If You Were Here

by Jen Lancaster

  Talk about your Sophie’s choice.

  Chapter Fourteen

  EAT, PRAY, SHOVE

  “Hi, Chronic. It’s Mia MacNamara! . . .Yes, the lady with the sugar cubes . . .You’re welcome. I’m glad you liked them. . . . The grocery store, I guess . . .Yes, probably any grocer will have them . . . . I can’t really say; I’ve never checked for them at the 7-Eleven. Anyway, I’m calling because we’d like to hire you to do our renovations . . . . Oh, no, really? . . . Well, I guess that’s great for you guys . . . . Shoot. Okay, if anything changes and the band breaks up again, please let us know.”

  “Hi, this is Mia MacNamara; may I speak with Lucky? . . . No, I didn’t realize . . . Do you know how long he’ll be gone? . . . Yeah, our renovations probably can’t wait eight years . . . . No, not even with good behavior . . . I agree, racketeering is a bitch. Thanks, anyway.”

  “Hi, this is Mia MacNamara. . . . Right, right, the nosy woman with all the questions. Listen, I’m calling to find out about your availability. . . . You’re kidding. Booked solid? All summer? . . . Okay, then good luck with your new business, and please let us know if your schedule opens up.”

  “I don’t know, Mac. I don’t understand why, either.”

  Between the two of us, Mac and I have called every general contractor/builder/carpenter/handyman/plumber/electrician in a hundred-mile radius, and we can’t even get anyone to give us an estimate, let alone commit to taking on our project. I wonder whether the folks who write newscasts and newspapers have talked to builders in our area, because it sounds like the housing boom is back.

  “What are we going to do? I can’t keep living like this,” I say, surveying the wreckage of my kitchen, which is adjacent to the dining room with the crumbled wall, across from the library with all the ceiling holes, across from the living room with the aggressively ugly monkey wallpaper. Plumbing issues have crippled two more bathrooms and we’re down to one functioning toilet and shower. We’ve yet to get the smell of rotting carpenter ants out of the master, the mustiness emanating from the covered hot tub is almost unbearable, and there’s something alive and well in the wall of my writing room.

  “We have no choice,” Mac says in a determined tone.

  “You realize I’ll go to jail if the dogfighter steps into this house,” I remind him. People who are cruel to animals bring out my inner Swayze. I’ll show him exactly how not nice I can be, and I’ll probably still be more humane than those barbarians are with sweet, innocent doggies.

  “That’s not who I meant.”

  That’s when I feel my heart drop into my stomach.

  “Mac, noooo! Nick was way too creepy! I seriously don’t want to be alone in the house all day with my number one fan!” I plead.

  “I have plenty more vacation time,” Mac reasons. “I can take it now so you won’t be alone with him initially.”

  “I can’t.” I curl into myself just imagining having that weirdo in my house.

  Mac is firm. “You can.”

  “I won’t.”

  Mac stares me down. “You won’t what? Imagine how nice it might be to have the capacity to wash dishes? Use a toilet other than in the basement? Breathe in air that’s not full of drywall dust? Walk across a floor without shoes or with the confidence that it won’t give way at any time?”

  I cross my arms in front of me and rock slightly back and forth in my chair. I don’t know what to do. Do I agree to have someone in my home who makes me unbearably uncomfortable, or do I suck it up and keep trying to find someone—anyone—else?

  I need a sign.

  As I rock forward, the leg of my chair punches through the hardwood and I topple out of my seat and onto the floor.

  Okay, universe, I hear you loud and clear.

  With great resignation, I say, “Fine. Call the pervert.” I’m too immobilized by the general feeling of ickiness128 to bother sitting upright. The dogs rush over to lie beside me.

  “Good dog,” I whisper into the rough of Duckie’s neck while I glower at Mac. “You’d never make me hang out with a perv-o-potamus.”

  Mac whips out his cell phone and retrieves Nick’s number. He dials quickly and walks into the dining room as the call goes through. “Nick, John MacNamara here. How are you? . . . Good, glad to hear it. Hey, Mia and I wanted to see if you’re still available to spearhead our project. . . . What’s that? . . . You’re joking. . . . You’re serious? Are you sure? . . . Everyone? . . . Is there any way to—. . . Shit . . . Well, yes, this is obviously going to affect her work. . . . Yes, we have been encountering—. . . Fucking hell . . . Nope, wasn’t aware of that, either . . .”

