The Avalon Ladies Scrapbooking Society Part 18

Adele Christensen, 75

Homemaker

Any immigrant will tell you that memories are more important than things. When Adele Christensen and her husband came to America, there was much they had to leave behind. They did it all for the dream of America, for a new life, a better life.

When they came from Denmark in 1965, they had two suitcases and less than $500. Adele was pregnant with not one child but two, a boy and a girl who were later born in Philadelphia.

Adele's husband worked two jobs and went to night school while she raised the children. It was hard, but they did it, and after six years her husband graduated from the university. Adele admired his dedication-he was up every morning at 3:00 a.m. and home just before midnight-and then he went on for his master's degree. It took him another five years and then he was offered a very good job with a company in Rockford, Illinois. A year later they were able to buy their house in Avalon.

They were careful with their money. Adele did what she could to stretch their budget, to be practical yet creative. She saved what she could, not only money but paper bags, tinfoil, plastic wrap, rubber bands-anything that could be used again. She didn't believe in waste and she didn't believe in extravagance. The children were always complaining that their clothes were too old or not fas.h.i.+onable, but Adele was unwavering about these things.

Once they had a huge fight about school lunches. The kids wanted to eat lunch from the cafeteria like their friends instead of bringing the frozen cheese sandwiches Adele made every Sunday for the week. Her husband sat them down and told them they had a choice: take it or leave it. End of discussion.

They paid off the house early and when her husband retired their bank account had grown multifold. They had plenty for their retirement and enough to take the whole family on a nice trip once a year.

When her husband pa.s.sed, Adele's children wanted her to come and live with them. She refused. Her friends thought she was crazy-their children didn't invite them to live with them, she was lucky to have such generous children. And she was grateful for them. But Adele was still perfectly capable of taking care of herself and this was her home. Everything Adele had was in these four walls. All she had to do was look around and see her husband, see what they had accomplished, see what their children and grandchildren had accomplished. Adele feels more joy than sorrow walking in and out of her simple home-why would she leave this?

Then, last year, her son and daughter came home for Thanksgiving with their families. They were wearing jeans and sweats.h.i.+rts and heavy jackets, an uncomfortable look on their faces. Adele didn't worry about it, just fussed over the grandchildren and took out the pastries she had bought on sale at the Pick and Save.

Then, an hour later a big truck put a Dumpster onto her driveway.

Adele watched as everyone-except her-started to go through the things in the garage, the closets, the attic, under the sinks. Everything was put out on the lawn in the bitter cold, and occasionally they would ask her about this and that but then deciding with their spouses what to keep and what to throw out. They said they were trying to make things easier for Adele.

"Mom, you have four ice buckets," her son said. "n.o.body even uses ice buckets anymore."

She'd forgotten completely about those ice buckets but brightened at the sight of them.

"One was a gift from the Andersens on our thirtieth anniversary," she told him. "One we won in a raffle, another was a Christmas present from your G.o.dmother. The fourth . . . well, I don't remember where the fourth one was from but I like it. I want to keep it."

Her son told her she was too sentimental and put them in the donation pile despite Adele's protests. "You won't even know they're gone," his wife, Jane, promised. "You didn't even know you had them, remember?" They shooed Adele into the living room and planted her in front of the TV even though there was nothing she wanted to watch.

The hours ticked by. Adele was worried they wouldn't finish before it got dark and she could tell they were worried, too. Was one Dumpster enough? they murmured among themselves. Soon they were no longer including Adele, their actions brisk and efficient, mumbling and laughing as if she couldn't hear them.

"They're antiques," she heard her daughter say when they came into the kitchen for a break. "And they're in pretty good condition. Maybe take them to an antiques store?"

"What about auctioning them online?" her husband suggested. "You can set a reserve to make sure it at least sells for a minimum price."

"What are you talking about?" Adele asked anxiously.

"Nothing," her son said. "Does anyone want to order a pizza?"

When everyone else was eating dinner, Adele managed to sneak into the garage from which she'd been banned. It was cold but that's not what made a s.h.i.+ver run through her. There were piles of things everywhere, her whole garage turned inside out. Then she felt her heart seize-in the middle of the chaos were the two suitcases that brought them to America. The leather was worn and the latches were rusty. There was a layer of dust and she wiped it away with a wrinkled hand, remembering how carefully she had packed their bags on the day they left Esbjerg to begin the journey to a new land. Adele picked up one suitcase by the handle and then the other-they were both empty but still a bit heavy-and walked back into the house and into her room. She locked the door behind her.

Her children knocked and knocked. Was she all right? Why had she locked the door? They tried to explain that the waste management company would be coming first thing in the morning. They said they didn't tell her because they knew she wouldn't agree, that because she wasn't going to live with them they wanted to make sure the house was clean and safe.

It wasn't an apology exactly, but Adele softened, knew in her heart that this was true. They had gone about it all wrong, but they meant well. She unlocked the bedroom door and told them she was keeping the suitcases.

