The morning was damp and dank, like most of my days since Miriam had left. Seventy-seven is the age when every day begins with aches and pains in different parts of your body and ends with thoughts of those who no longer sit beside you at dinner. I, Obadiah Lamb, have gotten used to being alone in this house in Henlopen Acres that Miriam and I bought back in the eighties.
It’s big, two-story, overlooking the bay, and an area I’m still trying to maintain despite my arthritis. That morning I was making myself oatmeal for breakfast as usual. The TV in the kitchen was broadcasting the local news, the only voice breaking the silence of the house.
I was about to sit down at the table when I heard the sound of a car pulling up. I looked out the window and saw my son Ingram’s silver SUV. What the hell? I muttered to myself.
Ingram usually gave me advance notice rather than showing up on my doorstep at seven in the morning. I stepped out onto the porch, wrapped in an old robe. Four people got out of the car.
My son, Ingram, his wife Beatrix, and my grandsons, Terrence and Alwyn. Beatrix immediately took charge of unloading the suitcases, not even bothering to say hello to me. Daddy! Ingram smiled strainedly as he climbed the stairs.
We thought we’d come to visit you. With six suitcases? I nodded at the trunk from which Terrence was pulling another bag. We planned to stay for a while, Ingram answered, avoiding my gaze.
We’re renovating, remember? I told you about it on the phone. I didn’t remember anything like that. The last time we’d spoken was two weeks ago, and Ingram had only asked about my health and retirement.
How long do you plan to stay? I asked bluntly. A couple weeks, maybe a month, Ingram shrugged. Don’t worry, we won’t bother you.
He patted me on the shoulder and made his way into the house. Beatrix followed him, barely nodding at me, holding a fancy purse and a cell phone. Hi, Grandpa, Terrence mumbled, walking past with two suitcases.
Hello, Grandpa. Alwyn, my granddaughter, at least tried to smile, but she was immediately staring at her phone. I was left standing on the porch, looking out over the bay and thinking that my peaceful life had just ended.
It took me about ten minutes to gather my thoughts and return to the house, which was already filled with other people’s voices and smells. In the kitchen, Beatrix was dumping the contents of my refrigerator. Obadiah, this cheese has been expired for three days, she exclaimed, showing me a package of cheddar.
And what is this horrible sausage? It has so many nitrates in it. You could die on the spot. I watched in silence as she threw away the groceries I had bought only two days ago.
I wanted to say that I had lived to be 77 years old, eating what I liked, but I held back. Ingram, meanwhile, was walking around the house, looking around the rooms and talking on the phone. Papa, he said, coming back into the kitchen.
Beatrix and I will take the master bedroom, will you? You’ll be more comfortable on the first floor, so you don’t have to go up the stairs. I felt something inside me clench. The master bedroom was the room where I’d slept with Miriam for 45 years.
There were still her pictures standing there, her books lying around. I’m quite comfortable in my bedroom, I replied, trying to speak calmly. I take the stairs every day.
It’s good for my joints. But Papa, Beatrix intervened, you are 77. It’s dangerous to climb stairs at your age.
What if you fall at night when you go to the toilet? I have an upstairs bathroom, I objected, and I’ve never fallen down the stairs in my entire life. There’s a first time for everything, Beatrix said. Ingram, tell your father we’re concerned for his safety.
Ingram looked at me with that peculiar mixture of pity and irritation that I had begun to notice in his gaze in recent years. Dad, please, it’s only for a few weeks. Besides, the bedroom on the first floor is quite cozy.
Cozy wasn’t the word I’d use to describe the former guest room. There was a narrow bed, an old dresser, and nothing else. But I realized it was useless to argue….
I nodded and went upstairs to gather my things. Moving into the small room took me all day. Not because I had a lot of stuff, but because every item in the master bedroom was connected to a memory.
The picture of Miriam and me on the beach in Cape May, our wedding rings in a box on the dresser, her favorite vase that I never put away after she died. By the time I was done that evening, the house no longer looked like the one I’d lived in for the past 40 years. Beatrix had hung some modern paintings, arranged her knickknacks on the mantelpiece, and moved my photographs.
The living room now held Ingram’s huge suitcase, which he hadn’t even bothered to put away. The grandchildren had taken over the second bedroom upstairs, where my office used to be, and from there now came loud music and the sounds of video games. At dinner, which Beatrix had prepared from some organic produce she’d brought with her, I felt like a guest at my own table.
Ingram and Beatrix were discussing their plans without even trying to include me in the conversation. We have to repaint the kitchen, Beatrix said. That awful yellow color looks so outdated.
But it’s Miriam’s favorite color, I objected. She chose that paint herself. Obadiah, that was 30 years ago, Beatrix rolled her eyes.
Nobody paints kitchens yellow now. I’m thinking light gray with accents of mint. This is my house, I reminded her, and I don’t plan on repainting it.
