Saved
Beth’s life was a mess. It happened when she wasn’t paying attention, even though it was impossible to overlook. The problem accompanied a severe case of empty nest syndrome, which she refused to face. For the better part of two decades, Beth devoted every waking hour to preparing her children for the world. It was an accomplishment worthy of pride, even celebration, save for one crucial misstep. She had neglected to prepare herself. Suddenly, the life she was accustomed to no longer made sense. The years of relentless, thankless work and stable routines deceived her into thinking she would always be needed and useful. Instead, she lost everything she once considered her purpose, and she didn’t know how to replace it. It was in Beth’s nature to run as far from her problems as possible, regardless of their size, but this time was different. This time, she was burying herself in the escape.
During the second commercial break of her favorite morning talk show, Beth felt an abrupt tremor of dread. She couldn’t remember the last time she had seen her cat. Without urgency, she searched her mind, trying to figure out how long it had been, which required less effort than actually searching. In her best estimate, nearly a week had passed, which explained the untouched food and why he hadn’t been spotted on one of the perches from which he liked to observe her life with seeming disapproval. Then, as was her way, all concern for the pet was dismissed just as quickly as it had arisen, and she returned her attention to the television, where a nearly forgotten celebrity was promoting reverse mortgages. No point in looking for a cat, she thought. He’ll return when he decides to, and no sooner.
Oscar’s adoption had been an act of defiance.
“Why don’t you look for a job or volunteer somewhere?”
Her husband’s suggestion came soon after the girls had left. He tossed it out with such nonchalance, as if raising two children and keeping a house were merely ways to pass the time and could easily be swapped for anything else. Beth wasn’t interested in her husband’s advice and responded by adopting a plump, gray cat from a local shelter, a decision more about annoying her spouse than remedying her unhappiness. Arthur disliked pets. He hated Oscar, who, in his mind, deliberately made a sport of taunting him—upending food bowls, shredding upholstery, and leaving a layer of gray hair on every surface in the house. Knowing it irritated him, she pampered and protected the cat as it luxuriated in a consequence-free reign over the household.
Ruby and Amber had everything they wanted since birth, including very few responsibilities at home. Beth was a one-woman factory—churning out meals, cleaning, chauffeuring, and shopping. No sooner had the laundry been folded and put away than another pile would appear for washing. Dishes didn’t stay clean any more than a bed remained perfectly made. She loved every moment, paying no attention to the lack of appreciation she received or how weary the work made her. Now, with the crib-to-college journey complete, the only reason she had to get out of bed each day was a cat. Arthur was not enough reason for anything, and the feeling was mutual. His workdays stretched a little longer each day; he often left each morning before she noticed and returned late in the evening. Eventually, he didn’t return at all. Just as she would later do with her cat, Beth would occasionally try to recall how long it had been since she last saw her husband. It’s a midlife crisis, she convinced herself. He’ll return when he’s ready.
“Elizabeth?”
The stabbing call came as Beth opened the trunk of her car to retrieve her shopping. She turned to see her next-door neighbor, Nicole, advancing with a determined stride. She hated Nicole, a neighbor-watcher often spotted lurking in one of her windows, holding a drape aside or lifting an obstructing blind slat. Nicole was too much of everything—too made up, too pleased with herself, and far too motivated. When she reached Beth’s yard, she softened her tone to match a phony smile.
“Elizabeth, I won’t take up more than a moment of your time, but I wanted to talk with you about your lawn.”
“Something wrong with my lawn?” Beth took in Nichole’s daily uniform of skin-tight yoga pants, sneakers, and a fleece jacket over a solid tee. The pants intrigued her; she wondered if she could ever wear such an article without feeling like a sausage about to burst from its casing.
“Well, one homeowner to another,” Nicole’s tone had changed again, this time to overt condescension, and she turned to the yard with a presenting hand. “I mean… look at it.”
