Yes, people, we finally leave Chicago in this latest installment of We Are Never Moving Again.
Now, where were we?
Ah yes, we were seven hours into what was already promising to be the longest move of our lives. And our movers had brought the not-at-all-agreed-upon truck. And our “moving specialist” had gone radio silent. (Earth silent, really.) And the heart-wrenching day of Meaningful Goodbyes was quickly turning into a fire sale.
Because.
When the moving broker finally deigned to return our call(s), we were informed that they hadn’t made any mistakes, other people must’ve made mistakes. And did we want our movers to unload the truck back into the yard until it was sorted out? (Who would want that? WHO WOULD WANT THAT?)
They told us that they couldn’t help us with the size disparity unless we agreed to the former option- the one where the already exhausted movers searched around for another, bigger truck. Or maybe two small trucks. Sky’s the limit! The broker did do us the favor, however, of saying that we wouldn’t be paying for the hitch that would allow us to take as much other stuff as we could possibly tie onto the original truck, if that was the route we wanted to go.
We decided that was the route we wanted to go.
(“No problem,” P.J. and I assured each other. We’ll definitely be on the road by 4:30pm. 5 at the latest.)
The movers agreed not to charge us for the hitch. Groovy! That is, until they stopped moving our stuff and let us know that, regardless of square footage mistakes, they did charge by weight. Not volume. And did we know how heavy our stuff was? Super heavy, we were told. No, they didn’t care what the moving brokers had promised. No, they didn’t care what was in the “contract.”
So they stopped moving our stuff until we could work it out.
Lyndsey shows up!
My best friend Lyndsey had shown up shortly before this latest snag to help out, bring us lunch- because she rightfully guessed that P.J. and I hadn’t eaten in a long, long while- and to see us leave. While P.J. was “working it out” with the movers by yelling into various devices and throwing wads of cash at people, Lyndsey grabbed some cleaning supplies and decided that momentum was the name of the game.
“Keely, should I clean downstairs? What’s most helpful? And are all of those things in the middle of the floor getting packed or no?”
“…What things in the middle of the floor?”
Without naming names, certain items in and around the office and lower level of the home which were to be packed by people-not-myself…were just kinda not packed. I mean, thank God we were running eight hours behind with the move, amiright?!)
Back to the move.
Jacqueline and Luke show up!
Two of our dearest friends in the world, Jacquline and Luke, showed up with their kids to “wave us goodbye as we pulled away.” (Remember when we were originally supposed to leave by noon? Hahahahahaha we were never actually leaving, I had determined by this point.) Exceedingly polite by nature, Jacqueline’s eyes got huge when she saw the amount of stuff yet-to-be-packed. Cheerfully, she grabbed a broom and asked how she could be most helpful.
Once we decided on the new limitations of time and space and how much a garbage bag could hold, we got to work. The fridge- which I had been certain was just about ready to go, save for a few car snacks and lunch options- looked as jammed as if we had just taken the frat house to Costco. My darling, wonderful, patient, non-judgmental friends packed up multiple coolers for the trip, divvied perishables to take to their own houses, and then had the kind of conversations you can really only hold with excellent pals. (“Do you really need to bring all of these mustards to Massachusetts?” “Is this an heirloom Swiffer?”)
The truck was quickly packed, once the pesky balance of “weight/cash” was sorted…and there was still a ton of stuff left in our kitchen and in our backyard. No problem! We had two minivans to stuff, right? We triaged: Mine would hold the kids, a couple of suitcases, the houseplants, the good liquor, four backpacks, a large collection of DVDs, a cooler, and a laundry basket full of snacks. P.J.’s rented minivan would hold two vintage dollhouses (mine), a rickety Barbie Dream House (not mine), two cat carriers, a litter box, and my Nana’s dangling pole lamp from the 1940s. (I told P.J. that if he got pulled over he should just run. Run. Ain’t no court in the land would believe something shady wasn’t happening in that car.)
And we still had more things on our kitchen floor. Among them, the duffel bag holding my clothing. Because obviously, the most important belongings- those of the kids and cats- were secured first. I debated wearing four outfits for the drive.
(A side note: I am a professional organizer. For monies. If my move can fall apart this awkwardly, I wholly stand by my business’ claim that I never judge anyone’s possessions/homes/projects in the slightest. Because occasionally, the world is completely unfair and neither “contracts” nor rules exist. I see you, World.)
P.J., slightly broken from his ongoing encounter with the “moving specialists” and the increasingly annoyed/annoying movers, stopped in the kitchen. He stopped for what felt like a really, really long time. (I think I heard a neuron snap, is that a thing that can audibly snap?)
“You have to keep going.”
“I am.”
“We need to leave.”
“I know.”
“No, like, STEP. IT. UP.” Queen of compassion, that’s me.
