There. She had thrown Kelsey a bone.
“Thank you, Jane, that is so, so sweet.” Kelsey seemed genuinely appreciative. “And thanks for pushing me. I need it. But right now what I really need is a Nespresso. Do you want one? Caffeine is good for my migraines.”
“That’s all right, I’ll get started here.”
“Okay, BRB!”
“Be right back” meant an absence of over an hour, but Jane didn’t mind. It was easier to sort through this mess without Kelsey looking over her shoulder and whimpering. Jane was so immersed in her work that she was startled when Kelsey finally returned, cradling Mr. Cuddles in her arms.
“Wow, you are good! Ruthless, huh?”
“There’s a discard pile, a donate pile, a resale pile, and a keep pile. I made educated guesses.”
“So what should I do?”
“Why don’t you look over the donate and discard piles, make sure there isn’t anything you’ll miss.”
Jane watched impassively as Kelsey had what looked like a flash of panicked paralysis, then recovered and picked up a tattered green T-shirt, which she held to her face and inhaled. “This will always remind me of Billy, the last guy I dated before I got married. I was wearing this the first time we met.”
The hardest part of Jane’s job was being patient. She never bought into the whole “patience is a virtue” canard. She believed patience was actually the manifestation of sluggish mentation.
“Aargh, do I have to get rid of it?” Kelsey groaned theatrically, not that she’d done any theater. Jane tried to picture Kelsey performing Shakespeare and chuckled to herself.
“What’s funny? I could use a laugh.”
“Oh, nothing, just something my boyfriend said last night.” Jane was adept at thinking on her feet and casual subterfuge.
“Sweet! You have a boyfriend. Do you have kids?”
“Not yet.”
It was a bit surprising that someone as self-absorbed as Kelsey would ask Jane about her life. Maybe she was lonely. A lot of these people were.
“Is your boyfriend super neat like you?”
“He does the best he can. But not really.”
“Well he’s got you to keep him in line, am I right?”
“He sure does.”
While he wasn’t the tidiest person, Teddy wasn’t a slob, either. He was impulsive, which could be disorienting for Jane, a consummate planner. When Teddy was diverted by some sudden enthusiasm, pants could be left on the floor, dishes in the sink, a skateboard in the driveway. That morning, Teddy woke up craving pancakes, and despite Jane’s protestations that she didn’t have time for breakfast, he proceeded to whip up a batch, imploring her to take a few minutes to sit down and enjoy them, which she reluctantly did. The steam wafting off them carried an intoxicating sweet and yeasty scent, and they were delicious—tender and milky, laden with blackberries and maple syrup.
Jane pivoted back to the work at hand. “So, the green shirt?”
“I look at all of this and they’re not just clothes. It’s like a museum of my career and my life and...”
Jane tried a new tack: a spoonful of sympathy.
“It’s hard to let go of things, Kelsey. But I promise, letting go opens you up to new things.”
“New things! Yay! You are so right, Jane.”
Kelsey picked up a vermilion dress.
“Like this—I wore it on a date with Charley and got a little wasted and vomited while we were having sex, so now it’s sort of triggering.”
What a charming anecdote—even if not true. Kelsey was one of those fantasists prone to hyperbole. And the wordtriggeringhad become as irritatingly ubiquitous as the wordsspaceandbrand. The notion that triggers were harmful and to be avoided was absurd. Jane believed they were inevitable and useful. Learning to deal with microaggressions would inure you to macroagressions. So essentially, triggers were a vaccine.
