A Mile in My Flip-Flops (19 page)

“It’s okay,” I call back. That’s probably what he said when I couldn’t hear him over the power-washer noise. Now fully clothed, I take a quick inventory of all that needs to be done. Is it even possible to make the six-week deadline? With only three weeks left until the loan comes due, I wonder if I should check on some kind of extension. I also wonder why I didn’t bring my coffee maker last night. How am I supposed to function with no caffeine? I’ll have to make a list of must-haves if I’m going to be camping here the next three weeks.

“Hey, you did a great job on that bedroom,” Noah says as he
steps into the living room, where I’m still standing and gazing blankly out the front window.

“Thanks,” I tell him. “Made for a late night.”

“I assume you slept here.”

“Yeah. I decided now that I’ll be helping with Dad, I can save myself some commute time by kind of camping here. I brought a few things over last night, but unfortunately I didn’t think of coffee.”

“Wish I’d known,” he says. “I could’ve brought you a cup. Some people say I make the best joe in town. But you know there’s a kiosk over on Eighteenth Avenue, not that far from here.”

“Good idea,” I say, suppressing a yawn. “Without caffeine I might not ever get moving again. And I really want to finish up the power washing.”

“It’s looking really good out there too,” he says. “You’ll be ready to start priming as soon as it dries out.”

“Thanks. Once I got the hang of that machine, it was kind of fun… in a messy sort of way.” I don’t admit to him that I was the kind of kid who loved getting dirty and making mud pies, the kind of girl that someone like Camille would’ve looked straight down at.

“Have you noticed that this house has really good light?”

I nod absently. “Yeah, although this is the first time I’ve been here early in the morning. With the trees and the angles of the sun, it really is pretty. I can’t wait to see how it looks in here when those walls are gone.”

“When did you want them to go?”

I turn and look hopefully at him. “As soon as possible?”

He smiles and salutes. “You’re the boss.”

After a large coffee with two extra shots, I feel wired enough to
finish the power washing. I work fast and hard and am surprised to find that I’m finished by eleven, which gives me plenty of time to clean up and head for the hospital. Noah emerges from the house just in time to help me reload the power washer.

“Are you heading over to get your dad now?”

“After I return this and clean up,” I explain as I wipe off the safety goggles and toss them into the backseat. “Dad told me yesterday that his ETD is one o’clock sharp and that I better be there or be square.”

“Sounds like him. And sounds like he’s ready to go home. Tell him hey for me.”

“According to him, he’s been ready for days now.”

“Will you be back to work this afternoon?”

“Probably not until this evening. I thought I’d stick around long enough to get him really settled, make him some dinner, buy a few groceries, and make sure he’s got everything he needs.”

“Good for you.”

“So would you mind locking up when you go? Riley is all right in the backyard on his own for an hour or two. I’d take him with me, but I’m not sure how long I’ll be tied up in the hospital.”

“I’ll make sure Riley’s got food and water before I leave.”

“Thanks,” I say as I get into the truck cab. “See you tomorrow.”

“Oh, hey,” he calls out. “I forgot to tell you I’m going out of town this weekend, so I won’t be back to work until Monday.”

I feel a frown crease my forehead but remind myself that I don’t own this guy or his time. Also, I remember his tale about being a recovering workaholic. “Okay, see you on Monday then.”

“Hope you don’t mind.”

“I understand,” I say. “And, hey, somebody needs to have a life.”

He nods. “And you should too, Gretchen.”

I try not to roll my eyes. “Yeah, well, hopefully I will … in about three weeks.”

Now he frowns. “Three weeks? Is that the actual deadline?”

“The drop-dead deadline.”

“Wow…” I can tell by his face that he does not think this is even close to possible. “Then what happens? Does the house turn into a pumpkin?”

“No, but it’s a short-term loan. So penalties incur. Dads credit rating, and probably mine too, goes down. Profits get eaten.”

“Can you renegotiate it?”

I consider this. “I’m not sure. Dad set it up. I just signed on the line.” The truth is, I don’t want to let Dad down. I don’t want to renegotiate. I don’t want to fail. “Is it hopeless?” I ask weakly.

“All things are possible with God.”

“Meaning it’ll take a miracle?”

His brows lift like I just nailed it. And I’m afraid he might be right. Still, it’s not like I can give up.

“Have a good weekend,” I say as I start the truck. Forcing what I hope is a brave smile, I wave. I cannot believe how disappointed I feel, knowing that Noah won’t be working on my house this weekend. But then why should I have assumed that he would? Just because I’m obsessed with getting this done doesn’t mean that he is. Still, I wonder, What
is
he doing this weekend? Where is he going? And who is going with him?

H
ow’s Noah?” asks Dad when I finally have him in the passenger seat of his pickup and am driving him home. It’s nearly two now, and I can empathize with Dad’s frustration at how slow things seem to go at the hospital. I guess that’s why they call their “inmates” patients—it takes lots of patience to be there. “He’s fine. He said to tell you hey.”

