Page 14 of Love Bitters

Imogene

It takes a few days for everything with the apartment to get situated, and I spend that entire time packing when I'm not working. I've got most of my clothes packed in several suitcases that sit by the door along with some moving boxes. Honestly, it's such a small amount that I shouldn't have any trouble whatsoever moving it myself. Were it not for the tiny human growing inside me, demanding peanut butter, I would too. All of the baby books plus doctor’s orders say I shouldn't be lifting anything heavy right now, the first trimester being the scariest and most fragile. Extra strain on the baby could put us both at risk. So, because of this, there are two bulky moving guys now taking apart my bed for them to move all of it out.

My mother has been hovering like a hen, acting all nurturing and shit. It's kind of scary and disgusting all at once. I'd like to think she means well, and maybe she does. Who knows? Maybe I'm the one being an asshole, but I just don't have the patience to deal with it today. I already cried once when I found my stash of stuff belonging to the guys. I tucked it and our photos away to save. Don't have any clue why, though. All it did was make my heart and stomach ache in misery. Faced with it, did I throw it away? Nope, sure didn't. It's packed tightly into another box by the door, waiting to spring all of its unhappy glory onto me a second time when I go to unpack it.

Leaving the movers downstairs, I go to the one place I've saved for very last. Opening the door to my sister's old room, I'm ridiculously astounded at the feelings that rush through my body. I haven't been in here since the day after the funeral, and I swore I'd never be back either. In the months since her death, I've come to realize that I don't want my memories of her to fade away. No matter how hard it may be, she deserves better than that.

Venturing into the room, my fingers skim across the surface of her white dresser and then the post of her bed. Mother keeps this space immaculate as though she believes that somehow Lizbeth will make her way back to us one day. It's truly sad in more ways than one. I hope that maybe with me moving out, our mother will finally be able to move on.

I don't take any of Lizbeth's clothes. The only thing I really want is our sister photo collage that hangs above her bed and the necklace our grandmother gave us. She'd wanted us both to have it to share. We always took turns with it, and my sister was wearing it when she died. Mother got it from the possessions that were turned over to her, then cleaned it up and placed it in Lizbeth’s jewelry box. I’d leave it were it not for how much she absolutely loved the damn thing. Call me selfish, but I want to take a piece of her with me.

By the time I’m closing the door, I’m crying again. One of the suckiest things about being pregnant, besides this weird-hate love relationship I’ve got going on with peanut butter, is all the damn emotions. Crying at the drop of a friggin hat has got to go. I’ve shed more tears in months than I have my entire life.

Leave it up to my mother to even consider that any of them may be for her. I’ll always be grateful for her and my father raising me and mean them no disrespect, but I’m not at all tearful about leaving them and having a space to call my own.

“I don’t understand why you’re crying, Imogene,” she says to me as soon as I step into the foyer and lean the photo frame against the wall. “Your father and I have taken care of you for far longer than most normal parents would. You’re an adult now and need to start acting like one.”

She’s casually strolling around the living room, swiping at imaginary dust on all the surfaces, completely oblivious to the hard glare I throw her direction as she continues. “Life gets difficult sometimes, but you’ve just got to suck it up and move on. Crying solves nothing.”

Freezing at the entrance to the kitchen, she finally turns around to face me as she scolds, “You also need to start checking into a diet regimen and possibly a gym. You’ve been gaining weight, and I’ll tell you right now, Imogene, no man likes a hefty woman. You’ll never find a man to marry if you let yourself go and get frumpy and fat. Let me go get the number to that gym the church ladies use. They say it’s real nice there.”

I’m left gaping at her back as she strolls away before she’s even finished that last sentence. You know, considering the circumstances, I don’t think I would’ve been as offended or embarrassed as I am if the movers hadn’t chosen that exact time to be cutting across the hall carrying my headboard. For her to say such a thing when she knows I’ve always had self-image issues, and in front of them nonetheless, has anger replacing my sadness in a fury so fast that it leaves my head spinning.

“You guys have the address and know where to take my stuff, right?” I ask, knowing good and damn well they caught her words as one of them refuses to even look my way.

The other smiles as though nothing was said and gives me a once over. Open appreciation pulls his lips up further as he answers, “We got you, ma’am. No worries.”

I can’t help the corners of my own lips lifting in response as I watch them carry the piece to my bed the rest of the way out the door. Before meeting my guys, this scene would’ve meant something completely different in my mind. I might’ve even been angry, thinking it was pity that made the man look at me like that. Now? I may not have my guys in my life anymore, but there’s one thing that they did teach me. And it’s that there are men out there who love bigger women. My weight or thick thighs or love handles don’t define who I am as a person.

Immediately, I feel ridiculous for letting her get under my skin with her remarks. Some things will never change, and even if she knew the reason for my sudden weight gain, my mother would still find something to harp on. I’m just glad I don’t have to be that pincushion anymore.

Grabbing my purse and small duffle from the couch, I don’t bother to wait for her to return with that number. Careful so as to not drop the rest of the stuff, I pick up the wooden frame where pictures of my sister’s smiling face stare out at me. It gives me the courage to shout, “I’ll have to get that number later, Mother. I’ve got to run.”

The cute mover holds the door for me as I walk out and even tosses me a wink. “Meet you there.”

I could swear I hear the other one mutter under his breath, “Good for you.” But who knows? It could’ve been something completely unrelated to his buddy.

Adrenaline is a funny thing and so are mood swings. I had enough of the first one to get me into my apartment with the stuff from my car unloaded. When the movers finally got here, I was running on steam already, and that was about an hour ago. I’m physically and emotionally drained and would love nothing more than some peanut butter crackers and a nap, but since the movers are now putting the bed back together in my new room, I decide to unpack a few of the boxes they brought in first.

It’s crazy to think that my whole life fits inside a tiny moving truck like this. Pretty soon there will be a lot more. When the baby gets here, it’ll probably need twice as much as I’ve got. Which, of course, reminds me of how much I’ve still got to buy. With starting a new job and moving, I haven’t had a chance to get a single thing other than the baby book I bought the first couple days.

As though it’s fate reading my thoughts, the next box I open is all of my desk stuff, a notebook on the top of the stack. Grabbing it and a pen from the cup at the bottom, I take them both over to the table.

Unpacking shit from boxes should be first priority, but now that I’ve thought about making a list, I can’t seem to find the motivation to do what needs to be done.

My list is continuously growing as the movers come out of the back room and announce they’re done.

“Thank you so much,” I tell them as they head toward the front door. I’m right on their heels to lock up behind them.

“I made sure there was a tip on your ticket when I paid.”

The red-haired, blue-eyed one who ignored me at the house is the one to say thanks and walk out first, leaving his friend behind.

“Hey,” he starts, “it goes against company policy and all, but I can’t help but ask. Think I could get your number? You know, for personal reasons.”

It’s on the tip of my tongue to flat out deny him, but I have to admit, he’s pretty damn attractive, and it makes me swallow hard. His shaggy blond hair is long enough to hang down into his face, making him toss his head several times while he was helping load the truck. And those hopeful moss-colored eyes narrow a bit as he smiles, showing off perfect white teeth behind plump kissable lips. Days of lifting other people’s heavy things have left him with biceps that threaten the strength of the arms of his t-shirt. Those muscles make him wider than even Murphy.

Murphy.

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