moving day
Jennifer Fernandez
I considered calling the police. But then I thought better of it.
I played the conversation out in my head several times, each time realizing how it would sound.
“So, let me get this straight, you hired a moving company and they moved your things?”
“Well, yes, they came and moved my things bu-”
“I’m sorry, but it sounds to me like they provided the service you paid for.”
“Well, yes but they took my things away and now I have other things.”
“You have an apartment full of things?”
“Well, yes.”
“Couch, tables, chairs?”
“Well, yes but-”
“Plates, cups, pictures in frames and whatnot?”
“Again, yes, but-“
“I’m sorry but I just don’t understand what the problem is.”
Then we’d start all over again.
When the two men from the moving company arrived, the entirety of my possessions, every stitch and speck I owned, meticulously organized and packed, was loaded onto a truck. The men were on time and respectful and I was grateful for the help. When I arrived at my new address the truck was gone and the apartment, previously empty, was full of my boxes. I was so surprised by their efficiency that I began drafting the review I would give them in my head.
“Worth every penny!”
“Five stars!”
My generosity withered once I began opening the boxes, which by the way, were branded with my labels and handwriting. Upon opening one I’d marked “KITCHEN” I found not my plates, but plates I had never seen before. My plates are an elegant pale aqua and measure ten and three-quarter inches in diameter—I know this for a fact as I selected them to pair nicely with my eight and a quarter inch diameter salad plates—the color, a blanched robin egg blue is striking and frames most any meal perfectly. The plates I unpacked are an awful prune color. Not carnelian, or even merlot, but not really a color at all. On the rim of each plate there’s a small sage leaf, though if it were actually the color of sage that might be nice but as it stands it’s a sort of mottled sickly color. Beyond all that the plates are far too small to hold a protein, vegetable, and grain comfortably.
I looked at the plate.
Then unpacked another.
Then unpacked another.
I surveyed the space past the stacked boxes and noted that my vintage-inspired navy blue velvet sofa had been replaced with a boucle armless couch that once may have been cream-colored, but which now appears the color of well-hydrated urine. Convinced this was some sort of simple mistake I called the moving company to lodge my complaint and demand that my items be returned but no manner of calling did any good. The line rang without answer.
That was over four months ago.
At night the ghosts of my former possessions visited me. My childhood blanket lay at the foot of the bed, well not my bed but the bed that I now sleep in. The Eames chair I bought when I got my first real paycheck sat in the corner, empty, waiting for a warm body. In the morning they’d be gone. Haunted by the objects I’d taken such care to curate, I slept in sheets I did not recognize and drank from mismatched jelly jars.
Over time I found that I started taking on new habits for my new belongings. Before, in my previous apartment I slept in the middle of the bed, taking up as much space as I wanted. In my new place I found that I not only woke on the one side, I started the night there. Without warning, prompting, or necessity, as if I shared the bed, I started walking over to the right side of the mattress, turning down the covers and crawling into bed leaving the left side empty. Similarly, when I arrived from my day at work or from running errands, I announced myself, though who I greeted, I’m not entirely sure.
I realize these new things have come to curate me in a way and now I am just a body in this space. I’ve given up on ever seeing my other things again but if I’m honest, I don’t remember what most of them look like. Wherever they are though, I’m sure they’ve made someone a lovely home.
A friend came to visit today. I’d been nervous about having people over at first, but now, having grown more comfortable with the situation I decided it might be nice to have someone over.
When she arrived she stood in the hallway, looked at the number on the door, then looked at me then, then the number once again. I greeted her warmly and invited her in. Her walk into the apartment was halting as she said she hardly recognized me.
New haircut? Boyfriend?
After several other guesses she asked about my clothes and I had to admit that yes, these are new clothes. Well, new to me anyway.
Then she said that wasn’t it.
Standing here by the wobbly dining table, her purse still on her shoulder, she argued that my nose was different.
It must be the nose.
No. No. Not the nose.
The eyes.
Yes, yes, definitely the eyes!
Forehead? Maybe?
Jennifer Fernandez is a Cuban-American writer. She writes short stories and some non-fiction. Her work has appeared in literary journals such as the San Antonio Review, El Portal Literary Journal, and has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize. She lives outside Seattle, Washington with her husband Michael and their pony-sized dog Hanx.