They finished throwing things away and reorganizing, then they left two days later. When Adele looked around, she saw that her house was no longer her home.

There were new towels, new racks, new containers. Everything labeled and stacked neatly, like a store. The familiar musty smell was gone, and a pungent scent of artificial oranges wafted through the rooms. Adele couldn't find her can opener and then saw they had bought her an electric one and placed it on the counter, all s.h.i.+ny and new. She went into the garage and saw nothing but her car.

Back in the living room, she tried to turn on the TV for the first time since they'd left and found two new remotes. Her son-in-law had thrown away the old videoca.s.sette recorder and videotapes and replaced it with something fancy. They had to return to the city for work so he didn't have time to show her but said Adele could go online or he would help her at Christmas. A month away.

Outside it started to snow. Adele stared out the window and watched the fat flakes drift lazily to the ground. She knew that by nightfall the ground would be covered, and she was filled with a desire to cover everything, to hide all of this newness from view so she could remember her house like before. She went and opened the front door then returned to the living room, wrapped herself in a blanket, and sat down.

She was like that for a long time, welcoming the numbing cold.

Then, the crunch of footsteps. The shadow of a woman standing in the doorway. Adele couldn't see who it was but the light from the street shone from behind her and she thought, for a second, that the woman was an angel.

"Adele," she said, and Adele jumped, thinking that maybe it was her time to join her husband in heaven. She stared at the figure in the doorway, and then it stepped forward and Adele saw that it was Bettie Shelton, the woman who lived on the next block.

Bettie stamped the snow from her boots and closed the door. She squinted at the shoe rack by the door, labeled INDOOR, OUTDOOR, and SPECIAL OCCASION.

"I had no idea you were so organized," she said.

"I'm not," Adele told her. "My children and grandchildren were here. They cleaned up everything."

"Yeah, I saw everything being hauled away," Bettie said. "I wondered if you were moving or dead." She came over to where Adele was sitting and pointed to the magazines, fanned in alphabetical order. "This is like my dentist's office. Do you have the latest issue of Time?"

Adele managed to lift her shoulders in a shrug.

Bettie ran her fingers over the magazines, selected one at random and began flipping through it. "So, seeing how you're still alive, and how you seem to have some time on your hands, might I interest you in any sc.r.a.pbooking supplies? I just got a new s.h.i.+pment and I over-ordered. It's not worth sending back so I'm offering them to anyone who might be interested."

Adele shook her head.

"I have some wonderful new borders and paper stock."

Adele shook her head again.

"I'm offering them for free, Adele."

This got Adele's attention. She'd seen the sc.r.a.pbooking kits in the store and knew they could be expensive. It seemed unnecessary when you could buy a set of three photo alb.u.ms from the drugstore for half the price. But Adele didn't say anything, just sat there s.h.i.+vering even though Bettie had long closed the door.

Bettie arched an eyebrow, frowning. "It's a fifty-dollar value, Adele. Even if you don't want it, you could give it as a gift. I'll go get it." She left before Adele could protest.

Bettie returned fifteen minutes later. In her hands was a lovely woven bag filled to the brim with paper, ribbons, fancy scissors, all sorts of jars and canisters. Adele didn't know much about sc.r.a.pbooking, but she knew the value of things. This was certainly worth more than fifty dollars.

"What a relief to get rid of these," Bettie said. "I'm running tight on room myself. You're doing me a favor, Adele." She placed the bag in Adele's lap and it was deliciously heavy.

Adele reached inside and pulled out a sheet of stickers. They were travel stickers, similar to the ones on her suitcase, some even in the shape of a suitcase. She touched them carefully and suddenly felt overcome with emotion.

"How about some coffee?" Bettie asked. "I noticed you got some fancy new machine on your kitchen counter. From your kids, no doubt. Come, let's give it a whirl."

It took them a while to figure out how to get the new coffee machine to work, but they did. Afterward they sat at the kitchen table and Bettie spread everything out, explained what each item did. They took out Adele's stack of photo alb.u.ms, so numerous that she rarely looked at them, and selected photos that could go into a single book that would capture the moments Adele wanted to remember most. Her wedding day. Coming to America. The day her children were born. Her husband's graduation. Their home. The grandchildren. Anniversaries. Birthdays. Family vacations. Bettie Shelton helped her do this, and when Adele finished her first alb.u.m a month later, her children wanted a copy and then asked her to help them make their own. So she did.

Adele and her children never talk about that day, because there's nothing to say. She knows they were doing what they thought was best, just as she had always done for them all these years. Whether they were right or wrong did not matter, because Bettie showed her another way to save the things that mattered most, the memories she wanted to keep. Adele became an avid sc.r.a.pbooker, and Bettie Shelton became her good friend.

Chapter 12.

Isabel keeps one eye trained on the small clock in the upper right-hand corner of her computer. In ten minutes she's home free, another workday over. She doesn't know what's worse-staying here in this poor excuse for a job or being home and waiting until it's time to go to bed.

