Chapter 8
The elevator dinged at 12:04.
I heard it from the kitchen where I stood by the counter in the same gold wrap dress, my belt tied exactly the same way it had been two nights before. The doors opened and two men in gray mover shirts stepped off with a flat dolly and a stack of flattened boxes. Ryan was already at the doorway before I moved.
Mara sat on the cream sofa.
One of the movers knocked once, even though the door was open. The older one held a clipboard.
"Claire Adler?" he asked.
I nodded. "That's me."
He stepped inside and held the clipboard toward me. "We have a reservation for the service elevator until one, and a work order for pack and stage. You said clothing and personal items only."
I handed him the inventory list I had typed that morning and the copy of the papers I had carried in with my suitcase. He took both and flipped through them without comment. The younger mover started taping boxes together on the hallway floor. The sound of the tape gun was sharp against the quiet apartment.
Ryan crossed his arms. "You're really doing this like this? With strangers?"
I didn't answer him. The lead mover looked at Ryan, then back at me.
"These the items marked bedroom closet and bath?" he asked me.
"And the second closet by the entry," I said. "Everything on page one. Nothing else."
He nodded. "We need verbal confirmation from the owner on shared items. Building rules."
That made Ryan step forward. "What does that mean, shared items?"
"It means I don't touch anything unless Mrs. Adler or you say it's yours," the mover said, even and professional. He turned toward the bedroom. "We start there?"
I stayed where I was. I watched them wheel the dolly past the sofa. Mara pulled her knees up a little to let them pass. She was still in the emerald dress, her hair down, though she had a sweater over her shoulders now. She didn't look at me.
In the bedroom, the lead mover opened the closet door and started at the left side where Ryan's suits hung. He didn't pull anything down right away. He waited.
"Mr. Adler, is this row yours?" he asked.
Ryan came to the doorway and I followed a step behind, stopping at the threshold. My side of the closet was empty except for the garment bag I had already packed and the empty hangers where my winter coats had been.
"Yeah," Ryan said. "Those are mine."
"And these drawers?"
Ryan exhaled. "Yes. The top three are mine. The bottom one is hers."
The mover taped a label and wrote R. ADLER - CLOSET in thick marker. Then he and his partner began taking suits off hangers and folding them into the wardrobe box, sleeves straight, one after another. The younger one worked the dresser drawers, laying white tissue over a stack of navy shirts before lifting them out.
"Watch the buttons," Ryan said.
"We got it," the younger mover said without looking up.
Mara appeared in the doorway behind us. "Ryan, the blanket on the sofa. Is that yours?"
The lead mover paused and looked at her. "Ma'am, we need the client to confirm."
I looked at Mara then. Her voice had been light, testing.
"It's mine," I said. "It stays."
She pressed her lips together and said, "And the blue throw in the bedroom? We bought that together last month."
Ryan glanced at her, then at me. "Claire, just let her take it if she wants it."
I kept my hands clasped in front of me. My earrings caught the bedroom light. "That throw was on the inventory as yours, Ryan. If Mara wants to claim it, she can tell me it's hers."
Mara stared at the half-packed box. "I'm not claiming anything from your movers," she said quietly, and stepped back into the hall. "That's not my stuff."
The movers kept working. They boxed his shoes, his gym bag, his chargers from the nightstand, his leather toiletry case from the bathroom. Each time they hesitated over something that could have been shared — a white towel, a house key on the dresser, a framed photo from a work dinner that had both of us in it — they asked. And each time Ryan had to say it out loud.
"That's mine. Take it. That's hers. Leave it."
I did not help. I stood with my back against the dresser and watched my apartment empty of him in real time. The closet rod clicked each time a hanger was removed. The younger mover taped the last box shut and carried it to the front hall where four other boxes were already staged by the door, all labeled, all upright.
The lead mover checked his list and capped his marker.
"That's page one complete," he said to me. "We have you at five boxes wardrobe, two medium. Do you want us to move them to the elevator staging or hold here for your direction?"
"Staging," I said. "By the elevator. As we discussed with building management."
Ryan looked at the wall of boxes. His color was up. "So they just sit in the hall now?"
"They stay on your reservation until you tell us where to take them," the mover said to him. "We don't remove from the building without a signed destination. That's between you and Mrs. Adler."
Ryan put his hand on top of one of the boxes, then took it off. He looked at me, and for a second I thought he would argue.
"Where do you want them?" he asked me.
"That's not my decision," I said. "They're your clothes. You tell them where they go. Storage, your car, your family. Not my apartment."
The younger mover propped the front door open and started wheeling the first box toward the elevator. The service doors were still locked open, the light above them green. The hall smelled like cardboard and cleaning spray.
May you like
Mara had returned to the sofa. She sat with her sweater pulled tight around her, her feet tucked under her, not touching any of the boxes. None of them had her name on them. None of them were for her.
I stayed inside the doorway, my right hand resting lightly on the frame, and watched the first box roll out of my home on its dolly.
