Moving (A Life in Boxes)

By Patrick Gabridge

Jed and Lila are compulsive movers. For them, moving boxes, packing tape, and open houses are the ultimate aphrodisiacs. They meet on a moving day, Jed proposes on a moving day, and they end up moving 18 times in 18 years. Moving defines their lives, their identities. They move for fun, to recover from tragedy, and for new opportunities—until Lila decides she wants them to put down roots, in Boston.

Lila's decision strains their marriage to its limits. What once brought them together now drives them apart. Jed, a computer programming wiz, takes off on a strange cross-country odyssey as a hired hand on a moving van. Nothing about his marriage or life makes sense anymore, and even his obsessive counting can't get his mind back on track. Lila ends up in the hospital after accidentally cutting off her fingers (she's a woodworking instructor) and struggles to both recover and find her husband. They both desperately search for a way back to each other that will make sense of how they've changed since they first met and married.

Moving tells the story of a marriage challenged by wanderlust, regular old lust, obsession, infertility and adoption, and race.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Patrick Gabridge
• Release date: Jan 5, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301832293

Patrick Gabridge

I've written numerous plays, including Fire on Earth, Flight, Constant State of Panic, Pieces of Whitey, Blinders, and Reading the Mind of God, which have been staged in theatres across the country and around the world. My first novel, Tornado Siren, was published by Behler Publications in 2006, and is now published as an ebook on Smashwords and other sites. I like to start things: I helped startBoston's Rhombus Playwrights writers' group, the Chameleon Stage theatre company in Denver, the Bare Bones Theatre company in New York, the publication Market InSight... for Playwrights, and the on-line Playwrights' Submission Binge. My plays are published by Playscripts, Brooklyn Publishers, Heuer, Smith & Kraus, Original Works Publishers, and Volcano Quarterly. I am a member of the Dramatists Guild and StageSource. My radio plays have been broadcast on NPR and elsewhere. I blog about the writing life at The Writing Life x3. Both Blinders and Reading the Mind of God were nominated for Best New Play by the Denver Drama Critics Circle. Awards I've won include the Colorado Arts Innovation Award, a Playwriting Fellowship from the Colorado Council on the Arts, the Festival of Emerging American Theatre, the New American Theatre Festival, the In10 UMBC Competition, and the Market House Theatre One-Act Play Award. In my spare time, I like to farm. My latest farm project is the Pen and Pepper Farm in Dracut, MA.

Book preview

Moving

(a life in boxes)

a novel by Patrick Gabridge

Copyright 2012 Patrick Gabridge

Smashwords edition

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Cover design: Keary Taylor. Photo by Katie Walt.

Discover other titles by Patrick Gabridge at Smashwords.com.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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What Others are Saying about Moving (a life in boxes)

"When you're always in motion, where does the heart come to rest? Patrick Gabridge's latest novel brilliantly illuminates a relationship that's forever looking over the horizon -- and what happens when two people who've always grown together may now be growing apart. Insightful, compelling and beautifully detailed, Moving is that rare book whose effect on the reader is exactly described by the title."

--Mike Cooper, author of Clawback

"In Moving (a life in boxes), Patrick Gabridge has rendered a story brimming with passion, humor, and irony as it rides the inner rollercoaster of one unconventional couple’s marriage in modern times. Be prepared to take sides and don’t be surprised if you change your mind."  

--Jessica Maria Tuccelli, author of Glow

"In Moving (a life in boxes), Patrick Gabridge unpacks the fascinating history of a peripatetic marriage, defined by eighteen years of moves, open houses, real estate brochures, and a stash of marked-up cardboard boxes awaiting their next journey -- until the couple come to a crossroads. Artfully plotted, emotionally stirring, and often laugh-out-loud funny, Moving bravely explores the mysterious terrain of modern marriage, and offers an intimate look at a family who will take up residence in your heart."

--Diana Renn, author of Tokyo Heist

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For Tracy, my lifelong moving partner

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Moving (a life in boxes)

Part I

Lila.

