Chapter 9: The Boxes Marked West
The next morning, Linda asked if I would go with her to the garage.
She was dressed for the day, though her steps were slow. The adjustable bed was already settled in the east suite, and she had tested it the night before. The few boxes she had chosen to keep had been left sealed in the garage. Everything else had gone back with the movers.
“I don’t want to make more trouble,” she said. “But I’d like to see what Ashley packed for the west suite.”
“Looking at a box doesn’t give anyone permission to put it in a room,” I said.
“I understand.”
I did not know whether she wanted to check what was inside or simply to make sure her memories belonged to her. Either way, I could understand wanting to see.
The garage smelled faintly of cardboard and cut grass. A narrow path led between Frank’s old workbench and the boxes. I had kept his tools where he left them. The pegboard above the bench still held a small level, two screwdrivers, and a pair of gardening shears. I could picture him reaching for each without looking.
Linda stopped at the boxes.
Some were stacked two high. Each was sealed with packing tape. A few had neat labels in Ashley’s handwriting. I read the first one aloud.
“LINDA—PHOTOGRAPHS.”
Linda’s mouth tightened.
“That one,” she said. “I’d like to see that one.”
I glanced at her. “Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
We moved it to the workbench together. It was heavier than it looked. Linda rested both hands on the lid before I cut through the tape.
Inside were framed photographs wrapped in towels, several albums, and a small wooden box I recognized as the kind people use for keepsakes. Linda reached for one album, then stopped.
“I didn’t ask her to pack these.”
“I know.”
“She chose them.”
She lifted the album carefully. The cover was dark blue, worn pale along the edges. When she opened it, a younger Ashley smiled up at us from a school picture, her hair brushed flat and her expression solemn. Linda’s thumb traced the plastic sleeve.
“She hated having her picture taken,” she said.
“Most children do.”
“Not her brothers. They thought it was funny. She’d sit there looking as if the photographer had personally offended her.”
Linda turned a page. The next photograph showed Ashley and Linda beside a picnic table, their heads close together. A faded date was written in the corner.
“I didn’t choose these for a bedroom,” Linda said. “I would’ve picked some myself if I wanted them moved.”
I understood what she meant. The photographs were not merely things to fill a wall. They were hers to decide where to keep, and which memories she wanted near her.
“Would you like to take the box to the east suite?” I asked.
“Not yet. I want to decide later, when I’m not feeling as though someone has already decided for me.”
I closed the album and set it back in the box.
A footstep sounded behind us.
Ashley stood in the doorway, her arms folded across her chest. Daniel was a few feet behind her. Neither seemed surprised to find us there, but Ashley’s gaze went straight to the open box.
“You opened them,” she said.
“Linda asked to see what was in this one,” I replied.
“I could have told her.”
“You could have asked her what she wanted first,” Linda said.
Ashley’s arms dropped. “I was trying to help. You have boxes and albums all over your house. I thought it would be easier if I got everything organized.”
“Those weren’t your boxes to organize,” Linda said.
“I didn’t throw anything away.”
“That wasn’t the question.”
Ashley looked from her mother to me, then back at the photographs. “I wanted you to feel welcome.”
“Then you should have asked what would make me feel welcome.”
For a moment, Ashley’s expression softened. Then she looked at me, and whatever had opened in her face closed again.
“This is why I wanted to get everything ready before asking,” she said. “I knew you’d say no to anything that looked like a change.”
“Your mother had not agreed to move into that room,” I said. “Neither had I.”
“She needed a real bedroom. You know that.”
“She has one.”
“It isn’t the same.”
“No,” I said. “It’s the room I offered.”
Daniel stepped between the boxes and the workbench, but he did not try to move anything. He looked at the open album.
“Mom said she didn’t ask for these,” he said.
“She didn’t have to,” Ashley replied. “They’re her photographs.”
“Then why were they packed for the west suite?”
Ashley’s eyes moved toward him. “Because that was where I thought she’d be comfortable.”
Daniel stayed quiet for a beat. “And the bathroom plans?”
“The bathroom needed to be finished before anyone moved in.”
“Finished how?”
“Widening the doorway. Moving the closet wall. Making room for the things Mom needed.”
“You planned changes to Mom’s bedroom and bathroom before you had permission to put anyone in them.”
“I was trying to have a plan instead of standing around waiting for everyone to decide.”
The word everyone hung between them. It made the choice sound shared, as if the only missing step had been announcing it.
I folded the packing paper back over the photographs.
“A plan is not permission,” I said. “And an inspection is not permission, either.”
Ashley’s jaw tightened. “I get it.”
“I’m not sure you do.”
“Margaret,” Linda said gently.
I looked at her. She was holding the blue album against her chest now, but she had not taken it from the box.
“I want to say something without anyone deciding I’m taking sides,” she continued. “I can be grateful for the east suite and still be upset that Ashley made choices for me. Both things can be true.”
“I agree,” I said.
Ashley looked hurt. “Mom, I was trying to make sure you had what you needed.”
“I know you believe that,” Linda replied. “But I need you to hear the rest. You decided where I’d sleep. You packed photographs I hadn’t chosen. You told me the room was prepared. You didn’t ask me what I wanted, and you didn’t ask Margaret what she would allow.”
Ashley swallowed and looked away.
Daniel turned toward me. “Can we talk about the week? All of us?”
“That’s what I offered,” I said. “The week we agreed on still stands. Before it ends, we can talk about what comes next.”
“And the extension you mentioned?” he asked.
“I said I’d consider a short extension in the east suite. I haven’t promised one. If we discuss it, we’ll agree on dates and an end point before anything changes.”
Linda nodded. “That’s fair.”
Ashley gave a short laugh without humor. “So there’s a schedule for how long my parents are allowed to exist in your house.”
“No,” I said. “There’s a schedule for how long I’m willing to host them. Those are different things.”
Her gaze flicked to the photographs. “They’re my parents.”
“And this is my home.”
No one spoke for a moment. I could hear the faint hum of the refrigerator through the garage wall.
Daniel rubbed his palm against his jeans, then crouched to examine the remaining boxes. “Which ones did you say were the only ones kept here?”
“The few your father and I brought to the garage,” Linda said. “The movers took the rest.”
Daniel read the labels one by one. Some were written in Ashley’s careful block letters. Others bore simple notes: LINDA’S BOOKS, KITCHEN, BEDROOM. He touched none of them.
Then he stopped at the box beneath the one we had opened.
His expression changed.
“What is it?” I asked.
He crouched lower and brushed a strip of packing dust from the cardboard.
May you like
On the side, in thick black marker, were the words WEST WING.
Below them, in smaller letters, was Daniel’s name.
