what's left over
From the short story collection "What's Left Over: Stories Inspired By Discarded Things"
It has been hours now, working in this miasma of motor oil and mildew. I feel a headache coming on and I’ve barely cracked the surface. All these boxes and bins and plastic bags—I always wondered why Dad started parking in the driveway. Now I know.
It wasn’t that my parents were hoarders. They just couldn’t be bothered to throw stuff out. Which, in a way, I respect. I mean, there are only so many hours in a life. Why spend it sorting detritus that is ultimately meaningless?
The fact that it has been left for me to deal with, though, is completely on-brand for them. Me—the wayward child, the outcast, the one without culturally acceptable obligations—forced to sort the unfiltered remnants of forty-plus years of living in this house. People generate so much shit. Like, really, it’s unhinged when you are looking at it from the outside. I found an ancient pack of Lucky Strikes in one of the boxes. One of them happens to be dangling from my lips right now even though I haven’t had the urge to smoke in twenty years. My parents always bring out the best in me.
I’m supposed to finish getting the house cleared for sale. I told Anna I’m pretty sure there are companies that will do this for you, but my sister is cheap and bossy and I was too weak to say no. So here I am, two-thousand miles away from anything comfortable. It’s at least eighty-five degrees outside, humid as hell. Most of the things I’ve unearthed so far I feel no connection to: dated clothing, dented pots and pans, cheap holiday decorations with “I was on clearance” vibes.
The deeper I dig things start to feel familiar. They kept my soccer trophies, Anna’s costume trunk, every doll and stuffed animal that ever crossed our threshold. Memories, or rather sentimentality, is a weird thing. I have to imagine people who cling to this kind of stuff have gooey, sunlit memories attached to them. For me it’s just kind of a weird, confusing mess—a bit of unease, a dash of anger, a pinch of regret. Don’t my siblings know I am the worst possible person they could pick to do this?
Of course they don’t. They barely know me.
The Uhaul we all paid for is more than half full. I’m already exhausted, so I grab one of the light ones next—a massive plastic bin full of toys I vaguely recognize—and load it into the van.
I decide the best plan is to take two trips. The closest thrift store is about ten minutes away, so I load up three more boxes to fill the leftover space and hit the road.
There’s a long line at the donations door and I’m forced to sit there idling. I soak in the van’s luxurious AC as I watch dozens of lidless plastic bins and cardboard boxes change hands. I start to wonder if it is always this busy, and what the hell they do with all of this stuff? Are there really enough customers to want to buy all our crap?
It’s my turn to pull up. I park the van and get out, splaying the rear doors as two guys with sweat-soaked shirts help me unload. One of them uses his knee to hoist a heavy bin so he can grab it from the underside and few of the toys on top bounce out onto the pavement.
“Shit,” he mutters.
“No worries,” I say. “I’ve got it.”
As I pick up the items one by one it hits me: I am donating trash. The last of the escapees is just a tangle of plastic baby feet and hands, bound together by a hollow terrycloth body. Torso missing, head missing. I recognize this freakish amalgam. It’s a doll I once called Pinkie.
Seeing what’s left of her for the first time in over thirty years is like a punch to the gut. Pinkie was my doll, the only one I’d ever been given. Money was tight back then; we were lucky we had enough cash to keep the lights on. Toys were often shared between myself, Anna, and our brother Evan. Pinkie was all mine though, given to me by my mother’s aunt, a child-free realtor with lots of spare cash to spend on holiday gifts.
When we opened our presents that Christmas morning, Anna was convinced there was a mix-up and Pinkie was actually meant for her. She received a small powder blue radio with a cassette player, which made her miserable for some reason. She whined and nagged my parents about Pinkie all day, until my dad finally blew up at her and she retreated to her bedroom.
I felt triumphant in the moment, but inciting Dad’s rage was far from the end for Anna. She was obsessed, convinced Pinkie would be hers. Anna would always find a way.
The first phase of her assault was to wear Mum down. There was whining, nagging, concocting complex rationales where you could practically see the red-string board in her mind. It took about a week of this before my mother came to me while Anna was at a neighbor’s house. I was sitting on my bed, using two shabby facecloths and a handful of safety pins to fashion a new outfit for Pinkie. Mum stood in the door with her arms crossed.
“Why do you have to antagonize your sister?” she asked seven-year-old me. “You don’t even like dolls. Just trade Pinkie for the radio so we can all have some peace.”
“But I do like dolls!” I insisted. It was true. “Pinkie is my doll, not Anna’s. Call Aunty Mimi and ask!”
Mum sighed, pausing a moment before laying down the law. “Give Pinkie to your sister or I’ll do it for you.”
I don’t remember exactly what happened next, but there was crying and pleading involved. Mum tried to take Pinkie from me but I escaped her grasp, running outside and down the pitted sidewalk with Pinkie’s arm grasped tightly in my hand.
When I got to the small convenience store on the corner of Fourth and Main, I ducked behind the building to catch my breath. I thought about maybe hiding Pinkie somewhere back there for now, saying I threw her away, then sneaking her back in the house later.
At that age my big sister felt omniscient and scary to me, like a fifth-grade Sherlock Homes. I was convinced if I hid Pinkie she’d figure out where. So, instead I chose to concoct a bizarre plan, one that only a seven-year-old would think of. I’d remove just her head—worthless on it’s own—and hide it somewhere behind the store. Then I’d say it fell off while I was running and rolled into the sewer. A flawless plan, surely.
I chuckle at the thought now. How devastated would I have been if that had actually happened? At least I knew to pretend to cry when I came home with this highly implausible scenario. Mom seemed somewhat relieved that I’d ruined the doll, although I doubt she believed my story. When I told Anna, though, she flew into a rage, ripping what was left of the doll from my hand and running away with it.
I flipped out, of course, screaming for Mum to do something. Instead, she just raised an eyebrow then turned and walked away. An hour later, I heard quiet rustling and a snicker outside my bedroom door. When I opened it, I was greeting by Pinkie, laying there in her final form.
Anna had somehow removed the doll’s torso, leaving behind a freakish blob of limbs. I screamed, which immediately summoned Anna from her room.
“What did you do to her?!” I wailed, barely able to see her through my tears.
Anna shrugged. “I was running and her body suddenly fell off and disappeared. Sorry.”
Her words, the look in her eye. That is where it began to fall apart, I realise. Standing in this parking lot thirty-plus years later, staring at Pinkie from the same vantage point, I’m seeing whole the saga with fresh eyes. Assigning me to do this task that no one else wanted—alone. This doll is what I am to them. I’m just an empty sack with limbs attached. No feelings, no thoughts other than the ones they ascribe to me.
“Hey! You gotta move. There’s a line!” one of the guys hollers from the door.
“Ok. I just gotta get…” I start, but he cuts me off.
“Don’t worry about it,” he insists. “We gotta get the line moving.”
I take one last glance at Pinkie as I walk toward the driver’s side. Panic hits. Am I gonna leave Pinkie behind?
A car behind me honks and I startle, hopping quickly behind the wheel. Memories like these are probably better left behind, I decide. Maybe this is exactly where she belongs.