They'd had another ridiculous sales meeting, one in which her recently graduated twelve-year-old boss (really closer to twenty-five but you can hardly tell the difference) set new sales goals. Either the kid's on drugs or his daddy, founder of KP Paper & Son, offered him a b.u.mp in his allowance if he could figure out how to get more corrugated paper products out into the world.

Why is she even here? It had started as a part-time job, a way to keep busy while Bill was at work, an attempt at a career she wasn't interested in. Bill wanted her to work with him at the dental office doing administrative paperwork, but aside from sounding dull and unnecessary, Isabel thought that having her own thing, her own job, was somehow important.

What did she know?

So now she's here, having her own thing and doing her own thing, and hating it. She would have quit except she needed the money after Bill died, and she doesn't know what she would do if she ever left this job. Work for another paper company? Get another job in sales? In the end it just seemed easier to stay.

Isabel sees Jimmy Beall sauntering over, making stupid paper jokes along the way. By the time he makes it to her desk, everyone in his wake is shaking their heads.

"Hey," he says, leaning into her cubicle. He pretends to fiddle with her stapler. "What did the paper say to the pencil?"

Isabel keeps her eyes on her computer screen. "I don't know."

"'Write on!'" Jimmy guffaws. "I use that all the time with my clients-they love it."

"I doubt it," Isabel mutters, but Jimmy doesn't hear her.

"Hey, I got another: Knock knock!"

Isabel stares up at him. "Jimmy, I think someone's calling you. From way over there."

"One more," he begs, not falling for it. Obviously Isabel isn't the first person to try that one on him. "Come on. Knock knock!"

She sighs. "Who's there?"

"Jimmy."

Argh, she thinks, but goes for it anyway. "Jimmy who?"

"Jimmy your number, let's go out for pizza!" Jimmy grins, tossing the stapler back onto her desk and knocking over a pencil cup in the process. "Oops, sorry. But do you get it? Jimmy sounds like gimme . . ."

Isabel retrieves the runaway pens and pencils. "Yeah, I got it."

"So, what do you think? Do you wanna grab a pizza after work?"

Jimmy, with his thinning hair and p.r.o.nounced gut, twice divorced. How is it that a guy like this even gets to get married twice?

Isabel feigns regret. "Gosh, Jimmy, I'd love to but I already have plans." She offers him her brightest, fakest smile and decides her workday is officially over.

Jimmy looks disappointed. "Shoot, really?"

"Yup." Isabel grabs her purse and her car keys. "I'm attending the opening of my garage door. See you tomorrow, Jimmy."

Isabel makes one quick stop at the grocery store, where she picks up something for dinner and dessert. When she pulls into her driveway, she's surprised to see a man standing on her lawn, looking up at the house. A woman is sitting in the car, which is still running. She's checking something on her phone, her face a mask of tolerant impatience.

"Can I help you?" Isabel asks as she pulls the grocery bag from her car.

The man walks over. He's in his mid-thirties. "Hi, is this your house?" He's dressed as if he's come straight from work.

Isabel nods. "Yes." She slams the trunk shut.

The man motions to the sign on the lawn. "How much?"

Isabel tries to remember. "It was on clearance, so I think it was $4.99. It's metal, which is great, because it holds up well in the weather . . ."

The man gives a smile. "No, I mean for the house. We'd like to take a look if we can."

"Oh." For a second Isabel is stunned into silence. Someone is interested in her house? Her first reaction is to lie, to tell him that her house is no longer for sale. But why would she do that? So instead she tells him the first number that comes to mind, a number slightly higher than even she had originally considered.

The man gives a small nod, thinking. "How many bedrooms?"

"Three," Isabel says. She tries to remember the state of her house. Underwear on the floor? Kitchen sink full of dirty dishes? "And two bathrooms. There are two roomy living areas, though, and a small sun porch out back. If you want to give me a few minutes to straighten up, I can show it to you now."

"That would be great." He turns to call to the woman in the car. "She can show it to us now!"

The woman snaps her phone closed and turns to give a long look at the house. She gives a halfhearted shrug, then reaches over to cut the engine.

Isabel hurries into the house. Prospective buyers! He hasn't said anything about the front porch yet, or the lack of it. Maybe she won't have to bother with it at all, just knock a few hundred off the sale price and let him take care of it. All she'd have to do is pack and move.

As she quickly wipes down counters and picks up stray trash, Isabel feels her spirits rise. It's a sign that things are about to change, she's sure of it. When she's satisfied that the house is in fairly decent showing shape, Isabel goes back to get them and brings them inside.

Isabel has never considered herself much of a salesperson, which is one reason she hates her job. But suddenly she finds herself pointing out small features in the house that she knows will appeal to them.

"Furniture," the man is saying, surveying everything carefully. "Will any of it be for sale?"

It only takes Isabel a moment to answer. "It's all for sale," she tells him. "Even the towels and linens, if you want them."