Remember When #featured #AllStars

Chapter 6

WHERE THE HEART IS

I had absolutely nothing to wear. The thing was, from Monday to Friday, getting dressed for school was a no-brainer. Grab an Oxford, choose a skirt, out the door. I know the public school kids probably wondered how we could possibly wear uniforms every day without wanting to jump off a bridge. But the truth was, I kinda liked it. There was no fashion show to compete with from day to day. We all looked the same from our necks down to our ankles.

Until the weekend.

My entire annual school-clothes budget went toward replenishing Oxfords, maybe replacing a skirt or two and restocking my undies drawer. The rest went toward shoes.

When you wore a uniform every day, the only place left to express yourself was with your shoes. You'd be surprised how creative we could get with our footwear while still keeping within the guidelines of "hard soles, nothing above the ankle". And trust me, there wasn't a girl at St. Norman's that didn't push those parameters right to the edge.

But blowing the majority of my school-shopping allotment on shoes constantly left me scrambling on Saturday nights. After all, unlike the public school kids, I couldn't very well hit a party in my weekday clothes.

I'd already torn through my closet, dismissing every garment I owned as unsuitable, more determined than ever to get a job and earn some wardrobe money.

My father had already left for the evening- poker at the VFW- so I took advantage of his absence and raided his closet.

The closet in his bedroom was a huge walk-in which I was normally forbidden to enter. Though I suspected it had less to do with my father's desire for privacy and more to do with the indefensible fact that my mother's side had remained virtually undisturbed since the day she left us.

One time in fifth grade, we took a class trip to Thomas Edison's laboratory. It was so cool to see his workspace with all the long tables set up, awaiting his next stroke of genius.

I remember thinking that his office was so cool. All those books! And in the corner of the library, there was a cot for his erratic sleeping needs. The story was that he'd work for endless hours, pass out for ten minutes and then wake up and get right back to work again.

But what sticks with me most is his desk. A beautiful rolltop plunked right in the middle of the expansive room, fitted with a piece of plexiglass across the opening. Apparently, upon his death, his wife had the desk sealed up. Stopped in time, exactly as he last left it, posthumously honoring the work that would forever go unfinished.

That was my father's closet.

Despite the fact that his side was crammed with clothes and shoes and boxes of godonlyknowswhat, my mother's side was left completely untouched.

I ran my hand across the racks of clothes, the remnants of what she left behind, neatly aligned, undisturbed and awaiting an owner who would never release them to the light of day again. I pressed my face to a row of blouses and inhaled the familiar scent of my mother- Chanel No. 5 mixed with lemon- and it brought tears to my eyes for only the briefest second.

Sometimes, like at that moment, it was easier to make believe that my mother had died. It gave me permission to mourn her loss, appreciate the person she was while still allowing myself to be sad that she was gone. Because how was a person supposed to feel when their mother chose to leave? Was I supposed to love her less because of it?

I pushed those thoughts aside, again, and remembered why I was in there in the first place. Emotionless, I rifled through the hanging clothes, most of which were pretty outdated. My fingers grazed a butter-soft cotton, so I shoved the hangers aside to get a better look. I found myself staring at a flowery whisper of a blouse with flowing hippie sleeves. I stripped off my Bon Jovi T-shirt and slid the blouse over my head. I hopped up onto Dad's bed to check myself out in his dresser mirror and felt a slight pang when I realized it fit like a glove. I'd finally grown into my mother's body.