Rise: How a House Built a Family(74)
Yeah, we were building things. Every swing of the hammer made him stronger, purged his grief. At the end of the day we’d have a new door or two, and the thought made me smile. For the first time in too many years we were fearless about stepping through newly opened doors.
The shingles were not only delivered that Saturday afternoon, they were delivered directly onto the roof. Roman watched the conveyor belt like it was transporting alien beings back to their home planet. As a bonus, the roofers actually showed up the next day. The only thing that made me happier than the progress we were making was the fact that my own feet were firmly on the ground.
Pete was supposed to come by and help me work on the drain lines, but he didn’t show. Drew and I managed to get the last exterior door installed. Just when I worried I was teaching him a few new words, he taught me a few. Installing windows and doors did not make our list of favorite pastimes. And with five bedrooms, closets, three bathrooms, laundry room, pantry, library, Harry Potter cupboard, garage, and four exterior doors, we had a substantial future with doors. To make matters worse, the library and back doors were complicated French doors, so they actually counted as two each—on the off chance that anyone was counting.
“As soon as the Sheetrock’s in place, we can actually lock this place up!” I said, holding my hand up to feel for a breeze around the edge of the window.
“You mean if we ever figure out how to install the locks,” he said, and I realized I was getting used to the exasperated tone he had fired at me for the last few days.
“Don’t forget, we’re also assuming no one knows how to throw a brick through a window,” I added, matching his irritation and raising it three exhaustion levels. “While we’re at it, let’s assume no one can use a reciprocating saw to cut straight through a wall any time they damn-well please.”
That took him off guard, and I regretted the small truth. We were building Inkwell Manor to feel safe, to forget that a crazed man with power tools might hack his way through our carefully measured walls and back into our life.
“I know it’s slow, but we’re making progress. You want to work upstairs or down?” I asked. Now that we were back to slow-moving projects, it was all work and no fun.
He wiped his face, and I pretended not to notice that he had drawn another Egyptian slave symbol on the back of his hand. He’d been doing it for at least a week. We moved through the day like we were marching in pudding.
Off like a herd of turtles, my grandma would have said.
By the next weekend, most of the sewer lines were complete. We finished running black iron pipe for the natural gas, and I had a hard time shaking the feeling that I might blow us all to the moon. A water leak would be unfortunate, but a gas leak was scarier than an ex with a thing for knives and coded messages.
On Friday, the realtor showed our old house to a young couple with three small girls. I was equally terrified that it would sell and that it wouldn’t. If they bought it, we’d go from being buried under a mortgage we could no longer afford to living free and clear at Inkwell. The trouble was, we would have no place to live until the build was finished. While strangers tiptoed through our bedrooms, we drove to a nearby park and watched Roman swing—“Too high!”—until the realtor gave us the all clear. Living in a house that was up for sale made us feel displaced. We had two houses but no home. The kids retreated to their rooms after a late supper, with Roman following Jada to her room.
I welcomed the quiet sunset, hoping that Caroline would ride down on the final rays to cheer me and pass on some strength. I cleaned the kitchen under the haze of orange sun, disappointed that my imaginary friend hadn’t stopped in for an imaginary pep talk. The last yellow-green of daylight streaked the horizon while I tied the trash bag closed, feeling fortunate to live in a time where trash bags were infused with mountain-fresh Febreze. “Come on, Hershey. Let’s get this bag out, girl.” I whacked my palm against my leg and she beat me to the door, tail thumping the wall.
It was a beautiful night, clear and so filled with starlight that I believed Caroline was with me after all. I walked around to the side of the garage to drop the trash in the can, but no one had brought it up from the road. We had a system for whose turn it was, just like the system for the dishes. A block of wood sat in the kitchen window with the older kids’ names stamped on different surfaces. After they unloaded the dishwasher, they flipped the block to the next name;—forget to flip it and you were up twice. A cruder chunk of wood in the garage served the same purpose for trash. I didn’t have the energy to drag one of them out and didn’t really mind the walk anyhow.
Hershey trotted beside me, sniffing after a chipmunk or rabbit trail every ninth step, gravel shooting back from her paws when she launched on each new path. Freshly mowed grass and wild onions reminded me of my mom’s potato soup, and the chorus of night insects boldly shouting things they never said in daylight made me smile. I was practically skipping by the time I reached the can. A fire-ant hill had started beside it, and I made a mental note to poison it before it spread. The bites annoyed the kids and left large welts on me, an allergic reaction never quite bad enough for Benadryl but driving me half mad with itching for a week or more.
I tossed the bag in and left the can at the street. Dragging it back up the gravel would interrupt night sounds, and I was in the mood to listen. I threw my hands in the air, eyes on the stars, and felt a yell bubbling in my throat. I held it in, wondering what it would say if I let it out, wondering if it would be in an ancient tongue. The things in my mind and heart had started to feel more and more foreign, but in the thrilling way of new discovery; I no longer felt like a lost, frightened soul. I had found a home inside my own skin for the first time. Things were a long way from perfect, but they were trending in a direction I knew I could live with. My mom was right. We really were going to be all right.