There is a lady who has pulled up to the house in an old Mercedes Benz, the kind that runs on diesel and sighs a little when the ignition is turned off. She makes halting steps to the front door, slightly stooping, and offers to preview the estate sale. I tell her that the sale is tomorrow and she tells me she might not come tomorrow and I might lose her sales. There is a glint in her eyes which turns to fire when I tell her I'm sorry, no, you must come tomorrow.
The next morning a mass of people has congregated on the driveway forming a rough line, anxious to see what's inside. Presumably they have all found the large, bold signs my mother posted with arrows on the electric poles in the general vicinity of the house. I go out to greet the crowd and tell them the sale is about to begin. They ask pointed questions about things like books for sale and I answer them.
Inside the house are hundreds of decorations and housewares and pieces of furniture affixed with little price tags. Furniture which does not convey wears a bright little sign or Post-It note saying so.
I have flown in to Maryland from Chicago to help with the sale.
My sister has flown in from Charlotte to help. She leaves four children at home in the care of others. This may even feel like a vacation to her.
My youngest brother has also journeyed north to assist. He is accompanied by his pit bull terrier, Taj.
I have mentally prepared for long days and negotiations but not the spectrum of humanity I would encounter these two days of this sale.
The older lady with the Mercedes does, in fact, return and buys a glass bowl or plate. She places the item on the cash table and fingers her change purse, looking sad and offering a pitiable sum. Feeling feisty, I counter that I would accept her number if she could produce some sort of happiness. Maybe a smile. I'm not sure what came over me to ask another person to change her countenance, but I did and she did and in the end we both laugh.
A middle-aged woman arrives with her son, only it wasn't her son it was her grandson. She is such a young grandmother. I tell her so and she smiles. The boy wants toy dinosaurs and we have so many. I almost force the prehistoric figures in their arms and watch with joy as they walk away.
One woman clearly confuses the boundaries of which rooms were for purchasers and begins to find the kitchen and eat our sandwiches.
I descend to the basement to help my sister and a man stops me. He takes my hand and thrusts some change in it. He is smiling brightly, charmingly and I am taken aback by his boldness. "I am buying this," he says, looking at the item, then me and then his family. I look into my hands and see a range of coins which, at first glance, definitely don't add up anywhere near to what this man is buying. I tell him I'm sorry and try to return his money, but he refuses and then I tell him no and return his money. He decides to not be charming anymore and says words. His family is hiding behind him. I don't have time to address "Mr. Ego" and return to organizing things which have been pawed through.
I walk to the back yard and see a woman who is unlike the other buyers. She is walking quietly and contemplating the things strewn in the yard. She is in no hurry. I say hello and she says hello and she tells me she has breast cancer. I have heard a lot of stories today; people like to tell sad stories in order to score great deals at the sale, but I can tell that this woman has no such motive. She is serene and intentional. I can't really remember much else of what she said because when someone says the word "cancer" my senses stop. I can't get over that word. The woman has the face of a warrior, kind but set, and buys something small before leaving.
I make my way to the front yard to help people load furniture when "Mr. Ego" reappears. He drives past our house in a pickup truck and yells numbers, then turns his vehicle around and yells more numbers, back and forth, multiple times. I have never seen this type of negotiation before. I don't think he even needs anything we are selling, I think that maybe this is a game to him, to get something for an abysmally small price. But this is the second day of the sale and I am tired and I simply stop interacting with him. Eventually he drives away for good.
I return to help at the cash box table and see people walking out with things I grew up with. Without any notice, the little girl who I have been trying to suppress inside me springs forth and begins weeping. My mother comes to me and tries to comfort me, but now her eyes are wells and we are both crying and holding each other for a minute, releasing the weight of the day. Some estate sales are happy but this one feels heavy. There will be a fresh start and our family will adjust.
We are tired of gossip and advice and prying people. Though I live in Illinois people have called me from Maryland and in their fear said very unhelpful things. One man liked to give me updates about my parents. Another person called and simply ranted. A well meaning older couple sent me books to give my parents on how to stay married, as if they had not considered that option. Others start to say things that at first sound gentle and maybe hopeful but end up soliciting information. The people who choose to speak to us, all of them, have never entered these waters but somehow believe they are fit to captain our ship. Being an adult offspring in this situation feels like standing onboard a sinking boat whose deck is aflame while others look on, eye us with curiosity and douse us with buckets of water. They think they are extinguishing the fire, but their actions only serve to sink our vessel more quickly. Finally, one bold soul suggested that if I don't keep my parents together, the same will fall upon my marriage, citing statistics. Hearing this, I push back. "You know what? No. No. This is their choice and I have my own choices. This has nothing to do with me."
Now my mother and I are finished crying. We wipe the wet off our faces and smile at each other and help the next purchaser.
Things are quieting down and I take a moment to survey the house. My mother tells me I can take whatever I want and my first thought is that I want all of it right now to come back to me but I know that can't be. There are three acrylic shoeboxes full with multiple colors of bias tape, every color you can imagine. They smell of old fabric but are not dryrotted. They are clearly the collection of someone who was frugal and careful, my great grandmother. Dear woman. I scoop up all three boxes and place them in a corner. No one will buy them, but the sentimental value is enough for me.
At the end of the sale we all go upstairs to sit on whatever furniture remains. We fall in a heap and laugh at how exhausted we are.
Later that evening I walk through the halls of my former house. It's so empty that it echoes. I see only a shell; the spirit is gone. I expect to cry, but I don't. Not one tear. I am grateful.