I need to get to work right here, right now, and make something. Maybe then I’ll be okay. Here in the machine room, the whine of the lathe and the band saw drowns out the noise of my messy life. When I get back up to the woodshop and focus on the hand tools, I’ll be able to calm my mind. It’s like a church up there, silent except for the careful sliding of handsaws and knives.

I kept myself together for my first class of the day. My students all cut and chiseled away on their projects, scenting the air with half a dozen flavors of sawdust. They’ve all tossed aside crappy day jobs to become professional woodworkers—they know about changes, but they don’t pay tuition to listen to my problems.

Jed’s been gone more than a week. For a few days, he’d just vanished. At least now I know he’s at Kerri and Donovan’s house. I’ve talked to Kerri a few times, hoping she can help me understand what the hell is going on, but I’m more confused than ever.

I won’t allow Jed to throw me out of my life. I love Boston, I love teaching here, I love my students, I love this desk I’m making for Pamela Gelman. And I love Jed.

He’s smart enough to find a job anywhere. But Omaha? Is he serious? I’m not about to leave Boston and the house I’ve spent two and a half years rebuilding for Omaha. Jed’s been here with me, every step of the way. Maybe he figured we’d leave it behind eventually. We always do.

We’ve ignored the costs of moving—the money, the friends who’ve drifted away, the opportunities. We’ve missed a whole chunk of life because we can’t keep our feet on the ground. I can’t do it anymore.

I pull a thin sheet of bubinga wood off the workbench—fine purple lines wave over a dusky rose background. Bubinga comes all the way from Africa—maybe some of my mother’s ancestors carved figures out of it. Maybe it just seemed like another tree to them. Hard to believe it could ever seem ordinary, not with the warmth it has under my fingertips. Today it’s precious and rare, maybe because it was exploited by the ancestors of my father, but I don’t think the Poles ever had much sway in Cameroon.

It took me weeks to find the exact right pieces for the inlay, so I need to avoid mistakes as I cut the wood into gentle curves. No more delays. Mrs. Gelman does not like to wait.

The steel ribbon of the band saw cuts through the wood easily, as I follow the lines I’ve scribed. The sawdust smells like chocolate coffee.

The word divorce pops into my head. That’s what happens when your husband leaves you. You get divorced. It’s an ugly word. If he was leaving me for another woman, that might make some sort of twisted, unpleasant sense. I could understand sudden infatuation, the tingle of a fresh romance. But Jed hasn’t left me for another woman. He’s left because I’ve changed, and he doesn’t love the new me enough.

Technically, he hasn’t left. He just hasn’t come back. He went for a job interview in Omaha and has not returned. Maybe he’s working on some equation that will help our lives make sense to him. Jed believes in answers. But when he’s not home after more than a week and is sleeping at our best friends’ house half a continent away, I start to think this could be serious.

What will we do with Hope? Ten is exactly the wrong age for a divorce. She’ll be devastated. Will she stay with me, or will she go with him? Where will Jed live?

We’ve driven each other to this, and it’s his fault. And mine. But if we divorce, then he’ll make me sell the house, and we’ll have to move. I lose. I lose the mahogany I cut for the porch, and the windows I built into the cupola, and every blessed square inch of that house I’ve touched and shaped. And we lose each other.

A sharp, searing pain in my right hand snaps me back to focus on my work and the saw. Holy mother of god. What have I done?

The top joints of my index and middle fingers lie severed on the other side of the blade. With my other hand, I slam the safety stop, but it’s too late. The results of my distraction sit neatly on the shiny steel. The stumps pulse a stream of red into the sawdust on the floor.

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Jed. Friday, September 24, 2004. 1:12 a.m.

I can’t sleep. Some people count sheep. Instead, I’ve already calculated the volume of Kerri and Donovan’s house (24,750 cubic feet) and the weight of the leaves that will fall from the trees in Champaign County next month (3,750 tons). This is not enough to distract my mind from what I’m doing to Lila and our marriage, to Hope, and, I suppose, to myself. I can’t get it all to add up. My actions and absence don’t make sense. There are people, my hosts, especially Kerri, who are thinking, Just snap out of it, Jed. But it’s not so easy.

