by Kaira Rouda
“Hello,” I yelled, just to be sure I was alone. No one answered, but my own voice echoed back to me. The sky was overcast and the air inside the house felt thick and gloomy. And cold, even though it was a warm summer day. To my left, the empty living room—empty except for a huge flat-screen TV. To my right, what was once a formal dining room. The house was colonial revival, if I remembered my home styles, and was symmetrical throughout. Straight back, past the formal staircase, was the kitchen. I remembered they’d added on, as most people did with these old houses, changing it from a “servant’s kitchen” to an open one with a family room combined. It was a dream kitchen with the works: Honed black granite countertops; cherry cabinets; and sleek, built-in, stainless steel appliances. I walked through the kitchen into the family room and was shocked.
On the wall, in four-foot-tall letters, were the words “lying, cheating bastard.” Graffiti, in black spray paint, a mural of pain and heartbreak. No wonder Charlotte needed my help. I walked upstairs and found what had been a girl’s bedroom painted in a happy purple. Although empty, it still smelled like a teenage girl had lived there, with remaining scents of Herbal Essence shampoo and tropical body lotion. The two boys’ bedrooms were something else. One was painted all black: walls, floors, ceilings. Even the pocket bath between the two rooms was black. The other room was covered with graffiti written in every known color of Sharpie pen. Some of the writing was tiny, some large. Poems and angry song lyrics and none of the words hopeful. The heater vent in this room had been filled with cigarette butts and beer bottle caps.
This house was oozing pain.
The walls of the third-floor master bedroom were painted a light blue. It could have been romantic and private. Neutral and happy—once upon a time.
I checked my watch. I had thirty minutes to get home and make lunch before Beth and baby arrived. Even though I was still full from my farm breakfast, I had an old friend to feed. I hoped Melanie would be home from her run in time to join us.
But first, I called Charlotte.
“This is bad,” I said. “It’s almost painful to walk through.”
“I know. It’s the worst I’ve seen in this price point. But look at it this way: Once you get your feet wet with this, you’ll be able to handle anything. Listen, I talked to the folks at Global Furnishings and they’re going to let us borrow rooms of furniture off the floor.”
“Okay, that’s a good start, Charlotte, but how do I get everything done—between now and when?”
“Day after tomorrow works. I’ll show the buyers the other listings and save the Thompsons’ place for last. It’ll buy us some more time. Come on, think of this as your own Extreme Home Makeover show, the Kelly edition! Thanks so much. I’ve got to go, but call me if you need anything. Oh, and once you’ve picked the paint to cover up all that hideous graffiti, let me know. I have the painters ready to start in the morning.”
Now in addition to my Things to Change list, I suddenly had a major “To Do” list. At least this big job plus my new houseguest’s needs would take care of curtailing Law & Order viewing for the foreseeable future. First item on my To Do list: Tell husband I’ve taken a job. Second, make lunch and open up dialogue between former best friend and current lost teenager. Third, jump into new career field with confidence and speed, due to deadline looming in two days. I trotted back across the street as I called Patrick.
I got his voice mail. Probably better. “Hey, I just wanted to call and see how your day was going and to mention that I took a job, and the next couple of days are going to be crazy, so if you could be around the house that would be good because I’ll probably need your help! Thanks, dear! Love ya!” Phew, I thought as I hung up. I’ve perfected the art of run-on sentences.
Gotta love voice mail. Great for conflict avoidance. I’ve read there’s even a service you can dial first and then make your call, guaranteeing you’ll go straight to voice mail. Once my home staging business takes off, I might need it.
Melanie arrived at the back door the same time I did, and we both made gleeful noises back to Oreo, who greeted us at the door. She looked like she’d just run a marathon.
“How far did you run?” I asked her as we headed into the kitchen and she grabbed a bottle of water.
“I don’t know, I just went. I’m hitting the shower.”
“Okay, um, and that friend of mine—ah, Bony Beth from high school? Well, she’s coming over for lunch, with her newborn. I hope you’ll spend some time with us?”
“Maybe,” Melanie said, and walked out of the room in a blur of thin legs.
