If You Were Here (31 page)

Read If You Were Here Online

Authors: Jen Lancaster

Tags: #Chicago, #Humorous, #Family Life, #General, #Suburbs, #Women Authors, #Illinois, #Fiction, #Remodeling, #Dwellings

BOOK: If You Were Here
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As it turns out, I am neither.
First, we put me underneath the cabinet, with part of the weight being supported by a ladder, but mostly by me holding it up like Atlas tried to hold up the world, while Mac dicked around with anchors and drill bits. By the time he’d finally load up his drill, my arms would get wobbly and I’d have to set the cabinet down.
Since he didn’t learn last time exactly how much I can benchpress, he decided it would be smart to bolt some of the cabinets together, so I wasn’t just trying to hold up one—in some cases I was trying to do two or three.
Once we realized I didn’t have the endurance to hold cabinets up for the twenty minutes it would take to get them anchored, we swapped jobs and I had to work the power tools. Mac got all squawky that I was “countersinking!” or “not countersinking!” and ruining the anchor holes and stuff.
In the end, we got a couple of cabinets up, but it turns out Mac measured wrong and now we have to rip them back down and start again. The whole ordeal was a nightmare, and I feel like I’m at my breaking point.
“Do you need to vent?”
“Yes and no. Remember how I’ve always had a policy of not saying anything about Mac that I wouldn’t first say to Mac?” This is one of my rules for a happy marriage. I believe every time you bring someone else into a confidence that you don’t share with your spouse, it forms a wedge between you and your beloved. Problems should either be addressed directly or, as sometimes is the case with me, shoved down into a little ball where they’re hopefully forgotten.
“Of course.”
“I’m having trouble keeping it all in and tamping it down. We’re angry all the time now. I feel like if we could just get this damn house straightened out, we could get back on track. I know that’ll happen eventually—the skirmishes in Kyrgyzstan can’t go on forever—but I worry that in the interim, we’re going to let our anger build up so much that we’ll say stuff we can’t unsay. Because we both want to avoid this, we’re avoiding each other.”
“If you change your mind and decide you want to talk, I want to listen.”
“Thanks, honey. So what about you? How’d the date go last night?”
Tracey giggles like a tween. “I hate to jinx it by gloating, but we had an amazing time. He took me to a show at the Goodman and afterward we had the most delectable dinner at Nightwood. For the first course, we split hand-cut pasta with veal meatballs. Then I had weather-vane scallops in a tomato broth and he got a braised pork belly that—”
I moan, “Stop, you’re killing me! You know what I ate today? Peanut butter and lemon curd on an English muffin. Untoasted. Yesterday I had a tortilla filled with ham and mustard, a can of chicken broth, a drive-through cheeseburger, and a mushy apple. I’m considering robbing a 7-Eleven just so I can go back to jail and get a hot meal.”
“When will your kitchen be up and running?”
“As it stands now? A quarter past never, because the cabinets are just impossible and they need to go up before we move on to anything else. We’re at a stopping point and we’ve barely even started.”
“Why don’t you buy or rent those support things that hold up the cabinets while you drill?”
Hold the phone—what? “What are you talking about?”
“Here, let me Google it; I think I just saw them use something like this on
This Old House
last week. Ah, here we go, I’m looking at the T-JAK all-purpose support tool. Says here ‘the lightweight, multipurpose T-JAK tool is designed to ease the installation of kitchen cabinets, drywall ceilings, door and window headers,’ et cetera. Lemme see if I can find a price . . . Okay, yes. They start at seventy-nine fifty.”
I slump down in disappointment. “Oh, well, no wonder Mac didn’t buy one. We can’t afford seven thousand nine hundred and fifty dollars.”
“No, Mia, it’s just seventy-nine dollars.”
“Tracey, I’m going to need to call you back.” I hastily put down the phone and rush out to Mac’s workshop.
“Mac! Mac!” I race to the garage with the dogs right on my heels. Mac’s at his worktable, studying plans. “Honey! Our problems are solved! All we need is a T-JAK! It’s some kind of support that’ll hold up the ceiling when we drywall it and that way I won’t get all crippled trying to install the cabinets either! It’s a miracle! It’s, well, it’s probably some kind of tube and platform and—”
“I know what a T-JAK is.”
That stops me dead in my tracks. “You do?”
“Of course I do.”
“Then why don’t we have one?”
He shrugs. “Because I heard pros don’t use them. They’re for amateurs.”
I think about the debacle we had a couple of days ago, when we ruined a whole sheet of drywall trying to install it on the ceiling, and reflect on how much my shoulders hurt from trying to hoist cabinets and the resulting tension, and I can’t stop what comes out of my mouth next.
“What the fuck do you think we are?”