Beth scanned her property for the latest offense. Thick weeds were sprouting through the cracks in the sidewalk. Two empty garbage cans, one tipped over, had remained at the curb long past collection day. A lawn gnome had fallen face-first into the overgrown grass. A garden hose snaked through the yard to the driveway, where it had been driven over for weeks. Beth looked directly at her neighbor before subtly tilting her head.
“Now, Elizabeth, you do know what they say. When you don’t value your home, you devalue your neighbor’s.” Nicole, who loved to show off her pricey, phony smile, beamed.
“Who says that?” Beth’s tilted head now had a smile of its own. “Who’s they?”
“It just means that we all want our properties to be worth something. We’ve all got to do our part to increase the value of the neighborhood real estate. I mean, things are supposed to look better here. In this part of town.”
Nicole’s perpetually mute husband emerged from their house, walked directly to his car without acknowledging his neighbor, and started the engine.
“Teddy’s taking me out tonight, so I must dash, but I appreciate your efforts, Liz. And listen, if you can’t manage, I’m sure the boy who cuts my grass is available. There is no shame in asking for help as we age.” Nicole wished her a good night and rode off with her silent escort.
As dusk inched the sun away, Beth slowly rolled up the garden hose and replaced it on its holder. She stood the drunken gnome at attention and returned the garbage cans to their place beside the house. The weeds would have to wait. She turned back to her trunk and, without a second thought, grabbed a newly purchased gallon of bleach and emptied it over Nicole’s flower bed.
On Sundays, Beth hunted for the past. She hadn’t missed a yard sale, garage sale, or flea market since the girls went off to school. She loved exploring and seeing what people were trying to sell, but invariably, her eye would be drawn to some treasure that sent her back to when her girls were girls, even back to her own childhood. Familiar housewares, toys, and even clothing would trigger memories of better times, times that would never return. Even a fleeting glance was enough to relive the past and lament the loss of what she once had.
The twins were where they needed to be, where she wanted them to be. However, they hadn’t been home in over a year, and communication had been sparse. If they couldn’t visit, she hoped they would at least call from time to time. As for the only two males in her life, she cared less. Pets run away, and men have mid-life crises, she thought. They’ll come around.
Each day at three o’clock sharp, Iris could be spotted walking down the center of the street, her light crepe clothing and long, delicate scarves billowing in the breeze. Beth adored her. A widow, artist, and fading hippie, Iris’s presence was both ethereal and enchanting. Every move she made activated scores of silver wire bracelets, causing them to jingle, and the many beads and charms encircling her neck sparkled in the light. Her bobbed, silver hair often held a flower from one of the neighbors’ gardens, brazenly picked on her way to collect her friend. Beth envied her ability to embrace all of life, good or bad; Iris was a true free spirit. But theirs was a strong friendship that existed solely on the street, where they met six times a week to enjoy a leisurely stroll to the bank of neighborhood mailboxes.
“Darling, I have a little book I will give you. I’m just finishing with it myself.” Iris was always searching for a new philosophy that would bring mental clarity or cosmic connections, and she frequently discussed her findings with Beth. “It’s written by a little Japanese woman who says to look at all of your belongings, one by one, and ask them if they make you happy. Everything. Every pair of shoes, every houseplant, right down to the last paperclip. Do you make me happy? If the answer is no, out it goes. I mean, where has this woman been all of my life?”
“Oh, Iris, I don’t have much reading time right now.”
“It’s just a tiny little book. And I tell you, this lady has got the right idea. The more I throw away, the lighter I feel inside. I’m tempted to get rid of absolutely everything. My spirit is really on the ascent.”
Beth was skeptical and asked why Iris would give away a book if it made her happy.
“No, darling.” Iris had anticipated the question. “What I learned from the book makes me happy. The book itself does nothing for me. So I’ll bring it to you, and when you’re done with it, pass it on or throw it away with all the other things that don’t make you happy.” Iris went on to passionately warn Beth not to donate items to charities that shipped them overseas, where their sale might destroy village economies, a system to which she refused to contribute the unwanted hemp serapes and bell-bottoms of her younger years.
