Agnes's Arc

Chapter 9 of 10

Monday morning Agnes stood in the doorway of the yellow room and made her count. Two years of storage filled it to the ceiling. Boxes on boxes. A rolled rug against one wall. Tom's tax binders stacked on the chair by the window. A dressmaker's dummy she had forgotten owning. The crib would not fit until half of it was gone, and Melissa would start showing inside the month. "Give me the deadline," Tom said from behind her. He had his sleeves rolled and a coffee in one hand. "End of the week." "Then we work in sweeps. Keep, sell, toss. No fourth pile." "You'll want a fourth pile by lunch." "I won't," he said. They started with the boxes nearest the door. Tom read labels aloud. Agnes decided. Tax records to the filing cabinet downstairs. Old curtains to the donation bag. A box of chipped dishes to the curb. She worked fast because slowness was where sentiment lived. By noon they had cleared a path to the window. By three they had cleared the near wall. Tom carried loads down without complaint. Agnes heard him on the stairs and remembered she had forgotten what his footsteps sounded like in this house. The last box in the corner was taped with masking tape gone yellow. Melissa's name was on the side in Agnes's own handwriting. Agnes cut it open. Inside were school papers, a plastic horse, a knot of ribbons. Under the ribbons was a sketchbook with a soft painted cover, colors bleeding into each other like weather. Agnes lifted it out. She was ten, maybe eleven. Every page was full. Trees. The dog they'd had. A woman at a stove who was clearly Agnes, drawn from behind. Agnes sat on the floor with the book on her knees. Tom came in with the empty dolly. He saw her face and set the dolly down. "She kept at it," Agnes said. "The whole time. I thought she'd grow out of it." "She didn't." "No." She turned another page. A field. A fence. A sky she had never bothered to look at. "Toss or keep," Tom said, gentle. "Keep." She closed the cover. "On the shelf. Where the baby will see it." By Friday night the room was empty but for fresh paint and a folded crib in its box. Agnes stood in the doorway again and made her count. Bare floor. Clean walls. Morning sun on the sill. Melissa came by after supper and stood beside her. She did not speak for a long moment. "You cleared it," Melissa said. "I did." "I didn't think you would." Agnes looked at her daughter. "I've been wrong about what fits in a room before." Melissa's hand went to her stomach. Agnes did not look away this time. The sketchbook sat on the shelf behind them, waiting for a child who would open it.