There’s no point in staying in bed anymore—the more I close my eyes, the more the intensity rises. I miss Lila like I’d miss my lungs if they suddenly disappeared. My brain actually feels hot, and I touch my forehead to see if I’m feverish. I grab my logbook and creep into the hallway, moving in slow motion down the stairs to avoid waking anyone. Focusing on being absolutely silent provides a small measure of distraction. Maybe I should do slow-motion orbits of the house until dawn.

Kerri keeps jars of dried beans on a shelf outside the pantry—black, white, red, lentils, chickpeas. I start with the white beans, setting the jar carefully on the countertop. After an hour, I know there are 2,232 white beans, and I record the number in my logbook, alongside everything else I’ve counted and measured since I’ve been here. It helps me feel a little less inside out. Soon, if I get enough time alone, I’ll have taken a complete inventory of Kerri and Donovan’s house.

There are 347 red beans in a pile by my right hand when Kerri appears at the doorway, holding her robe closed. Her hair is a mess from the pillow, but her eyes show that she hasn’t slept either. I start repeating the number to myself, under my breath, so I won’t lose my place. 347. 347. 347.

Big mistake. She grabs the logbook before I can snatch it away.

Give it back, I demand.

She says nothing but just flips through the last few pages. With a faint look of disgust, as if she’s caught a teenage son with a smutty magazine, she browses roughly through the accounting of her and Donovan’s bedroom I did when she was out running errands. The logbook details that she has 26 shirts, 17 pairs of pants, 16 pairs of underwear, 8 bras, 23 socks—3 without a match—6 nylons, 14 sweaters, 22 shoes.

I’d like to remind her that I’ve kept a log since 1984—this is volume 6. There are numbers from all over the country. They’re not judgments on anyone. They have no impact on anyone but me. But she’s not interested in anything I have to say right now. She’s made it clear from the start that she doesn’t want me here, but she allowed it because she loves Lila and because Donovan and I are friends.

I don’t like this, she says, and shuts the book emphatically.

It’s harmless. You know how math guys are. Donovan is a math professor and is actually slightly geekier than I am—he’d be running advanced mathematical theorems in his head rather than counting beans.

Lila deserves better. I thought you’d stay here, calm yourself down, and see that you’re about to blow a good life to bits.

I do realize that, which is why I’m counting beans at two in the morning. Give me back my logbook, please.

She tosses it to me. Hard. I don’t mind that you’re a little weird, Jed, but it’s not okay that you’re hurting her. She keeps calling, trying to understand what she can do to get you back, and I don’t know what to tell her.

I don’t either.

Go home to her. She’s given you what you wanted. How many times have you moved? She went with you when she could have stayed here.

Kerri’s never forgiven me for our move from Champaign to Boston. But I’m not the one she needs to forgive. Lila didn’t leave because of me. She left because that’s who she is. Or was. Which is it? Is or was? She’s not coming back.

I stopped hoping for that a long time ago. But can’t you at least make her happy where she is now?

If it was that easy, I’d be in Boston right now.

Bullshit. You’re busy counting my socks and underwear. How is that supposed to fix anything? You know what? Get out. Get out of my house. Go count the worms in the grass, the stalks in the cornfields, whatever you need. But I will not allow you to distract yourself out of your marriage in my house.

With a flourish, she sweeps the beans from the countertop, spraying them across the kitchen. She’s shorter than I am, but broader, and looks like she fully intends to kick my ass. Instead, she turns on her heel and stomps upstairs. I follow cautiously into the foyer. Donovan staggers out of their bedroom onto the upstairs landing, squinting hard in the light. He moves out of the way as Kerri bulls past him and hurls my bag and clothes and toothbrush and shaving kit down the stairs, where they land in a pile by the front door.

She stomps back down, her face bright red, her hair sticking to her damp forehead. Out! Go figure it out somewhere else. You are not going to hurt her from here. Not one more minute.

