Page 18 of Chasing Smoke

I grab a few contractor bags out of the box on the end of the shelf, spotting Caleb’s duffel bag from his last training trip to Texas. The plane had been delayed, and he had no time to unpack before he had to be at the station. Said he’d take care of it when he returned the next morning. There have been times I’ve seen it since then, but I didn’t want to touch it.

Despite the cold, my hands go clammy as I squeeze the contractor bags in my fist. I walk over and pick up the duffel, beating off the dust that’s collected on the top, and bring it back inside with me.

Once I’m inside, I lock the door, stomp the snow off my boots, and slide off my coat. The contractor bags and the duffel bag come upstairs with me.

I set the duffel bag in front of my nightstand and pile the clothes on the bed into the contractor bags.

The duffel feels like a set of eyes staring at me from the floor the entire time. Finally, when I’m done with the pile of clothes on the bed, I pick it up and set it on the mattress in front of me. And just stare at it.

I’m not entirely sure why going through this bag feels harder than the closet. Maybe because Caleb never got to unpack it himself? Or perhaps it’s the fact that these are some of the last clothes he ever wore. And I’ll have to run them through the laundry, maybe destroy his scent on them.

I remember the last time I did Caleb’s laundry. Eleven days after the funeral, I did both of our laundry because I ran out of underwear.

The clothes were piled to the top of our shared laundry hamper and falling onto the floor. The first shirt I picked up out of the pile to wash almost broke me. It was the dual realization that this would be the last time I would ever have to do his laundry and the fact that he would never wear any of the clothes again. I’d never see the green shirt that made his eyes look like the forest outside. He’d never be in the kitchen on his morning off in the gray sweatpants that hung low and teased me as he made me breakfast.

Caleb wouldn’t want you to live like this.

Ansel’s words ring through my head, and my fingers reach for the zipper, sliding it back. Before I open the duffel to see inside, I swallow the lump in my throat, remembering Caleb would have wanted this.

There’s pretty much what I would expect inside. Toiletries, socks, underwear, and changes of clothes. I pull everything out one by one, the materials still cool under my touch from being in the garage all this time.

I’m shocked that a rodent didn’t decide to take up shelter inside.

I throw out the toiletries, even though it feels wrong on every level. But what am I going to do? Set them up in the bathroom as if he’s going to return and use them someday?

I toss the shirts in the laundry basket to clean. I’ll decide another day what I’ll do with them. I stick my hand through the pockets of the three pairs of pants.

Caleb always left something in his pockets. I can’t count the number of times I had to pick out pieces of Kleenex or paper from a receipt or grocery list from the inside of the washing machine. Despite me asking him to please check his pockets before he tossed his pants in the hamper, he would never remember. In turn, I made it a habit to always check his pants pockets before throwing them in the wash.

There’s nothing in the first two pairs I check, so I toss them in the hamper. When my fingers close around a piece of paper in the pocket of the third pair of pants, a smile comes to my face, and there’s a small ache in my chest at the familiarity of the moment.

He told me as a joke once, “You’ll miss it when I’m gone.”

I yelled back, “I would not.”

But he was right. That usual irritation doesn’t prick at me. I’m weirdly appreciative for this moment. The sadness quickly looms in, since this is the final time it will ever happen. What I wouldn’t give to feel a hundred more pieces of paper in his pockets. If I could bring him back, I’d never give him hell again.

I sigh, pulling the paper from the pocket and unfolding it.

It’s only a receipt. I had hopes it would be a note or something with his thoughts, or anything with his writing on it.

I read what he ate and remember him telling me about a place named Bubba’s he went to every time he was in Texas, so I look at the top of the receipt. The address says Bubba’s is in Temple, Texas.

Which is strange. Why would he be all the way up in Temple?

Temple is in the opposite direction he’d be driving to get to the airport, so it’s not like he stopped for a bite on his way to or from the training center. Maybe he and some of the guys decided to go out one night or something.

It’s just another thing in the long list of things I’ll never be able to ask him.

I set the receipt on top of his dresser and place the pants in the laundry hamper. I think that’s enough of a roller coaster for one day.

I drag the donation bags into the spare room and line them against the empty wall. I might have had the strength to go through all Caleb’s clothes tonight, but that doesn’t mean I have the strength to take the last step and drive them down to the donation center.

There’s always tomorrow.

EIGHT

Ansel