We took our “words” into the nearly-but-not-quite emptied garage. He apologized for letting me down with his lack of readiness for the day itself. I, oh-so graciously, did not accept. I burst into angry tears and said something along the lines of how I had “wanted better for the house” on our last day here, or some other Tara or Manderley-esque melodramatics.
Things got…tense.
Our friends- without whom we’d be facedown in a ditch or, more accurately, still packing- upped the cheer and momentum. Lyndsey took the confused kids for ice cream. Jacqueline opened the hall closet:
“Ah, Keel?”
FULL. A dangerously full closet. Umbrellas, rain boots, a gigantic standing tub of dry cat food. What sort of Narnia/Stone Soup amalgamation bullsh*t was happening here?!
“Congratulations,” I told her. “Here’s your new umbrella. Also, a boot.”
Time to leave…
Before we were done, my friends were the proud owners of a new wheelbarrow, a bin of outdoor toys, and half a case of Ball jars. The overstuffed minivans weren’t anything anyone would describe as “breezy” or “safe,” but the piles on the floor and in the backyard were now fully dispersed. (And yes, part of that was due to the fact that two separate neighbors who walked over to wave goodbye got parting gifts of a smallish trampoline and a container of almonds, respectively.)
That’s not even a thing. Why is that a thing?
So- finally- it was time to leave.
“Wait,” P.J. said. “Wait.”
He took the five of us back into the (mercifully empty) house one last time. We walked through each room and said thank you, we love you, goodbye. I stood in the spot where my bed had lived, first as a bare mattress on the floor- because my box spring couldn’t make it up the stairs- and then later as safe landing spot for an overwhelmed new mother, nursing a child to the soothing tones of 2am Office marathons. Why had I ever thought that room was so cramped? It was cavernous, echoing with the memories of multiple children kicking for space and thwacking each other with books.
It was the spot where- among other activities- my husband held me as we lost a pregnancy. Where I grieved my father the night he died. Where I spent months and months crazily ill in bed from West Nile and later complications from the drugs for West Nile, so sure I was going to die. (Where I was in so much pain that I briefly wished I just would.)
How does anybody ever choose to leave a house?
We thanked the nursery- now firmly a Big Kid Room- for keeping our babies safe and soothed and filled with sunshine.
We thanked the living room for its happiest and sparkliest Christmases and cozy lounge spots to dream and nap (and dream and nap).
We thanked the backyard for letting P.J. transform a dirt pile into an oasis for peace and green in the middle of a beeping, shrieking, bustling neighborhood.
And on and on and on until, really, there was nothing left to thank and nothing left to say other than how we wished we weren’t out of time to thank and say and, if I’m being honest, create. Maybe that was the hardest part; knowing that the timeline of us creating new memories in that home had ended. Which, as anyone who watches teen dramas knows, is that once you reach that point, that’s when the soul-wrenching music starts to swell, and that’s your cue to give one last over-the-shoulder glance and mournfully walk away.
So we did. (Even though exactly zero Ed Sheeran songs played.)
Because by now it was past 6pm and we were supposed to drive to Erie, PA, a solid 7 hours away. Lyndsey, Jacqueline, and Luke all strongly agreed that we shouldn’t drive that night. (After all, even though the tiny truck with all of our worldly possessions had already left, there was no chance in hell it was showing up in Massachusetts any time soon. The movers had said they’d “be in touch.” AH. Comforting!) P.J. and I, by now exhausted and emotional and torqued and probably really filthy, strongly agreed that we needed to drive that night. We had to leave. We couldn’t let the move win.
This made sense to us at the time.
We drove down Troy Street one last time as lucky residents, trailed by our seriously amazing (like, oh my God, are you people angels) friends who sprinted down the block to wave and blow kisses. And as I got on the highway, I had a moment of- whatamIdoingwhatamIDOINGwhereamIgoing, but it was firmly replaced by one singular word: Erie.
I was going to Erie.
At least for that night.
Yes, our friends called us on the hourly to check in/make sure we were still awake, and yes, when I stopped for gas in Indiana I discovered that P.J. had updated our billing zip code without telling me, making for a very interesting credit card freeze (twice, because even after I got off the phone with customer service I accidentally keyed in the wrong zip code again), and yes, we ended up stopping at midnight in Sandusky, OH instead of Erie because that’s when the bone-tired kicked in.
And I don’t know if the Red Roof Inn upped their game or if I would’ve cried tears of joy to sleep on a paper bag…
…But it was the best goddamn sleep of my entire life.
***
Ready for Part 4 next Thursday? Where we arrive in Pittsfield but only half of the movers do? Have I said too much?
(…She types as she notes the 1.8k word count for this post.)
Sorry.
But not as sorry as those movers ended up being.
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