Iris had sporadic interests in world cultures, which Beth found charming. She spoke at length about traveling but never went anywhere and often quoted great thinkers, from Plato to Gandhi, though the words or sources were rarely accurate.
“I’m on a cleanse,” she informed Beth, “because the old lady’s not well. I’ll have to move down there very soon, which means downsizing.”
“Why not move your mother up here? You have plenty of room,” Beth suggested, an idea Iris dismissed with a scoff and a swat of her hand.
“She wouldn’t last a day. The winters are too cold, and she’s too old to pick up and move. No, I’ll go down. A little sunshine might do me some good. You know she’s got a lemon tree? Anyway, I need to put the house up soon, so I’m clearing it all out. As the Dalai Lama says, the man with too many things has nothing. Every time I see him, he’s grinning ear-to-ear, so he must not own a thing.”
After collecting their mail and parting ways, Beth went inside, feeling confident that Iris would always be in the neighborhood. For as long as they had known each other, Iris had talked about moving south to care for her mother, but the years kept passing, and the old lady always seemed to be doing just fine. Beth would always have her friend.
Twenty-five years earlier, newlyweds Arthur and Beth toured the charming two-story cottage that would become their home. With an excellent school district, a quiet neighborhood, and far more space inside than its façade suggested, it was the kind of house Beth had always dreamed of. Arthur, who insisted on careful and responsible choices, balked at the asking price, calling it an extravagance; they would have to find something else. But the house spoke to Beth, extending an irresistible invitation to raise children there. Without hesitation, she purchased the property without consulting her husband, using part of a generous inheritance, telling Arthur it was a gift from her parents to the grandchildren they never lived to see. He was shocked and felt emasculated by her actions, but her mind was made up. Every decision they faced would unfold in a similar way—Beth always did whatever she wanted, which left their marriage unbalanced and ill-equipped for longevity.
Six months without a husband. Two weeks without a cat.
The girls weren’t often heard from beyond a brief email every few weeks explaining how busy they had been with classes, jobs, and even planning a trip abroad. While the lack of communication was always forgiven, Beth believed she was entitled to a holiday visit, so she sent a check to cover the travel expenses to ensure it would happen. Weeks passed, and although the holiday was rapidly approaching, she felt confident they would contact her with their plans.
On the Monday before Thanksgiving, after finishing her shopping, Beth stepped out of her car to the faint sound of the kitchen telephone and rushed inside, excitedly anticipating her girls’ voices.
“Beth, it’s me.” Arthur sounded confident and purposeful.
“Oh. I thought you were the girls.” Beth sighed. It wasn’t the call she wanted, but it was one she expected. “I’m fine, thank you for asking. When should I expect you back?”
A brief yet pronounced silence followed.
“Beth, I’m sending over some papers right after the holiday. It’s time. You can’t be surprised. Anyway, I ask that you not impede the process. Let’s just get it over with as quickly as possible.”
It was not the call she expected. There was more silence.
“I guess you beat me to it, then.” She was stuck in a stare, building up her defenses before adding, “I’ll give you no problem. It saves me the trouble.”
He knew her too well, and although he didn’t want to hurt her any further, he had more news to deliver.
“The girls tell me they won’t be coming home. I think you know why.”
Arthur continued to speak, but she wasn’t listening. Beth hung up the phone and instantly fell into a state of fright. For the first time, she realized she was alone and wasn’t sure if she would ever not be alone again.
