A Million Breaths from There To Here

When Claire was closing her retail store, there was still enough stuff left to fill four ten-foot by twenty-foot storage units. Two were filled with office equipment and supplies, and two were filled with display and merchandising items. It was all that remained of a home furnishings and interior design store where twenty-three vignettes had graced a luxurious showroom. Here one found ideas for creating living spaces the likes of which could be found among the pages of notable magazines, such as Better Homes and Gardens and Southern Living. After a two-month liquidation sale, Claire shipped the saleable furniture and accessories off to a wholesaler in New England and began the tedious task of packing up the leftovers and hauling it all off to these four storage units.

There were thousands of fabric swatches, dozens of rug samples, in-store signs and their stands—just tons of things that when put in their respective places made sense. These were the items that helped run daily operations. They kept things organized. They aided the employees and designers. They helped customers make choices. To Claire, each was associated with a story. Some items told stories she’d rather forget.

It was overwhelming to see it all piled up, everything on top of the other. Every time she had to open any one of those units, two battles raged. The first was her Type A personality, which wanted things neat and organized. The second was what the visual representation of the chaos whirling around her represented: a dream that took four years to build, built on fifteen years of experience, ended by one single year of circumstances beyond her control. Claire often asked herself, which weighed her down more? All the tangible stuff piled in those lockers, or all the emotions piled into the loss of her dream?

The dream of owning a successful storefront was only part of the equation. Add to that Claire’s dream of the financial security she had built over the years that was, according to plan, supposed to only get bigger. The last piece was her 10-year exit strategy to carry her and her family into retirement.

But in the wake of COVID, it was all gone now. For Claire, it was difficult to separate the headache from the heartache. This was not where she was supposed to be at this stage of her life. She was keenly aware how separate the “ache” from each word was. To simply say headache and heartache, the connection between what the mind thinks and what the heart feels is not so obvious.

It was difficult to sleep at night. She could not turn off all the what-ifs in her head. Like the tail end of a movie reel that flaps noisily as the reel keeps spinning, all the decisions she could remember making over the store kept spinning in her head. As the nighttime darkness filled her bedroom, she searched for how she could right things. Night after night, nothing made sense. How could it all be gone so quickly?

If losing her investment wasn’t bad enough, Claire often found herself recounting how this impacted her employees’ livelihoods. She also grieved putting her family through all this. Suddenly, they were forced into reaching deep into their own pockets to close the store, with heads held as high as possible. Not only was she watching her dream die, in the end, this would leave them truly penniless.

For the first three months after closing, Claire went to the storage units several times a week to tend to the sorting and purging that came along with the chaos. She had to get out of the storage units as quickly as possible, as the cost of keeping them only added to the loss. And Claire needed a reprieve from literally choking as she held back the tears at every visit.

As she rifled through the boxes and piles, memories of the final days before the wholesaler came would come flooding back. Customers nagged for yet another 10 or 15 percent off. Some were heartless enough to remark, “What does it matter to you? You are already closing.”

One day, Claire caught a customer switching tags on an accessory that normally retailed for $300. The liquidation price was $100, and the customer switched it with a $25 tag, thinking no one would notice. What they could not fathom was that it did matter. It mattered deeply to Claire, because of what the store’s closing was doing to her and her family.

Today, Claire had to go through the stacks and make decisions about what should be kept for future taxes, an audit if there was one, banking and payroll records for year-end W2s, plus take pictures and post items that had some merit in the online trash and treasure forums. She had already taken a deep breath when pushing open the heavy unit door this morning. She would need many more to get through the day.

The first box that caught her eye said simply “desk.” Well, that was as good a start for this day as any. Pulling a random ottoman up to the box, she sat down, peeled it open, then began pawing through receipts, orders, inventory lists, Wendy’s napkins? Sticky notes, greeting cards, while-you-were-out messages, menus for nearby eateries… then she caught sight of a familiar friend, who had been nearby for most of the journey: the black notebook. Here were her plans, her hopes and dreams, thoughts and ideas. She had made meticulous notes on her adventure, her grand scheme. She looked at it, considered all it represented – a book of broken dreams, crushed hopes, silly idealism, wide-eyed naivety, and raised her arm to fling it forcibly across the room towards the trash barrel. But something stopped her – she couldn’t let it go. Instead, she dropped it in her roomy purse, and started in again on the flotsam and jetsam of her dream run aground. She determined to plow ahead, and revisit her black notebook when her heart and head were up to the grueling mental autopsy of her “Big Idea.”