Donovan is by her side now, though not too close. Hey, honey. Let’s talk about this in the morning.

No. Not in the morning. Right now. Get out of my house. Go on. Out! Don’t just stand there. Out the door. She throws open the door and tosses my stuff into the yard. Go!

I don’t even bother with an appeal to Donovan. I know where I stand. I go out, down the front steps, logbook in hand. The door slams shut, leaving me in the dark and damp to pick my gear off the ground.

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Lila.

Sound, of a place, an unfamiliar place. Then back to sleep.

And later, who knows when, my eyes open halfway. Blurry. Only blurry. That’s all the energy I have, and I’m gone.

The next time, I twist my head and gather a deep breath. Through an effort of will strong enough to make me grunt out loud, I force myself into consciousness.

Okay. I’m in a hospital bed. Groggy. There are all kinds of tubes running in and out of me. My right arm is stretched out, resting on a plastic board. At the end, my first two fingers are my own version of Frankenstein, with stitches holding together my grotesquely swollen digits, an angry swirl of red and brown.

Where is Jed?

I remember a little too much, a little too fast. Unconsciousness would feel good right now.

I’m grateful they were able to reattach my fingers, don’t get me wrong. The doctors debated whether they were worth saving, whether I needed them for my work or not. You’d better believe I do. It’s like some half-remembered nightmare.

Suddenly, the black lines on the ends of my fingers move a little. On their own. There are worms on the ends of my fingers. Little black worms. Could be the anesthesia. Could be little black worms. I make a loud and guttural sound that brings a nurse running.

It’s all right, she reassures me, once she sees I’m not dying. They’re just medical leeches, to improve your blood flow.

Leeches. There are leeches on my fingers. Have we suddenly transported back to the Middle Ages?

She looks at them a little closer. They seem to be doing the trick. Are you all right? Need some water?

I nod my head, grateful for a drink, though I’d prefer she remove the goddamn leeches.

A sip of water brings the world into sharper focus. I have my fingers, but I’m missing a whole lot more. Where is Hope? Where is my own brown-skinned wonder of the world with her rainbow of wooden beads at the end of each braid? How long have I been here? I’m going to be late for picking her up from Saint Matthews.

Has anyone contacted my daughter? Where is she? What day is it?

It’s Friday.

Friday? I’ve lost a whole day?

You’ve been sleeping, which is good. Your daughter is fine. We contacted her school, and one of the teachers is watching her. They can come for a visit soon, maybe tomorrow. For now, you need to stay calm, all right?

Stay calm? I’ve just cut off my fingers. My husband is not where he’s supposed to be, my 10-year-old daughter had to be rescued by a random teacher. Of course I’ll be calm. Just not right now.

I don’t say this, but instead, just make frustrated huffing and puffing noises. Which makes her look at me with worry in her eyes.

We weren’t sure when you’d be awake. I’ll let Dr. Murakesh know you’re up.

She leaves me to myself, which doesn’t feel quite right. Should I be left alone? I could use some distraction, because I don’t really want to think about the fact that yesterday I cut off my own fingers with a band saw. Facts. The facts of life. Don’t give me the facts. Maybe they should give me more sedatives instead of facts.

It’s hot in here. I always remember hospitals as being cold, but they’ve got the heat pumped up high in this room. I pull the blanket a little lower on my chest, to get some air on me.

Which teacher has Hope? I’d choose Mrs. Resnick. She’ll be fine, she’ll be fine, she’ll be fine. I don’t want her to be scared for me. That’s not her job. That’s the mother’s job. She’s going to need her books, the scrap of baby blanket she keeps under her pillow, fresh clothes. I need to get out of here.

I am so fired. A woodworking instructor is supposed to be a model of safety. What the hell kind of role model cuts off her own fingers?

What happened to that sheet of bubinga? Did I get blood all over it? My blood mixing with the sap from Africa. Maybe someone wiped it off. I don’t want to waste all that work. Waste. Distraction. My fucking husband.

Important safety tip from Lila Green: Do not think about your husband leaving you while working with power tools.