A stunned and still moment later, she remembered the holiday groceries and stepped outside just in time to catch Nicole starting to back out of her driveway, flashing her phony smile. The car slowed to a crawl at the end of the short driveway as Nichole pointed downward at the empty garbage bins at the curb while silently over-enunciating something to her from within the car. Shifting into drive, she waved with her fingers from a fur-trimmed glove. In return, Beth offered a subtle gesture with her head that could have been interpreted in any number of ways. She stood frozen, watching the car travel down the street until it disappeared. At that moment, the loathing she had for her neighbor absorbed the pain caused by her family, and without a second thought, Beth flung open the car’s trunk and effortlessly tore open the plastic wrapping of her nine-pound turkey. Grabbing the bird by a wing, she walked it to the edge of her property and, like an underhanded softball pitch, sent it flying to her neighbor’s front lawn, where it landed with a thud. She stared at the fat, pink bird, its wings and legs splayed out in the grass. It would likely be too dark when Nicole returned, and the bird wouldn’t be noticed, but once daylight returned, it would be on display for all passersby to see. She slammed the trunk of her car, still full of perishable groceries and a raw drippings-filled turkey wrapper, and returned to her spouseless, childless, catless house.
When Beth met Iris the following day, she was disappointed to find no sign of the bird. Nicole hadn’t burst out of her house to complain about it, leading Beth to believe a neighborhood dog or another animal had discovered it and dragged it away. It was just as well. She had no reasonable explanation for her actions. She also didn’t regret them.
The stroll to the mailboxes took on a slower pace than usual. Iris gingerly broached the subject of her moving plans, which Beth was shocked to learn were real and coming together quickly. Within a week of its listing, an offer was made on Iris’s house, and she was determined to leave before the worst of winter arrived. A stunned Beth did her best to appear supportive. Her only friend was leaving her behind for an old lady and a lemon tree.
A new habit of sleeping on the living room recliner rewarded Beth with back pain. Twenty-four hours a day, the television was on, greeting her in the morning and watching her drift off at night. It was the home shopping channel that continually captured her attention. She loved the shiny, clean studio sets, designed like different rooms in a house, and the presenters, who were warm, color-coordinated, and perfectly groomed. As they spoke, looking directly into the camera, she felt as if they were offering discounts and showcasing all the newest conveniences and homemaking tools just for her. She considered them friends—the bright and stylish female hosts and the amusing, nonsexualized men—and often spoke to the screen as if they could hear her. Nothing ever went wrong in the broadcast department store.
Two weeks into December, a messenger arrived to deliver the papers that Arthur had promised. Beth croaked her annoyance in response to the doorbell.
“Hang on. It takes me a while.”
At the door stood a young man waiting with a thick envelope, which she accepted with a signature before watching him scurry back to his car. The packet of papers was tossed onto a sideboard, landing on the small, still unread book that Iris had given her. Without giving it another thought, she returned to her recliner.
The following Sunday, Beth pulled into her driveway to find her neighbor standing on the porch and peering into her front window.
“I’m not home.” Beth slammed the car door, glaring at Nicole and holding a bag of yard sale finds. “But, you knew that.”
Nicole hesitated for a moment, not knowing how to explain her snooping.
“Watching your neighbors from inside your house isn’t enough? Now you’re stepping right up to their windows? Whatever. Just go and do it somewhere else.”
“Elizabeth.” Nicole let out her breath and gathered her scarf close to her neck. “You are… a foul woman.” She retreated to her own house in double time.
Iris appeared for one final three o’clock walk, even though her mail had already been forwarded to her mother’s address. She seemed even more carefree than usual, having successfully purged her life of all the possessions she deemed unnecessary, including her house.
“Oh, I beg of you, darling. Find something in your life, anything, that you can bid farewell to. Big or small, it makes no difference. You’ll get that little reminder that you are so much more than what you own.”
“Iris, you may be free of possessions, but do you know what you’re walking into? I’m guessing your mother has plenty.”
Iris halted their stroll, crossed her arms as if embracing herself, and stared at the sky.
“How many people in the world? Eight billion, yeah? Something like that.”
Beth shrugged and said she had no idea.
“Eight billion. An awful lot of them have homes, garages, and storage units that are full. Billions. That’s a lot of shit.”
Beth chuckled.