 

The stack of bills in front of me is the same height as my mug of tea. I have them sorted into stacks of “late,” “very late,” and “they’re probably going to send some guys.” Every time I look at them, I hyperventilate. Now that I’ve finished my book, the money’s going to come, but I won’t see a check until I finish my revisions, and then another good six weeks. These bills need to be paid now. Each time the phone rings I’m shot through with anxiety and I hate it. I’ve gone my entire adult life making careful financial decisions specifically to never have to deal with a situation like this.
I’ve been running spreadsheets of our household expenses and I’m trying to cut every last bit of fat. While I pore over my paperwork, Mac strolls by eating an apple. There’s something about his cavalier attitude that makes a tiny part of me fantasize about stuffing the apple in his mouth and roasting him over a spit.
“Mac, can you come here for a minute?”
“What’s up?” He leans over my shoulder to see my array of paperwork.
“I’ve found an area where we can economize.”
Mac attempts to not roll his eyes. “Mia, this is all going to be fine in a month. I don’t know why you’re torturing yourself right now.”
“Why am I ‘torturing myself’? This is why.” I begin to slap envelopes down in front of him.“ComEd, North Shore Gas, AT&T, Comcast, Abington Cambs Department of Water Management, Abington Cambs Bank and Trust, Chubb, Geico, MasterCard, MasterCard, MasterCard, Visa, American Express, Discover Card, U.S. Department of Education, and . . . Macy’s? Why do we have a Macy’s bill?”
Mac shrugs and takes a loud, wet bite. “I needed some new shorts.”
Argh
.
Calm down
, I tell myself.
You love this man, and this situation is only temporary. Stop thinking of places you can insert that apple.
Through gritted teeth and a bitten tongue, I tell him, “I found a way to save a couple of hundred dollars this month.”
“Cool. What are we doing, switching to cheaper toilet paper?”
“Yes,” I hiss.“We’re going to stop wiping our asses on bonds and start using Charmin.”
He takes a step back and coolly appraises me. “Sarcasm doesn’t suit you, Mia.”
I stiffen.“Noted. Anyway, what we need to do is cancel our gym membership. We’re month-to-month anyway, so we’re not going to lose a huge membership fee. Plus, we’re getting quite a workout here.” All the physical exertion of rebuilding this place coupled with stress has had a marked reflection on my waistline. I’ve easily dropped fifteen pounds.
151
Mac takes another noisy bite. “No can do. Where would we shower?”
“Here’s a novel idea,” I suggest. “Why don’t you quit screwing around in your workshop and wandering the aisles of Home Depot and actually install one of the new showers? Or hook up the tub; I’m really not picky at this point.”
He says nothing, opting instead to chew his apple slowly. I continue. “I just saw one of those save-the-children things on TV. You know, where some organization visits underprivileged families in Appalachia and brings the kids candy bars and crayons and stuff? The announcer was all, ‘This family only has cold running water in their bathroom,’ and I got jealous over their ability to take a chilly shower! Mac, we live in what was—and hopefully someday will again be—a mansion, yet I envy people who receive charity. What’s wrong with this picture?”
He finishes his apple with a slurp and attempts a three-point shot into the garbage with the core. Only he hits the can in such a way that the whole wastebasket tips over. “Fine. I’ll do it tomorrow, or as soon as I get the west wall of the workshop organized.” Then he stalks off, most likely to do something inane and useless, like sort screws by length and diameter.
I’ll admit that the few projects we’ve completed successfully happened because Mac could immediately locate packets of molly bolts in his huge workshop. When he needed to whittle down a door edge, I was grudgingly impressed by how he’d labeled all his various wood planes by function, e.g., for smoothing, polishing, routing,
etc.
So perhaps there’s some merit in being orderly, yet a tidy workshop does little to negate the fact that