Four weeks and four storage units later, Claire sits in her dining-room-slash-make-do-office. All that could be sold had been sold. Claire sighed and picked up her purse. A credit card was missing. She overturned the purse and spread its contents on the dining room table. Oh, the black book was still in there… she tried to ignore it and she sorted through searching for the errant card… but the book would not be ignored. She picked it up and slowly released the band that held the book closed, for it was stuffed with loose notes and papers.

Flipping the pages, sticky notes and mystery torn bits begged to be looked at, but what won her attention was the envelope tucked in the back. The words scrawled on the front were her own words, her own handwriting.

“Being free makes me happy, setting others free makes me happiest.”

Her hands shook as she tore it open. She vaguely remembered what it was, but could not believe the possibilities if it indeed were true. As soon as her eyes took in its content, she also took in a gulp of air trying to catch her breath – this time in joyous disbelief rather than dismayed exhaustion. It was a cashier’s check for $20,000, that many months back was to be a transfer between accounts. Such a large amount, one might wonder how is it possible it never made its way to the bank? Instantly Claire knew the answer. Too much going on and far too many distractions. The chaos that fills the gap between the heart ache and the head ache can easily make you forget a lot of things.

But just as fast as hope came to be, fear quickly descended. What if the check was far too old and the bank would not honor it? “I have to get to the bank,” Claire said outloud. And with that she bounced up, kicked the box at her feet aside, and ran.

Once in the car, she called her bank and asked to speak to Phillip, the Branch Manager. With all the COVID restrictions customers were encouraged to go through the drive-thru, but this could not be easily reconciled through a pane of glass and metal drawer. Without giving details, she secured a “Yes, come on in.”

Claire felt the lump in her throat growing as she waited for Phillip to return with the news. After explaining how she came upon this cashier’s check, she sat there, willing herself to keep it together and stop the negative thinking, that the check would not be honored. She faked a calm air by looking around, adjusting her mask, and occasionally looking at her phone texts. It was all in vain. Nothing was registering except the little voice in her head saying, “Don’t get your hopes up.”

“Claire,” Phillip said, as he rounded his desk and took a seat. “I couldn’t be more happy for you, with all you have been through.” Phillip proceeded to slide a piece of paper in front of her. “It all checks out. Our records indicate it was never cashed or deposited. We need just two things. First, your signature and date here, and second, if you want it deposited or cash. That’s it, then $20,000 is all yours.”

It was as if everything stood still. Everything but her quivering lip. Was it really true? She did as Phillip asked and as he made his way to the tellers’ station, she couldn’t hold back the tears. Upon his return, she could barely squeak out a thank you. But that did not matter. Phillip knew. He had watched Claire’s tumultuous journey unfold, sometimes from across the lobby, other times when discussing much more arduous money transactions.

As Claire walked to her car, her head was reeling. She quickly grabbed a pen and began fearlessly scribbling things down on the backside of that wonderous envelope from the black book. When done, she ran to the store then made her way to her favorite nail salon where she hadn’t been to in over a year. Once the pleasantries were exchanged and Claire relaxed into the chair, she texted her husband. It read: Meet me at Bailey’s for dinner at 7pm. No questions asked – trust me!

For the second time that day, Claire sat anxiously waiting. When her husband arrived, he kissed her hello, smiled, and sat across from her. He, too, was anxious. With a raised eyebrow, he looked at her and asked, “Can I ask questions now?”

Like a school girl passing a note to a boy she liked, Claire slide a black book to him. He caught a whiff of the new leather smell while asking, “What’s this?” Claire simply said, “Open it.” Tucked inside were twenty $100 bills. “What, you rob a bank or something?” he asked. She smiled and said “No. The truth is, we now have ten times that amount!” she almost squealed. All he could muster was an emphatic “What?” The look on his face was priceless as Claire provided all the details. When he asked her why she didn't call, she simply said, “I didn’t want to get your hopes up.”

Recognizing that in the excitement of seeing the money, he missed the message she had written on the inside cover, she asked him to read it. It read: A million breaths from there to here… today marks a new beginning… let’s do it together.