I whipped up some tuna fish salad—I thought that was okay for a new mother but couldn’t quite remember—sliced some strawberries, and had made a semi-presentable table arrangement just as the doorbell rang.
Beth looked wonderful, fabulous even. I don’t know how she had done it, but she looked even better than she had at our ten-year reunion. She glowed. Even if her husband was gay, she was happy. Heck, maybe that was the secret to her happiness. Whatever it was, I was glad for her and thankful she was back in my life.
After a big hug, much cooing by me over baby Sarah and much wowing by her over my house—I thought, again, maybe I am good at this—Beth followed me into the kitchen.
“Thanks so much for coming over and bringing the baby. Melanie’s upstairs taking a shower. I think she ran to Pennsylvania this morning; she told me she was just going to go for a jog around the block.” I pulled out a chair for Beth so she could sit and hold the baby. I always forget how tiny they are, fresh out of the oven.
I cootchie-cootchie-cooed for an annoyingly long time, after which Beth had a chance to comment. “Overexercising is another sign of the disease, you know? Do you remember how I was always jogging, even when track season was over? Jogging is also an escape. It gets your endorphins flowing and you don’t have a care in the world. I could go for miles.”
“But she didn’t even eat breakfast.”
“Not surprising. If she’s a true anorexic rather than bulimic/anorexic, she won’t eat. If she’s bulimic, she’ll eat to pacify us and then she’ll throw it up.”
“So far, I don’t think she’s had a bite to eat, except for her health bars, since she arrived yesterday,” I said.
“Does she know why I’m here? Why I’ve come over for lunch, aside from showing off Sarah and catching up with you, of course.” Beth smiled.
“I’ve told her a little bit about you, and what you two have in common. Of course, Melanie doesn’t think anyone can relate to her.”
Melanie walked into the room.
“What were you saying about me, Aunt Kelly?”
“Nothing, Mel. Come join us.”
“Your baby is adorable,” she said, ignoring me as she pulled up a seat next to Beth. “What’s her name? Can I hold her?”
“Sure,” Beth said. “This is Sarah. She’s such a good baby. I’ll put her in the carrier while we eat and after that you can hold her as long as you’d like.”
“I like her name, Sarah. That’s pretty,” Melanie said.
Wow, I thought, two complete sentences not in response to a question. We were making progress.
Beth and I shared what we thought were hilarious high school stories, each of us observing as discreetly as possible Melanie’s peculiar eating method. She took tiny bites and then pushed the rest of the food around on her plate. Some of the tuna fish ended up mounded under the strawberry slices, some in a thin spread, and some, from the look on his face, in Oreo’s belly.
“So, you’re going to be a sophomore at good ole Grandville High?” Beth said. “I remember that being a pretty good year because it was just before my parents broke up and my life went crazy. Actually, their separation came in the middle of sophomore year, come to think of it.”
Melanie shot me a look and then said to Beth, “Do you know my mom, too?”
“No, I haven’t ever met her but if she’s a friend of Kelly’s I’m sure I would like her. Why?”
; “Just wondering. My mom and Kelly both think I’m crazy.” She slipped Oreo another glob of tuna salad.
“No I don’t,” I said. “Actually, you’re very smart. It’s not everybody who can text under the table while also eating, feeding Oreo, and talking.”
I thought I saw a smile break through, and then it was gone. She was trying hard to only pout around me, but two could play this game. I was going to hear her laugh someday; that was my goal.
“Well, I’ve gotta go work on my summer reading,” Melanie said, standing up. “I’ll let Oreo out, Kelly. Nice to meet you Bony Beth—I mean Beth. Your baby is adorable.” And she was gone, Oreo trotting out of the room behind her.
“I thought you wanted to hold Sarah?” Beth asked Mel, while shooting me a look that could kill. Melanie had said Bony Beth on purpose. I knew it.
“I’ll hold her next time,” she yelled from the foyer.
“How in the world did she know that nickname?” Beth asked me.
Jeez. “I was trying to break the ice, to make her understand you could be her friend, you could relate. I’m sorry, Beth. I’m way out of my league here. I’m just trying to help.”