  I sit up, trying to hear more of the conversation, but Mac’s since paced into the living room. I get up to follow and the dogs trail along behind me.

  “. . . and that’s what it would take? . . . There’s no other way? . . . You’re sure? I don’t want her to have to—. . . No, you don’t need to swear on your love of It’s Raining Mennonites. . . . Okay. Let me run it up the flagpole and I’ll get back to you.”

  Mac walks over to where I’m standing in the doorway. “So, how badly do you want the house fixed?”

  “On a scale of one to a hundred? At least ninety-eight.”129

  “Are you willing to make a sacrifice?”

  “Like what? Going down two and a half flights of stairs in the night to go to the bathroom? Washing dishes in the bathtub? Already been there, thanks.”

  “No, I mean a different kind of sacrifice. One that could temporarily compromise your principles.”

  “I don’t follow you.”

  “How much are you willing to give in order to get this ball rolling?”

  Mac looks as cagey as he did the time he tried to keep the oven fire a secret.130 “You’re talking in circles. Out with it.”

  Mac puts his hand on my shoulder. “So, remember when TMZ said Vienna was out for revenge?”

  “Yeah, what of it? That was, like, two months and one cover of People with the headline Eat, Pray, Shove ago.”

  “Then I guess revenge is a dish best served cold. She got her revenge; we just weren’t aware of it. You know how no one will work on our house? There’s a reason for that. Mia, we’ve been blackballed.”

  Blackballed? Like a sorority pledge who made out with someone else’s date, then barfed in a fountain, lost her shoe, wiped out six active members while she tumbled down the stairs, and didn’t have Ann Marie pleading her case? “What does that mean?”

  “Vienna’s family issued a moratorium on any contractor who works with us or on this property. No one can take the job.”

  “Oh, come on,” I protest. “They can’t legally do that.”

  “No,” he agrees, “but they’re huge real estate developers—the biggest in the country, actually. They can’t legally stop their subs from doing work with us, but they can make sure they don’t get any more family business. At least, that’s what Nick was told.”

  I clench my fists and rub my eyes with them. “Aw, shit, this is what Ann Marie was worried about when we talked last week. That’s why she wanted me to lock someone in with a contract. Goddamn it.”

  “You knew about this?” Mac’s eyes fly open in surprise.

  I wave him off. “I thought this was just another one of Ann Marie’s wacky conspiracy theories, like how she thought we had termites and how our home inspector was senile.”

  Mac’s lips narrow into a tight white line. “We did have termites, and according to Nick, Mr. Sandhurst has just been admitted to the Alzheimer’s wing of the Abington Cambs Assisted Living Center.”

  I slump down the doorway into a heap on the floor. “Oh, my God, now what do we do?”

  He sits down next to me. “There’s a solution, but you may not like it.”

  “Whatever it is, I’ll like it more than this.” I reach out beside me and grab one of the thousands of handfuls of dust, debris, and broken nails that are free-range all over our floors.

  “Nick knows a guy who can fix our h
ouse. His name is Vladimir, and he’s not exactly on the up-and-up, but he’s skilled. I guess he does a lot of work out of town, and he’s so under the radar that Vienna’s family probably doesn’t even know about him. Nick said he’d give us his contact information.”

  I perk up immediately. “Great! Call him! Let’s go!”

  “Yeah, there’s one thing,” Mac says with some hesitation. “We’ve got to do something for Nick in exchange for his sticking his neck out.”

  “What does he want? I’ll get him anything—signed first editions, other authors’ books, an introduction to my agent. Whatever.” I glance around the squalor of our living conditions. “I am willing to do anything.”

  Mac’s face twists with a wry grin. “Well, then, in exchange for Vlad’s info, your task is to write Nick a sex scene featuring Amos and Miriam.”

  Damn you, Vienna.

  Damn you.

  I thought about finding some erotic fan fiction and trying to pass it off to Nick, but ultimately I couldn’t put my name on something I didn’t write, even if it was under duress.