“Not me, not anymore. And no more for the old lady. She may not know it yet, but she’s about to experience the joys of lighter living. It’ll be good for her health. She’ll breathe easier. We should all breathe easier.” Iris lifted her face to enjoy the winter sun and drew a long breath through her nose, exhaling with a smile. “I’m going to miss this air, that’s for sure. I’ll have to condition myself to the humidity. Funny, I was convinced I’d never live anywhere else. But as my friend Socrates says, you can’t change anything if you can’t change your mind.” With instant confusion, Iris sensed that her mental catalog of collected wisdom was failing her. “Was it Socrates? No. Eh, who cares? I’m sure he said something.”
When their laughter faded, Iris told Beth that she hadn't seen any genuine joy in her aura for a long time. Bluntly yet kindly, she suggested that Beth consider making a change for herself.
“I think this is still home for me, Iris.”
“Your marriage is over. I know it’s hard, but you might need to move in order to move on. You have the freedom now to make any change you want. I want you to feel that the world belongs to you, not vice versa, darling. It’s scary, I know, but exciting, too. And it’ll take time. Home was not built in a day.” Iris cackled wildly at her own words. “I don’t think that one belongs to anyone. Feel free to quote me.”
The ladies laughed loudly, arm in arm, on their final walk together.
When the doorbell rang, Beth opened the side kitchen door and walked around to find a short, balding man who identified himself as a structural inspector from the county’s Division of Community Services. Holding up his credentials, he explained that his job was to ensure the safety of homes and commercial buildings in the county. Without hesitation, Beth welcomed the man and led him to the side door, offering him a cup of tea. With a kind smile, he entered the kitchen and paused, having been struck by an unpleasant odor.
“Ma’am, do you keep any pets here?”
“Oh, my goodness,” Beth giggled. “Our poor cat, Oscar, ran off some time ago. I’ve been hesitant to get another. Maybe one day.” She went on to apologize for the state of the house. “Had I known you were coming, I would have tidied up a bit.”
The man took a long look around the kitchen. The odor, which Beth insisted she couldn’t smell, was quite strong, yet nothing in sight appeared to be its source—no food waste or open garbage can. He could see she kept her dishes clean, though she appeared to own enough for the entire city. Piles of mismatched plates covered the counters, along with an array of plastic containers and tin canisters. Several toasters were stacked beside pressure cookers, blenders, and coffee makers. On the floor, towers of pots stood precariously among columns of cookbooks, newspapers, and bins filled with assorted utensils, knives, and other cooking tools, many of which were new and still in their packaging. The volume of kitchenware had obscured the windows, blocking out nearly all natural light.
The inspector had seen it before. It was not his place to tell Beth how to live, and there was no law against owning multiple toasters, but it was full of hazards. He offered positive observations about the house's age, trying not to wince at the fetid odor in the air. A stack of newspapers near the oven caught his attention, prompting him to take a closer look.
“Now, this, in particular, is where a fire might start,” he explained, waving his hand to shoo a fly. “I suggest keeping papers further away from the oven and the range.” He attempted to push the stacks of newspapers aside, revealing a mound of cast iron pans and Dutch ovens. Before Beth realized what was happening, the man had frantically jumped back and started coughing and gagging into his arm. Disoriented, he turned and stepped into the living room, finding only a narrow path cutting through a mountain of bags, books, boxes, clothing, lamps, and everything else Beth had purchased from the television or collected at countless yard sales. Nearly every available space was filled, and in several spots, it reached the ceiling. He made his way to the front door just in time, bending at the waist with his hands on his knees, spitting onto the lawn, and drawing fresh air into his lungs. Once he collected himself, he noticed Beth standing over him, visibly concerned.
“Well,” he said, “now we know your cat didn’t run away.”
Beth felt no shame. She didn’t know Oscar had died, and it never occurred to her that he lost his life because of her actions, that her purchasing and collecting habits were burying more than her pain. She would not allow herself to feel any of it.
“If there is somewhere you can go, I wouldn’t recommend staying here just now.” The man stood upright again, straightening his tie before using it to clean his glasses. “I can get someone out here to remove the carcass within the hour.” Still taking deep, cleansing breaths, he said he would also be returning with someone to help assess the house's safety. “In my experience, you’ll be required to clean it all out or risk action from the county. And believe me, you don’t want that.”