I can’t bathe in my home
.
I call the gym and cancel my membership immediately, and it’s only once I hang up that I realize my mistake. I haven’t showered yet today. If I call back and leave my membership open until tomorrow, I’ll be charged for another whole month. As I see it, I’ve got three choices: I can go without, I can hop in the lake, or I can get arrested.
My stomach growls, causing me to longingly recall the oatmeal chocolate-chip cookies I had in the holding cell. Yet as understanding as the judge was, I really can’t risk another appearance at the Abington Cambs lockup. I’m all sweaty and dirty from yanking weeds, so I guess it’s time to hit the lake.
I grab my shower bucket and towel, and because I just do not care at this point, I take the trail through the woods and to the sand instead of climbing down our rocky promontory.
I haven’t even gotten in up to my waist when I realize I’m not alone. In my peripheral vision, I notice a familiar apple-cheeked toddler wandering into the light surf. I’m shocked to see that the kid isn’t all done up in zinc oxide and floaties and a sun hat, because I get a real protective vibe from that family.
I crane my neck to see Lululemon, and brace myself for her ire at being on her beach, but she’s nowhere in sight.
Hold on a second—is that kid down here
by himself
? He can’t be more than two years old!
I haul ass
Baywatch
-style to the shore and scoop up the toddler right before he goes under a gentle wave. He seems to be having a fine adventure, whereas I’m pretty sure I’ve headed into atrial fibrillation.
My heart banging away in my chest, I climb the wide teakwood stairs up the bluff to Lululemon’s impeccably maintained backyard and pass through the open gate. Even though I’m on a mission, I can’t help but appreciate the surroundings. She’s got dozens of small garden areas sectioned off with stacked pavers, and they’re all filled with the most glorious assortment of prairie grasses and yellow and purple native flowers. She’s got larkspur and lobelia and silky aster blended with meadow blazing star and wild senna. The grasses come in a host of varying shades of green, yellow, and magenta. Some are stout with broad leaves, and some are so tall and willowy they’re practically my height. I love all the varieties of coneflowers, with their delicate petals sprouting out of the spiny center disk. They contrast beautifully with hoary vervain and wild leek, some with blooms so heavy and dewy they’re practically doubled over.
152
This garden is nothing short of magical.
The pool house is the size of the ranch I grew up in on Spring Street, with a peaked roof, shake siding, and window boxes, and her pool’s surrounded by bluestone and dotted with artfully staged rocks meant to look like natural formations, complete with waterfalls.
Lululemon’s perched on the edge of a basil-green-and-white-striped double lounge chair, talking into her cell phone while Calliope plays with a doll at her feet. Lululemon’s face runs the gamut from rage to shock to pure fear as she puts the pieces together and she drops her phone and runs to us.
“Missing something?” I ask, holding the child out to her.
“Gregor! Oh, my God, what happened? Where did you—How did you—Is he—” She’s red faced and sputtering and crying and, for the first moment since we met, seems almost human.
“He was on the beach about to get in the water. He was having the time of his life,
153
so I don’t think he’s going to be scarred by the memory or anything.”
Lululemon shakes her head in disbelief. “I don’t understand. I just sat down for a second to take a call and . . . I didn’t even know he was gone. I didn’t know.” She sinks heavily into the lawn chair and buries her face into Gregor’s chest. “I didn’t know.”
I stand there awkwardly in my bathing suit and I’m not really sure what to do next, as I’ve never been around her when she’s not shouting at me. Do I just leave? Do I reassure her? This is all new territory for me. I begin to back away and she stops me.
“How can I possibly repay you? You saved Gregor’s life. My family is in your debt.”

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