Chapter 3
"Then take me there," Helen said.
Richard looked at her as if the request were unreasonable.
"It's getting late."
"You said everything was safe. Show me."
"I have work in the morning."
Megan picked up her handbag.
"And I need to get home to Ava."
Neither of them had somewhere else to be when they emptied Helen's bedroom. Now neither could spare an hour to show her where they had put it.
Richard opened a kitchen drawer and took out a small silver key. He texted Helen the address and access code.
"The movers handled everything," he said. "There's nothing to worry about."
The self-storage facility stood beside a highway on the edge of town. Rows of metal doors faced a cracked parking lot beneath harsh white lights.
Helen found Unit 314 near the back.
The key stuck before the lock opened. She pulled up the metal door.
A sour, damp smell came out first.
Then she saw the black plastic bags.
They were piled against one wall, some tied at the top, others left open. The sleeve of one of her winter coats hung from a torn bag and rested on the concrete floor.
Helen stepped inside.
Her clothes had not been folded into boxes. They had been pushed into garbage bags. Shoes lay loose beneath them. One heel had been snapped from a pair she had worn to Megan's wedding.
Furniture stood on its side near the back wall. Her dresser had a fresh white scratch across the front. A lamp had been placed upside down inside a laundry basket without anything protecting the shade.
Helen touched the dresser.
She had expected to feel anger.
Instead, she felt embarrassed—as if the things around her had witnessed how little her family believed her life was worth.
Several cardboard boxes sat directly on the concrete. The bottoms were soft with moisture.
She pulled the nearest one toward her.
The tape separated without resistance.
Inside were tax records, medical papers, and old letters. The corners had curled. Dampness had spread through the envelopes.
Beneath them, Helen found her wedding album.
The cover was wet.
She opened it carefully. The first page lifted, but the next two had stuck together. Behind the cloudy plastic, a younger Helen stood beside Richard, smiling as if there had never been anything in the world she needed to protect herself from.
She called him.
He answered with a tired sigh.
"What is it now?"
"The boxes are wet."
"They're probably a little damp from the air."
"My clothes are in garbage bags."
"They're bags, Helen. That doesn't mean anyone threw them away."
"You told me everything was protected."
"The movers knew what they were doing. Stop looking for reasons to be upset."
Helen stared at the swollen pages of the wedding album.
She ended the call.
For the next hour, she searched the unit.
She opened every bag she could reach. She moved chairs, boxes, and rolled rugs. She found kitchen dishes wrapped in old towels. She found her books packed beneath bathroom supplies. She found Megan's childhood drawings bent inside a box marked MISCELLANEOUS.
But three things were not there.
The dining table her mother had left her.
The framed photograph of Helen holding eight-year-old Megan.
And her mother's silver jewelry box.