Beth noticed Nicole watching from behind open window blinds as the man drove away. One at a time, she employed the middle finger of each hand and went back inside.
Within the hour, as promised, a white van bearing the emblem of the county’s Agency of Health and Sanitation pulled into the driveway. From her front door, Beth watched as a burly man in gloves stepped out, carrying a heavy black plastic bag, followed by the short, balding man who had visited earlier. An icy-looking woman equipped with a clipboard joined them. As if rehearsed, each placed a small white mask over their mouth and nose at the same time.
“May we come in, ma’am?” the inspector asked. “I want my colleagues to make sure you’re safe here.”
The team entered the house and took in the rolling hills of Beth’s belongings, slowly navigating the carved-out passageway to the kitchen, where the burly man went to work. The others surveyed the living room, mumbling and pointing at various spots on the walls and ceiling.
“There’s no cat in this kitchen.” Inconvenienced eyes accompanied the masked announcement. “Used to be, no question. Nothing in there now, though.” He removed his gloves and made his way to the front door.
“Yes, well, I know that was something, wasn’t it?” Beth wanted all of them out. “My husband removed the cat, poor thing, and he’s taken him out by the woods to bury him properly. I appreciate the assistance, but everything has been taken care of.” Beth’s eyes passed from one to the next as she smiled, concealing her desperation for them to leave her alone.
“Ma’am, your husband didn’t remove the cat,” the inspector said calmly. “Would you like to show us where you’re keeping it?”
“Of course he did.” Beth was growing angry. “Now, you all would do well to leave before he returns. He won’t hesitate to make some calls about your intrusion.”
“Your husband,” he interjected, “who hasn’t lived here for some time and who, to my understanding, will very soon not be your husband, is the one who alerted us to your situation.”
The woman with the clipboard had had enough and began filling out a form with an audible scribble. “I don’t have time for this. Cat or no cat, the house is a fire hazard and may have some real structural damage. Clean it up in thirty days, or the county will start issuing fines. It only gets worse after that. Have a nice night.” She handed Beth the order and left to join the burly man with his empty feline body bag.
The inspector paused on the front porch, took off his mask, and turned to Beth.
“Look, I don’t know you, but it’s clear that you’ve been dealing with something very serious for a very long time. It’s alright. Sometimes, a bump in the tracks can realign the wheels. Just know it’s never too late. And there is help available.” He handed her his card and offered a slight smile.
Beth followed him down the steps onto the front lawn and watched her visitors drive away. There is help available, she thought. What help? She turned, faced her house, and stood there for some time, looking at it. Her neighbor wasn’t entirely wrong. It was an eyesore compared to the other homes with their uncluttered yards and perfectly manicured lawns. Her house had been like that once. Beth wondered how long she could remain there. Did she even want to? The house, purchased in haste, perhaps, had served its purpose. There were pleasant memories, but the lives that once filled it were now entirely, perhaps irreparably, detached, and its final inhabitant had stopped trying to make it a place for life long ago. She had given up, and now the house appeared ready to give up, too. How long, Beth wondered, would it take before the earth reclaimed it? The ivy, shrubs, and weeds were already aggressively showing their potential, and there was no telling how many seasons of rain and snow would pass before the roof began to dissolve. And the fire hazard. It might only need a minor spark to set it ablaze.
Maybe Iris was right, she wondered. Maybe it was time for a real change. The short-term options were simple—she could stay or go. But ‘could’ was a limitless state, an easy fantasy for a wandering mind. Beth wanted to be told what to do. The house always felt like it was built just for her. From the moment she first saw it, it spoke to her, promising a lifetime of happiness. That was no longer the case. She lost herself in that house, but would she ever be able to find herself there again? Now she waited, hoping, after all the years, after the husband, children, cat, friend, and neighbors, that it would speak to her again.
The sky was gray, and the temperature had dropped. Beth couldn't take her eyes off her house. She took a deep breath of the chilly night air.
“Do you make me happy?”