“I know you’re trying, Kelly, and you’re right. This issue is challenging. Do you mind holding Sarah? I’m going to try to talk to Melanie.” Her face was determined, while mine probably showed I was giving up.
“Her room is at the top of the stairs. Hanging fish on the door.”
Sitting at my kitchen table, holding an infant, I realized I should feel better now that I had reinforcements. Sure, Melanie was a problem, but Beth had agreed to help, and I was the one who had brought them together. I had accomplished more in the last two days than I had in the past six months. I’d embarked on a new career, I cried less frequently, I hadn’t compared myself to anyone (#4) in at least a day, and I had reconnected with an old friend—and fed her. I wouldn’t have another conversation with the boys for a week, so I’d have to brag to Patrick and Charlotte. And Dr. Weiskopf. That was enough.
I had things to do, and things to change. And as soon as Beth and little Sarah headed home, I needed to head for Home Depot.
PAINT SWATCHES AND DIGITAL CAMERA IN HAND, I ARRIVED back at the Thompsons’ house just as the first mid-afternoon thunder rumbled across the sky. Ordinarily, I love summer storms, but that’s when I am safe at home, not in an empty, graffiti-laden house. I had a job to do, however, and by golly, I was going to do it.
Once I was inside, I realized it would be dark due to the storm. The kitchen had overhead lighting, and Heidi had left the dining room chandelier behind, but other than that, there weren’t lamps anywhere. I’d just have to go with the color scheme I’d designed at Home Depot. Without light there would be no chance to second-guess my choices.
I had decided to add rich color because the walls in the entry hall, dining room, and living room were all an uninviting light tan. Red for the dining room and entry hall and a deep navy for the living room would do wonders. I needed to liven things up in the kitchen, so I had picked a sunshine yellow. I finished taping paint swatches to the appropriate walls downstairs, and I was walking toward the entry hall when I heard footsteps—upstairs.
I realized I hadn’t shouted out my hello as I had reentered the house. “Hello!” I called. Rule number one in home staging: Make sure you announce yourself.
“Who is that?” a gruff voice said from the top of the stairs. “Who let you in?”
Shoot. “Oh, hey, Bob, it’s Kelly. Kelly Johnson, from across the street,” I chimed sweetly in my best Kelly Johnson/Donna Reed voice, all the while sliding quickly toward the front door. He moved rapidly down the stairs and beat me to the door, blocking my exit. He had a bottle of Jack Daniels in his right hand.
“What are you doing in my house?” Bob asked, the slurring doing little to conceal the anger in his voice.
“Well, hey, good question. Charlotte hired me to stage your home. That’s when we get it all fixed up to sell fast,” I said. And smiled.
His eyes looked crazed, beady, and not at all happy with me or the situation.
“Should I call her and have her talk to you? Or would it be better if I just left?”
“No, stay. Charlotte must’ve gotten too busy to tell me she was letting you in. It’s cool. Wanna drink?” Bob stuck out his arm and offered me a swig from the bottle.
“Ah, no, thanks. I’ve got a lot of work to do here.” Stupid, stupid! I’d just insulted his home.
I was shaking, but wasn’t sure why. Heck, he was my neighbor. But I’d never seen him like this. Sure, he’d been through a lot, but he was also freaking me out, between the booze and his stare.
“Well, I’m going to just finish up and get the place ready for the house painters,” I said, backing away from him and the front door. I turned and hurried up the stairs, rapidly taping the paint chips throughout the second and third floors. Now what, I wondered, pausing to catch my breath. There was only one staircase and it would lead me back to Bob. I listened but didn’t hear a sound. Maybe he’d passed out somewhere in the kitchen? I took a deep breath and rushed down the stairs to the first floor, and freedom.
Bob was waiting in the shadows of the living room, and he stepped out to block the front door again.
“Yeah, well, the bitch did this to me. Never should’ve left my first wife. Lust—gets you every time. It’s karma, don’t you think?” He moved closer to me, his whiskey breath assaulting my nose. I stepped back until I was against the dining room wall. “I’ve always thought you were more my kinda woman, Kelly, more than Heidi ever was. You know, all perky and perfect. We used to joke about how you all had the perfect little family up there, up above us on the highest hill. Do you wear aprons, little Kelly?”