  I decided the most expedient route was to pay homage to the fridge scene from 9½ Weeks, only I changed the setting from the kitchen floor to the ground in the milking barn. Instead of strawberries and whipped cream, Amos feeds Miriam friendship bread and dumplings and the very tip of his thumb. And then . . . other stuff happens under the watchful eyes of a barn full of Holsteins and two goats.

  I feel dirty and disgusting after I’m done writing.

  Then again, that might just be the end result of having our only shower break.

  “You got big fucking mess on your hands.”

  “Thank you for noticing,” Mac dryly replies.

  “No, I’m serious. This is big fucking mess.”

  We’ve just conducted the whole-house tour with Vladimir, our new contractor. He’s agreed to take the job, and I couldn’t be more relieved.

  Mac seems to have his doubts, though. First, Mac noticed Vlad’s 3AKA3 MO CCCP131 Komandirskie watch. Then, when Vlad nudged the downed cabinet with his toe, Mac whispered that his boots were also Soviet army issue. When Mac tried to find out where exactly Vlad is from, it sounded like “Somewhere-istan.” I assume whatever country he’s from no longer exists, in which case I feel like we shouldn’t bug him about it. Maybe he’s sensitive.

  Mac has an inherent distrust of all things Soviet, which he claims comes from his army background, but I’m willing to bet originated when Ivan Drago killed poor Apollo Creed in Rocky IV. Personally, I don’t care about his watch or his boots, and if this guy wants to totter around in Carrie Bradshaw’s Manolos, I’m fine as long as he makes my house more livable.

  “Did you bring a contract with you or do we need to wait for you to draw one up?” Mac asks. Nick explained that Vlad won’t do contracts, but Mac tries anyway.

  “No contracts, too much paper trail. I like to stay . . . how you say . . . undetected. Not on grid. Quiet. Is better,” Vlad tells us.

  “That doesn’t sound ominous at all,” Mac replies, giving me a plaintive look. I shrug at him in silent response. This isn’t exactly my first choice either, but what else are we supposed to do?

  Vlad nods. “I got enemies. Long time back. Is bad situation.”

  “I hear that,” I agree.

  Vlad suddenly becomes very alert, swiveling his head back and forth over his shoulders. “What do you hear?”

  “No, I mean I feel you.” Vlad’s still confused and concerned. “I understand you.” Vlad visibly relaxes and I continue. “I get the whole enemies thing. That’s why no one will work with us.” I briefly recap our issues with Vienna just to make sure he’s cognizant of the whole situation. I don’t want him ripping everything up and then deciding midstream he’s too afraid of the Hyatts to continue. As of now, everything’s an enormous mess, but a lot of the rooms are still functional with actual walls and floors. Once renovations begin, there’s no going back or stopping halfway.

  “You got money to pay?” Vlad questions.

  “Of course,” I reply.“I can give you a deposit right now if you’d like.”

  Vlad coolly appraises me. “Then we got no problem. We got big fucking mess, but we got no problem. Tomorrow we come, begin tear everything down. Is good?”

  “Is good.” Oh, crap. I’ve already started to mimic his speech. That used to happen to me all the time when I got sick as a kid. I’d be home alone for a couple of days with Babcia, and by the time I was well enough to go back to school, I’d adopted her cadence, telling my teachers, “Yes, have excuse in bag. Very sick. Better now.”

  “Okay, tomorrow,” he says, before marching out the door.

  As it shuts behind him, Mac says,“I have a bad feeling about this. I get a real ex-KGB vibe from him.”

  “Please don’t start getting squirrely on me now,” I beg. “Do you realize what I had to go through to even get his contact information?” Every time I remember what I wrote about Miriam and Amos . . . and the udders . . . and the milking stool, I die a little inside. “We agreed we were going to do this. We have no other options.”

  “We still have the one,” Mac argues.

  Mac volunteered to quit his day job and work on renovating our house full-time. He’s already drafted preliminary plans about how he’d need to upgrade his garage workshop in order to accommodate the project.