“He hasn’t been by to see me since Monday.” Dad wipes his finger through the dust on the dashboard. “I’m assuming he’s been busy at the house.”

I nod and give Dad the latest update on progress, probably painting a cheerier picture than is accurate. And I don’t mention that this weekend looks to be fairly unproductive or that the deadline is halfway here.

“Why don’t we stop by?” he suggests suddenly.

I glance over at him and chuckle. “Yeah, right, Dad. I just signed you out of the hospital, promising that you were going straight home to rest. Like I’m going to take you over to the house.”

He scowls like a little boy and looks down at his lap, picking at the piping of the sweatpants I brought for him to wear home.

“Have you heard from Betty?” I ask, hoping to change to a happier subject.

He brightens. “Yes. She called this morning, and we had a nice chat. She and Louise were in France, some little town down south. They’ll be heading for Paris in a few days.”

“Aah, that sounds wonderful.”

“Maybe for some. It’s sure not my cup of tea.”

Once we get home, Dad is resistant to taking a nap, but I notice that once he’s in his own bed, he falls immediately to sleep. I do a little cleaning and freshening of his apartment and tend to the cats, who seem pleased to have Dad home. I stir up a pitcher of his favorite iced tea, the kind that comes in powder form with lots of sugar. Oh well. I check what’s in his freezer and pantry, making a list of what I’ll get at the store, including a few things I know my dad likes as well as things I know are good for him. A compromise. Then I get some soup ready to heat, and as soon as I hear him stirring, I pop it into the microwave.

“Here you go,” I say as I carry the steaming bowl of hearty chicken and wild rice soup to the table. He still looks groggy, and tufts of white hair stick out on both sides of his head. “A late lunch.”

“Thanks,” he says, sitting down. Then he smiles, and I think it’s the first genuine smile I’ve seen from him in days. “It really is good to be home.”

“I’ll bet it is.”

“Did this place get bigger while I was gone?” he asks as he glances around the space with wide eyes.

“I’m sure it must feel that way after being cooped up in that hospital room.”

“I’ll say.” Dad glances at me curiously. “Aren’t you eating?”

“I already had a bowl of soup while you were sleeping. I thought I’d go to the store while you have lunch.”

He nods, then bows his head and says a quick blessing. “Now, will you hand me that remote?” he says. “There’s a golf tournament I want to see.”

I give him the remote and a kiss on the forehead and promise to be back before five. It’s weird how familiar this feels to me—taking care of Dad, grocery shopping for him, fixing him food, cleaning his place. Not that I’ve done much of it recently, certainly not since he retired and got into cooking and housekeeping himself. But while I was at home after Mom died, caring for Dad was pretty much my routine. I got a break during my college years, but then I came back home and fell right into the same old groove again. Finally, a couple of years ago—when I turned thirty—I got my own apartment. And I suppose I only did that because Holly gave me such a bad time about needing to grow up. Not that I didn’t enjoy that freedom, although I sure did seem eager to toss it aside when I agreed to marry Collin. Just look where that got me.

“Enough!” I say to myself as I park in front of Safeway. “No more trips down Memory Lane, Gretchen Hanover.” Great, I’m talking to myself again.

It’s about seven o’clock when Dad’s finally settled for the evening. I’ve gone over everything that he has to eat, which I think would easily sustain him for about six months if necessary. I’ve written down when he can take his pain meds and placed a bottle of water on his
bedside table. I’ve programmed my cell phone number as number one on his speed dial and told him, in no uncertain terms, to call me anytime. Although I doubt he will. I also spoke to his neighbor while he was napping. I told her that he’s much better but still recovering. Then I gave her my phone number, and she promised to send her husband over in the morning. “They often have coffee together anyway,” she assures me. “And I’ll have Richard bring Hank his newspaper too.”

I can’t think of one more thing to do as I stand nearby—hovering, I’m sure it seems, but still not willing to leave. “Dad,” I begin, “I could spend the night if—”

“No.” He firmly shakes his head. “I’m just fine. Go. Now.”

So I bend down to where he’s comfortably reclined in his La-Z-Boy, his remote and a fresh glass of iced tea on the end table, and kiss him on the cheek. “I’m so glad you’re home, Dad, and feeling better.”

“You and me both, sweetheart.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow around noon then?”

“Yes.”

“Remember the coffee maker is all ready to go. Just turn it on. And there’s orange juice and—”

“I know, I know. You’ve already gone over that. Go ahead and leave, Gretchen. I’m sure that dog of yours is getting lonely.”

“You’re probably right. Maybe I’ll bring him over to visit you tomorrow.”

“That’d be nice.”

“Call me if you—”

“Good night, Gretchen.”

“Night, Dad.”

I decide to run by my apartment again, while it’s still light out, and load up some of my things—like a coffee maker—that will make my flip house a little more homey.