Dad, Ingram interjected, we just want to freshen things up a little. It’ll be good for the value of the house, too. Are you planning to sell my house? I felt anger rising inside.
Of course not, Ingram answered quickly, but it’s always wise to keep the property in good condition. I noticed the way he and Beatrix looked at each other. Something in that look made me feel uneasy.
After dinner, the grandchildren quickly disappeared upstairs without even washing the dishes. I started to put the plates in the dishwasher, but Beatrix stopped me. Obadiah, you’re doing it wrong.
The plates have to be rinsed first or the machine will get clogged. I’ve been using this dishwasher for 15 years, I replied. I know how it works.
Ingram. Beatrix turned to my son, who was sitting in the living room staring at his laptop. Tell your father that he can ruin the machine.
Ingram didn’t even look up. Dad, please do as Beatrix says. She’s better at appliances.
I walked silently out of the kitchen and into my new room. I sat on the edge of the bed and for the first time all day I felt how tired I was, not physically, emotionally. I pulled out of my pocket the picture of Miriam I always carried with me.
What would you do if you were me, darling, I whispered, looking at her smiling face. The following days turned into a real ordeal. Beatrix established a new routine in the house without asking my opinion.
Breakfast was now served at eight, not seven as I was used to. My morning coffee was replaced by some herbal tea because caffeine is bad for your heart at your age, Obadiah. My favorite shows on TV were declared too loud and outdated.
In their place, the living room now had endless reality shows that Beatrix watched or sports channels that Ingram switched to. One day I returned from a morning walk and found that my collection of old records, which I had collected all my life, had disappeared from the living room. Where are my records? I asked Beatrix, who was arranging some decorative candles on the shelf where my record player used to stand.
Oh, that old junk? She didn’t even turn to me. I put it away in the garage. They were collecting so much dust and Alwyn’s allergic.
It’s not junk, I said indignantly. Some of these records are rare editions. They’re worth money.
Obadiah, nobody listens to records these days. She finally looked at me with that condescending smile I hated so much. If you want music, Terrence can show you how to use Spotify.
I left the house and headed for the garage. My records were piled in an old cardboard box, some of the envelopes crumpled. I carefully pulled them out, checking for damage.
The first edition of Miles Davis’s Kind of Blue that I’d bought back in the 60s, the Ella Fitzgerald albums that Miriam had loved so much, they were all piled carelessly like junk. I took the box to my room and hid it under my bed. At least there Beatrix wouldn’t get to them.
The grandchildren barely spoke to me. Terrence was constantly busy doing his own thing, either going to job interviews or going out with friends. Alwyn spent most of her time in her room, occasionally coming down to get something from the refrigerator.
When I tried to talk to her about college or her plans, she would answer in one word answers and quickly find an excuse to leave. One day I offered my help when she was working on some project for school. I can help you with your research, I said.
After all, I worked as a postal inspector for 40 years and know a thing or two about organizing information. Alwyn looked at me with that peculiar expression that young people have when they think an old man is hopelessly out of date. Thanks, Grandpa, but I’ll Google it, she replied, and went back to her laptop.
A week after they arrived, I discovered that Beatrix had thrown out my old photo albums that I kept in the hall closet. Why would you do that? I couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw the albums in the trash can in the backyard. Obadiah, they were taking up too much space and we needed somewhere to store our stuff, she replied, without even apologizing.
Besides, all those old photos can be scanned and stored digitally. It’s much more convenient that way. These albums are my life, I said, pulling them out of the trash.
These are pictures of my parents, of my youth, of Ingram’s early years. Dad, Ingram intervened, who, as usual, showed up when the conflict had already started. We’re just trying to clean up.
There’s too much…things. Stuff? I looked at him. This is my house, and these things are my life. I didn’t ask you to clean it up.
But you live alone, Ingram said with the same tone he’d used to talk to me when I was old. It’s hard for you to manage a house this big. We’re just helping out.
I took the albums to my room and added them to the growing collection of things I had to rescue from Beatrix. My little room was slowly becoming a repository for my life, which was being methodically purged from the rest of the house. That night, sitting on my narrow bed and flipping through the salvaged albums, I thought seriously about my future for the first time.
It was obvious that Ingram and Beatrix weren’t planning to leave in a couple weeks, as they claimed. They were settling in, changing the house to suit themselves, gradually displacing me and my belongings. I felt like a ghost in my own home, whose footprints were being methodically erased.
I looked at the picture of Miriam and I standing in front of this house the day we bought it. We were so happy then, full of plans and hopes. We imagined growing old here, sitting on the porch and watching the sunset over the bay.
Miriam didn’t live to see it. Cancer took her five years ago, and now I was in danger of losing the house we loved so much, too. I couldn’t let that happen…