With that Bob grabbed me with both hands around my waist and pulled me in close.
“I’ve always wanted to kiss you. Tasty, like a snack cake.”
“Bob, really, please,” I pleaded pushing him away with all my strength as his face kept getting closer. He’d pressed his lower body into mine and we were touching from thigh to chest. My heart was beating so fast I thought my chest would explode.
“You know, I think your husband was hot for Heidi. I watched them during a couple of block parties. That’s why this feels so right with us,” he said. Then, as he tried to take another swig out of the bottle, he stumbled backward.
I was free. My legs hadn’t run in decades, but suddenly they propelled me through the entryway and out the door, down the driveway, and across the street. Before I knew it, I was standing in my own foyer, soaking wet from the rain, shaking and sobbing.
I climbed the stairs slowly and went straight to my bedroom. I needed a hot shower. Maybe I can’t handle this businesswoman stuff, I thought. Who knows what would’ve happened if Bob hadn’t fallen backward? From my bedroom, I could see over to his house. The front door was now closed. I hoped he had left. I didn’t care that he was drunk and possibly driving somewhere. I didn’t care about him at all.
AFTER A LONG, HOT SHOWER, I KNEW THE BEST THERAPY was to get back in action. I couldn’t let the unsettling episode with Bob stop me on my first assignment.
Per Helen Reddy’s advice, I roared my favorite lines from her hit song as I got dressed. I always feel better when I sing, as long as nobody else is listening—except Oreo. He tipped his head, looking at me while raising one ear, a clear sign to me that he enjoyed the performance.
Everybody has setbacks in business, I told myself. Near misses . . . almost rapes? Well, maybe not that, but close calls. I needed to toughen up, get back in the saddle. The storm had blown through and the late-afternoon air felt refreshing. I had dressed quickly in another new outfit from Clothes the Loop: black True Religion jeans and a black and white summer sweater, accessorized perfectly by the Dogeared Karma necklace I’d chosen. What comes around goes around, I thought, although I wasn’t quite sure how Bob fit into that mantra. I decided to focus on the positive.
As Doug and I headed to the
Global Furnishings store, I called Charlotte to yell at her. I got her voice mail. For once I was not satisfied talking to a machine. But I did.
“You didn’t tell me Bob lurks around his house drinking Jack Daniels all day,” I yelled. “You could’ve mentioned him to me and vice versa. Jeez.” I hung up. I think this was my first business argument in years. It felt good. Cleansing.
Time in the furniture store was my dream come true. I simply walked from showroom to showroom with the owner in tow, telling him what items we’d use at the house. Pretend shopping—creating a new home without spending a dime. I picked contemporary couches and chairs in yellow and off-white for the family room. It was going to be bright. I added a sisal rug and that room was set. Some colorful plates and accessories would help the kitchen countertops spring to life. A formal cherry dining room table with matching chairs, a Venetian-looking smoked-glass-and-gilt mirror for the wall, and the dining room would shimmer. In the living room, I’d selected two soft velvet tan couches, a marble coffee table, and an amazing Oriental rug. Mirrors and uplighting would bring light into the room, while crystal candle holders would adorn a Venetian banquet table. Upstairs, on the second floor, I selected furniture that would make the bedrooms just right for a young family: white wood bunk beds, area rugs in primary colors, and accessories that held the promise of happiness. I would turn the master bedroom into a beach-themed retreat with more sisal, white slipcovers, and dark mahogany furniture. I couldn’t wait to see it all come together at the Thompsons’.
As I left the furniture store and started the drive back home, I finally called Patrick. I had pulled over to the side of the road, underneath a weeping willow tree at the entrance to the park by the river. I locked my doors so nothing bad could happen. No more negative events today, I told myself, looking down at my Karma necklace and trying to think positive, peaceful thoughts.
As soon as I heard his voice, I started sobbing. When I didn’t stop, couldn’t stop, he became frantic on the phone.