“Are you moving?” asks my neighbor Tom. He’s one of those guys I normally try to avoid—the kind who talks too loudly, drinks too much, and is always looking for the next big “par-tay.”

“No,” I tell him as I lug my Karastan wool area rug down the stairs. My plan is to put this in my makeshift bedroom until the wall-to-wall carpeting is installed. And then I will eventually use the rug for the open house, probably in the dining area.

“Need any help?”

I pause to wipe sweat from my forehead and look up at him, noticing that while he may not be the kind of guy I’d go out with, he does have muscles. “Sure,” I tell him. “I’d love a hand.”

Naturally this makes him clap his hands like he’s applauding.

“Thanks,” I say, rolling my eyes and doing a little bow. But then he pops down the stairs and picks up the other end of the rug, and in no time it’s loaded into the back of the truck.

“Nice pickup,” he says, patting the hood.

“It’s my dad’s.”

Then he offers more help, which I don’t reject, and before long we’ve loaded the pickup bed with even more things than I’d planned. During our trips up and down the stairs, I’ve told him a little about my house flip, and he seems to think it’s a great idea and even offers to help, although I doubt he’s serious.

“Thanks,” I tell him after the last trip. “I’m sure you’d like to be paid with a six-pack of beer, which I don’t have. But how about soda?” I lift up a case of Sierra Mist hopefully.

He makes a face and waves a hand. “Nah. I was just being neighborly.”

I smile at him. “Well, I appreciate it.”

“And…” He glances over his shoulder like he’s uncomfortable. “If you ever, you know, want to go out sometime … that’d be cool.”

“Well, thanks again,” I say, trying not to act shocked. “I’m pretty busy these days doing this house remodel, but…” I trail off to avoid leading him on.

He seems satisfied with my ambiguity as he nods and says, “Later.” Then I make tracks to my pickup and wonder why I didn’t just say no. Still, it was nice of him to help. And it was flattering to be asked out.

It’s dark by the time I get to the house, and I realize I still have to unload stuff from the pickup. Suddenly I find myself wishing for some more “neighborly” neighbors like Tom. Or maybe it’s just that I’m missing Noah. I tell myself that it’s his help I’m missing, but I wonder if it’s even more than that.

I stand in the driveway for several minutes, trying to decide whether or not it would be safe to leave some of the heavier things in the back of the pickup. That’s when I spot my dad’s big contractor wheelbarrow over by the side of the house. Perfect. I put Riley in the backyard, and my work begins.

After several wobbly wheelbarrow loads right into the house, including a precarious trip with the rolled-up rug awkwardly balanced in the barrow, I have everything unloaded into the living room. And although I’m exhausted, I suddenly decide to “play house.” I drag my beautiful rug down the dusty hallway, reminding myself of the salesman when he assured me these rugs are tough and
originally were made for use in nomadic tents and were laid upon dirt floors. Then I unroll the pretty wool rug in the freshly painted bedroom and am so amazed that I almost start crying. The carpet has shades of olive, rust, gold, khaki, and black, and it looks great with the wall color. Then I drag my air bed in, situating it on the rug. I put a bronze lamp next to it; no need for a bedside table since the bed’s so close to the floor. I move my drop-cloth “curtain” from the other room, and I think it looks rather cozy. And Riley seems to like it too.

Okay, I’m sure some people would think I’m nuts. Why would anyone in her right mind want to camp here? But I suppose I am a driven woman right now. With three weeks left and the clock steadily ticking, I know I am now dreaming the impossible dream. But I will give it my best shot. So I sit down on my bed, pull my notebook out of my house-flip bag, and begin to make more lists. There are lots of things I still need to order, so I make a list for them. I make a list of things that need to be done and a list of estimates for costs and deadlines, which are some pretty depressing figures. Finally I make a list of the supplies I’ll pick up tomorrow. And then I force myself to turn off the light and go to sleep so I can get up at the break of day and go straight to work.

Once again I wake up to the sound of Riley barking and running back and forth across the bedroom, trying to get me up. I’m dismayed to see that I’ve slept in. It’s almost eight, and I can hear someone loudly knocking on the front door. I peek out the window to see Holly’s white Subaru parked in the driveway.

“Coming!” I yell as I hurry to let her in.

“Good morning, sunshine!” she says cheerfully, holding out a tray with two Starbucks cups and a little brown bag. “Help is here.” And with her paint-splattered jeans and T-shirt, she actually looks like she’s dressed for work.

“Come in,” I say as I open the door wider.

“Did I wake you?”

“Sort of.”

“You mean you slept here?”

“Yeah,” I admit. “I’m camping.” Then I explain my plan to save on commute time.

Holly looks incredulous as she glances around the grungy living room with various tools and supplies piled here and there. “You really spent the night here?” she says again. “Isn’t that kind of creepy?”

I shrug. “I think I’ve gotten over the creepy factor.”

“Can I look around?”