  If Mac were interviewing for a job, I’d tell him to bring up the meticulous-planning aspect of his personality if asked about his greatest strengths and weaknesses. If Mac’s properly prepared, he can blow through a task in a heartbeat, like when he mounted a shelf for me in college. The installation took ten minutes, zip, zip, zip, done. Buying the tool belt, gathering all the right screws, selecting the most appropriate hammer, and finding the studs and a lever and the right brackets took two weeks, and I was at the point where I was fine with my books living on the floor. Sometimes I need more execution and less planning, you know? Our infrequent fights almost always boil down to me getting on him to move faster, or him reacting to feeling rushed.

  What’s ironic is that as much as he plans and readies his tools, he’s terrible at following instructions, because he secretly believes that he can figure out a better way; ergo, blue stew for dinner.

  In order to do our renovations himself, Mac said he’d get his buddies to help him on the weekends.

  Yeah, that was a selling point, let me tell you. I’m not sure which of those prospects strikes the most terror in my heart. He’s friends with Luke, whom you may have seen on the news last year when he set his garage on fire trying to deep-fry a turducken on Thanksgiving. Then there’s Charlie, who knocked out a Wrigleyville gas main when he attempted to dig out an inground pool with a stolen forklift one night after a Cubs game. How about Phil, who ended up in a body cast after adding a nitrous booster to his riding lawn mower?

  Or perhaps he’ll bypass all of the aforementioned and he’ll hit up his fraternity brother Bobby, who seemed normal enough until we set him up with Kara. Remember how cool and romantic it was when an eighteen-year-old Lloyd Dobler stood outside Diane Court’s window with the boom box raised over his head? The scene is decidedly less romantic when a thirty-five-year-old does it, especially after having gone on only one uninspired date, where he spent the entire time crying132 about his ex. Did I mention he pulled the boom-box stunt in the lobby of Kara’s office at the paper? Every year since then, she’s received a Peter Gabriel CD at her company’s gift exchange.

  I am resolute. “Not an option, honey.”

  “I don’t like it.” Mac pouts.

  “The way I see it, our luck is about to change. Everything that could go wrong has. Things are about to get better. Trust me,” I assure him.

  Had Agent Jack Bauer not knocked a hammer through one of the holes in the ceiling right as I said this, I might even believe myself.

  Chapter Fifteen

  NOBODY EXPECTS THE KYRGYZSTAN INQUISITION

  “Hi, Mia speaking.”
r />   “I’ve been outed!”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “I’ve been outed!” Kara wails. “My parents know about the column!”

  I sink heavily onto the floor, as all the furniture is under dustcovers. “Sweetie, are you sure?”

  Kara’s frantic on the other end of the line, and I can hear her bangles jangling in the background. “Yes! No. Or I’m not sure, at least a hundred percent. My sister called and said my parents were in a lather about something after talking to my cousin Parvati’s mother. Parvati’s family has been all over her about breaking off her engagement and I think she may have thrown me under the bus to deflect.”

  “Parv’s not engaged anymore?”

  “No, she caught her fiancé cheating with some chick from work, so she dumped him.”

  “That poor kid.” I don’t know Parvati very well, but I like her because she’s so much like Kara—all hugs and kind words and frenetic energy. “Would Parv do that? She doesn’t seem like the type to squeal on you.”

  “Not intentionally, no. But if she was under scrutiny, she may have cracked. Like when I got busted smoking in high school and I blurted, ‘At least I wasn’t drinking, like Parvati does!’ Mia, you can’t comprehend what it’s like having my mom or her sister grill you—it’s like waterboarding, only instead of water, they use guilt. The government should have my mother question terror suspects. We’d have bin Laden before she finished her tea.”

  “Okay, that may be, but I still don’t follow how you know you’ve been outed.”

  Kara’s breaths are quick and ragged. “While I’m on the phone with my sister, I get a voice mail from my mother telling me in no uncertain terms that I am coming to dinner up there Friday night, and that we will be having a talk. Honest to God, I want to puke right now, I’m so nervous.”

  From the clicking in the background, I can tell she’s pacing. I do my best to calm her. “Kara, the simple fact is, you haven’t done anything wrong. Your column helps people. People have problems. They come to you for a solution. You’re providing a public service.”