The Makeover by Karen Buscemi Page B

suits, trousers, and button-downs hanging perfectly over two rows of shining shoes; his T-shirts and sweaters folded neatly in a tall shelving unit. Even though she had spent years getting dressed in this closet, it still took her breath away each time she turned on the light and stepped inside.
    She sighed and dragged in a large packing box, grateful Henry had thought to order wardrobe boxes so she could leave the majority of her clothing on hangers, saving her hours of folding and steaming time. Only her sweaters, lingerie, and accessories would need to go into regular boxes.
    Twenty-four wardrobe boxes later, the hanging section of the closet was packed, save for a grouping of outfits she had set aside for Henry and her to wear during their last days in the apartment. Already exhausted, she retied the silk scarf that was covering her hair and wandered toward the kitchen to check on Henry’s progress. She found him in the living room, reclining on the sofa with a glass of beer in hand and the Giants game on the television. “Slacking off, I see?”
    “Done, my dear. How about you?”
    “You’re done ? With the whole kitchen? How is that possible?”
    Henry took a long drink of his beer and looked at his wife quizzically. “It’s been five hours,” he said, his eyes never straying from the game. “And those kitchen boxes were fantastic. Little spots for the glasses to go so they don’t have to be wrapped. Same for the plates. Really made it simple. Yes! First down.”
    With Henry’s full attention back on the game, Camellia headed to the kitchen to see for herself. Sure enough, the cabinets were bare, and boxes were stacked everywhere, with only a narrow path to the refrigerator left open. She opened the refrigerator, feeling famished, and pulled out a couple of cheese hunks and went into the pantry for some crackers. They were packed. She opened the silverware drawer for a knife. That was packed. Every last plate was packed, too. And there were no paper goods to be found. With a noisy exhale, she threw the cheese back into the refrigerator and headed back to the closet. “Real thorough packing job, Henry,” she muttered as she passed through the living room, Henry too focused on the football game to respond.
    By moving day they were done and barely able to put one leg in front of the other, their bodies aching from all the bending and lifting. Henry had rented an SUV for them to drive, which was packed with more urgent personal belongings, including Camellia’s laptop and a bag filled with toiletries, just in case the moving truck broke down en route. Henry planned to keep the car for a week, until he could buy them their own. Camellia hoped Henry also planned on taking care of all the driving. A road trip was not the right time to revisit the lessons learned in driver’s education.
    It took the movers until early afternoon to get all the boxes and furniture out of the apartment. Henry had positioned himself outside near the back of the truck, making sure their possessions made it safely onto the vehicle. Camellia, however, didn’t know what to do with herself. The movers didn’t require any direction, the four young, able-bodied men huffing in and out of the apartment, careful not to nick the walls as they maneuvered bulky tables and dressers and chairs out the door with ease. As the day progressed, there were less places to sit, and no place to escape. Finally, she took the elevator down to wait with Henry. When the door opened at the lobby, Tray was waiting.
    “Cammie!” he shrieked with mock joy, taking in her simple road-trip outfit of tailored Capri pants, cashmere sweater, and ballet flats. “Don’t tell me you’re leaving us.”
    “If you’ll excuse me, Tray, I’m busy,” she replied gruffly. She tried to pass by, but he blocked her way.
    “What’s the matter, Cammie? No one in New York wants to hire you?”
    Camellia felt her blood pressure rise. She wondered if she were to hit him square