Some nerve healing at the end of my arm makes my hand twitch, even though the fingers are tightly splinted and taped. When the drugs wear off, this is going to hurt like hell.

Suddenly I realize I possess the trump card to end this standoff. When Jed hears what’s happened, he will come home. I haven’t fallen so far out of his heart that he would make me go through this recovery on my own. Not my Jed. If he still is my Jed. Can I have lost him over this? For 18 years, we’ve been tied to each other with a million tiny knots. Maybe some have slipped or snapped, but there are plenty left. And this will be a new knot, to tighten us back together.

I sound like a crazy person.

It doesn’t matter what we’ve said or done. I’ll call him up, and he’ll come running back. Once he’s home, he’ll see me, see Hope, and know this is where he needs to be.

It’s not fair to use this wound as a lever, but it’s not like I did it on purpose. Even I wouldn’t go that far. I wouldn’t risk my sense of touch. Don’t think about that, don’t think about that, don’t think about that. How am I going to know when a table, a chair, a desk, is finished if I can’t touch it? Are my left fingers as sensitive as my right?

He’s the one using the crowbar. Why should I be fair, if he’s not? Maybe we’ll laugh and say we can’t keep this up and survive.

I’ll call him soon. Jed turned off his phone in Omaha, or tossed it out the window. Who knows? I’ll call him at Kerri’s house, tomorrow.

My head is full of cotton balls—it’s better to wait. I need to get it right. The words need to be the right words.

#

I sleep. And sleep. Even when I’m awake, the pain meds mellow me out, so all I can do is stare into space. Are they trying to keep me from getting agitated? From obsessing about Jed or Hope? It works. Drugs work. Don’t do drugs. Give me more drugs. Please.

Every ounce of my energy, conscious and unconscious, pours into healing my fingers.

#

I’m pretty sure it’s Saturday when I wake from a nap to see Hope and Mrs. Resnick peering in at the door. The leeches are long gone, replaced by thick bandages. I wave Hope and Mrs. Resnick in with my good arm. Come in. It’s not contagious.

The sound of my voice sends Hope running to my side, with the clickety-clack of her hair beads. I adore that sound. (How am I going to braid her hair with one hand?) Her warmth under my palm is the first real thing I’ve felt for two days. Her soft brown skin and little girl muscles are like a new connection to the earth, to life. She wraps her arms around my neck and squeezes me tightly. Are you okay, Mom?

I’m a lot better now that you’re here.

She looks intently at my bandaged hand, eyes wide. Did you really cut off your fingers? Can I see? Does it hurt? Was there lots of blood?

Yes, I cut them off, but they’re back on now. No, you can’t see. Maybe in a few weeks, when they’re a lot better. It doesn’t hurt much now, because I’ve got some medicine, but the doctor says it will be sore later. It was a stupid, stupid mistake. A result of a whole string of stupid mistakes, not all of which were mine.

I made this for you. The whole class is making you a card, but this one is just from me. She presents me with a drawing of dragons wishing me to Get well soon!!!! Mom!!! Punctuation is fun for fourth graders. The dragons are full of scales and feathers and have the right sense of proportion, and she’s given them smiles over their fangs. People who don’t know she’s adopted always assume I’m the source of Hope’s artistic skill, but I don’t think it’s anything I taught her. In my heart, I give credit and thanks to her birth mother.

It’s perfect. I can’t take my left hand away from the velvet of her cheek. I turn to Mrs. Resnick, not ready for Hope to move even an inch away from me. Thanks for watching her.

Hope is always a pleasure, she says in her Trinidadian-tinted voice. I like the sound of her speech—maybe her fourth graders do, too, and that’s why they’ll do anything for her. She’s my age, a tad lighter-skinned than Hope, much darker than me. She wears her hair in tiny sisterlocks, which she likes to shake. Her long, striped fingernails are a marvel—definitely not a style that would work in the woodshop. The doctors want you here a few more days.

No way I’m staying past Monday. I’m tougher than they think.

"Oh, I’m sure. Do you want me to call someone for you? We tried your emergency numbers,