Chapter 11 - The Warehouse LightThe storage facility sat beside a closed bowling alley, its rows of metal doors reflecting the rain. Naomi had obtained a written promise from Cedar Bend not to dispose of anything while the dispute was pending. Vanessa had made no such promise.
At seven that evening, Jackie called. "Ava's brother drives past Route Nine after work. There's a moving truck outside your storage unit."
I went with Dad, keeping Naomi on speakerphone. Grandma stayed home with Jackie, who had insisted on sleeping on her couch until the threats stopped.
Behind the fence two men loaded boxes bearing Mom's blue-bird logo. My chest tightened.
"Don't go inside," Naomi warned. "Take pictures. I'll call the facility manager."
Dad raised his phone and filmed. One man spotted us and slammed the truck door. The other shouted that the property was being cleared under owner's orders.
"I'm the trustee," Dad said through the fence. "There is no authorization to destroy anything."
The manager arrived and made the drivers unload the boxes until the ownership dispute could be resolved. I watched my childhood return to a concrete storage unit in battered cartons. One box had split. Inside was a ceramic bird with a broken wing. I remembered making it when Mom was too sick to leave the house.
"I'll fix it," Dad said.
I looked at him. "Some things you don't get to fix with glue."
He accepted that without arguing.
As we left, the driver handed us the work order he'd been given. Its destination was a waste contractor fifty miles away. The customer signature looked like Vanessa's.
The work-order date was tomorrow. At the bottom was a handwritten instruction:
May you like
REMOVE PERSONAL LETTERS BEFORE DISPOSAL.
Related Stories
