.

“Those runes?”

“Yes.” I knew his thoughts before he spoke them.

“Hippies.” He laughed.

“It really meant something to him. He had it written up by some old woman.”

“I doubt dad even knows what runes are.”

“Two very different men.”

“Do you think you were? Different? I mean with them?”

“Hmm. That is a complicated question. I have always been me, just expressed and repressed different pieces of myself. Something like that…” He stared at me for a beat or two.

“I get it.”

His attention span flickered, and he left, headed off to his bedroom to play a game. But I sat there pondering his question in my pile of treasures.

Was I different, now that I was alone?