diary of a 20 something

Jillian’s phone rings and Andy’s name pops up on the screen.

“Your mom has been crying and upset,” he said. “She feels like you don’t need her anymore.” 

We could hear her, sniffling in the background, obviously on speakerphone.

“That’s not true, Mom,” we said. “Of course we need you.”

“You’ve never moved without me,” she choked out with a sob.

She was right. It was the first time either of us had moved without our parents. My mom is a highly-motivated, super-packer. Seriously, this woman can pack a car. Andy has always been our muscle, our handyman. If we’re lifting boxes, somehow he ends up shirtless, a product of getting shit done. 

But not this time. Our step-dad, Andy, has stage four cancer, and my mom takes care of him (while working a full-time job). She has too much on her plate to be needed. It’s best if we learn how to do it on our own. 

So I flew to Atlanta by myself to help Jillian pack up her life from her cozy condo and start a new chapter in a gorgeous studio, city-girl apartment.

Moving with your sister is chaos. One minute, you’re laughing your ass off– holding eight tote bags full of clothes. (How is it possible that someone has this many clothes? And these were the clothes that didn’t come from the drawers and hangers). The next, you’re biting each other’s heads off because you can’t seem to nail the communication it takes to get a dresser up 20 floors. 

Our second day of moving, we picked up a couch from a nice couple who were coincidentally moving to Miami, FL the very next day. He came out to shake our hands in a crisp, navy peacoat followed by his brothers, carrying the couch. (Thank god we didn’t have to unload it from their skyscraper apartment as well).

We parked the U-haul at her building’s loading dock with absolutely no plan. As we waited for the front desk manager to unlock the back door, we contemplated our options. Including the stuff we got from Ikea, it would be at least five trips (probably more).

“I’m gonna prop this open for you,” he said.

“Thank you,” we replied as he walked over. We started filling our arms with Ikea bounty.

He peeked into the open doors of the U-haul.

“Do you need help moving this couch?” he asked with a slight raise in his eyebrow. 

BINGO. After we’d cleared the van of everything else, he came back to help us carry the couch. He wore a too-small suit jacket over his rumpled white shirt, and a skinny felt scarf wrapped around his neck. 

As he leaned down to pick his side of the couch, Jillian noticed the shoulders tighten and the buttons start to scream. “You may want to take off your jacket,” she said. 

“Yeah, you’re right,” he said, pulling off the jacket. He stood there for a second, the jacket hanging by its collar. 

“Maybe you can hold his jacket, Abigail?” Jillian said. 

“Uh, sure,” I said, taking the jacket and tying the sleeves into a makeshift scarf around my neck. 

Once the couch was safely in her apartment, we paused to admire it. Hands on my hips I declared, “We did it!” 

It was in this moment I realized that I was still wearing this stranger’s suit jacket around my neck. Jillian looked into my eyes to see the panicked desire to take it off– immediately. I hurriedly returned the jacket, and Jillian and I burst into laughter.

“Thanks,” he said, beads of sweat rolling down his forehead. “I wouldn’t have made it with that jacket on.” 

We walked back down to return the sprinter van and he returned to his post.

“Thanks, again,” we yelled in sisterly unison.

After we’d exchanged vehicles and picked up her friend’s power drill (which later turned out to be dead in our moment of bed-frame-assembling need), we walked to get Chinese food.

Passing the front desk, the manager was enjoying an evening snack.

“French Onion dip and Cheetos for dinner, huh?” I gestured to the open jar on his desk. 

“Yeah,” he said. “I got a few other snacks in here too.” 

“Well, we’re about to get Chinese food, how does that sound for dinner?” 

Jillian chimes in, “You’ve gotta try the mongolian beef, it’s the best. On me.” 

“Alright, I’ll try that,’ he smiled. “Thank you.” 

At the restaurant, we sat across from each other, practically non-verbal. What a weekend. We ordered bok choy with tofu, white rice, soup dumplings, and of course, mongolian beef. And on our way back in, we dropped off a piping hot container of beef for our helper. 

We spent the next two days unboxing, organizing, and eventually decorating. My mom would be proud to know that we unpacked almost every box, except for the shoes. Andy would be proud that we hung five pieces of art and anchored her new mirror. (We may have cheated a bit on the mirror and used Command strips.)

For our first meal in her new place, we ate “Andy’s spaghetti”. His recipe, a “doctored up” version includes: jarred sauce of your choice, ground beef, red bell pepper, onion, and mushrooms. 

With heaping piles of pasta on our plates, we dug in. 

“We used to eat this every Monday, you know,” she said. “Zach and I” 

“It is Monday isn’t it,” I replied. “Oops.” 

“It’s okay, I haven’t had it in weeks,” she said. “I’ve been craving it.” 

My eyes brimmed with tears thinking of the photos and notes from the last nine years. Socks I separated from two years of sharing space.

“Abigail! Can you not cry at dinner?” her eyes filled with tears too. There had been a series of “can you nots” throughout the weekend.

“I have to stop fighting it!” 

I pull her in, hot tears on my face. “God, he sucks so bad.” I said. 

After a moment of silence, we recovered quickly as sisters do, talking about weekend plans, to-do’s, and Jillian’s famous General Mills work stories. 

“You’re gonna be great, you know,” I said. 

“Be great?”

“On your own, I mean. You’re gonna be great.”