Designing Morgan

by Lucey Phillips

  “Um, yeah. Kind of super-awkward,” I said. “But that’s not even the main problem. Clint, my ex-boyfriend, still wants to be too friendly. He’s always texting me and acting too… just too familiar. I want him to stop but I don’t know how to get him to back off.”

  “And if you’re too pushy about it, it’ll make waves with your client,” Lee said, nodding understandingly.

  “Exactly! Sophie has worked hard on this and so have I. Hannah, the fiancée, has a blog and she’s brought us a ton of business,” I said. “I’ve been politely assertive, but Clint still isn’t backing off.”

  Lee nodded thoughtfully. A wave of relief came over me. I realized I had been tensely squeezing my shoulders toward my neck for the past few minutes. When I was with Clint, I never would have confided something like this. It would have sent him into either an angry blow-up or a three-day pouting spell.

  “It’s a tough call,” Lee said. “You’ll figure out what you need to do. Maybe just wait it out and then after the wedding, block his number.”

  I nodded. “That would be an easy solution, but, I don’t know. It feels kind of wimpy. It seems like the right thing to do is assert myself more.”

  Lee pressed his spatula against one of the patties, causing grease to spill onto the flame and make a fiery burst around the hamburger. I thought I saw a small crease form between his eyebrows, but maybe it was just my imagination. I was so accustomed to Clint behaving poorly, maybe I irrationally expected that of all men.

  It was chilly and getting dark when we went inside and sat down at Lee’s kitchen table. For a few minutes, we ate in silence. A lump of nervousness grew in my throat, making it difficult to get the burger down.

  At first I thought Lee was being quiet because he was just really hungry and wanted to eat. But something in his face, even in the way he held his fork, told me it was more than that. I didn’t know him well enough to figure out if he was brooding angrily, or if he was just, maybe worried.

  I became progressively madder at myself for mentioning Clint to Lee. Why had I thought that was a good idea? Things were cool, we were having a fun evening, and then I ruined it.

  I replayed the conversation in my mind while I sipped my second beer and took tiny bites of pasta salad. How must that conversation have felt from Lee’s standpoint? Was it threatening that another man simply existed in my world, even though I’d made it clear that I didn’t want to be involved with him?

  “You’re not eating your burger,” Lee said. His voice was tender, almost sad. “Is something wrong? Is it overdone?”

  I shook my head. “No, no it’s good. I just…” I stared down at my plate. Was my voice shaking a little? I took a deep breath. “Is something wrong?”

  He looked at me with sincere, sad eyes. I should have given him time to answer, but I was getting nervous. And when I get nervous, I talk.

  “I’m sorry, I probably shouldn’t have said anything about Clint. I can see how that would make you feel weird, but seriously, there hasn’t been anything going on between us in more than a year—“

  “Morgan,” Clint interrupted me, his voice somber. “Stop.” He leaned back in his chair, folded his arms across his chest, and turned his face away from me, as if he were looking out the window. But it was dark. There was nothing to see outside.

  My stomach and throat started to burn. My hamburger looked pitiful on the plate. The bun was squashed and there were only two small bites missing from the edge.

  “Morgan. I like you so much,” Lee said. “I need you to know that. I don’t want to, um, to overwhelm you. But I like you. I’m not just killing time hanging out with you.”

  I took a small breath. I felt like my lip was going to start shaking.

  “And I’m glad you told me what’s going on with your ex-boyfriend. I’m glad you wanted to share your problem with me. So don’t apologize.”

  I waited for him to finish.

  “When you told me that, my first instinct was to have a talk with that guy,” he said letting out a nervous laugh. “But you aren’t the kind of woman who needs a guy to handle things for you. I just had this really, like, overwhelming urge to help you. And all at once, I realized I haven’t been, just, hanging out and getting to know you. I’ve been falling for you.

  “The thought that you have a little entanglement with your ex, or that maybe I’m a rebound and you’re not ready for a new relationship, well, it’s kind of scary.”

  I remembered Lee running to help me at that baseball game when I was trying to save a woman from her abusive boyfriend. And I remembered him staying up late with me that night, walking the dog until my fears settled down and I was ready to go home. There was also the way his eyes lit up when he talked about the Adirondacks and the respectful tone he used when he talked about the ancient people he studied. I remembered him sitting on my living room floor making jewelry, helping Sophie and me save the business. And I remembered all of his smiles—his sincere, but too white to be real smiles.

  I looked right in Lee’s eyes. “You’re not a rebound. You’re not a placeholder. There’s nothing I can do to prove that to you. You know me well enough now. I think you’ve seen who I am and, if you want to, you can just choose to trust me.”

  Somehow our hands had met each other’s in the middle of the table.

  Lee smiled. “Ok,” he said. “I do.”

  And then it was my turn to release my own sparkly grin.

  17.

  At first, when I heard the loud crack and then felt my bed shake, I thought I was having a bad dream. It was still dark out. I lay in bed with my eyes open, listening to rain hit the windows. My heart was pounding and I had a feeling that something really was wrong. Franklin confirmed that it wasn’t a bad dream, it was a real problem.

  He stood up from his usual spot sleeping beside my bedroom door, walked over to me, and sniffed around until he found one of my hands. The he proceeded to bump his forehead into my hand until I got up.

  “What is it, buddy?” I asked, scratching his head. “What happened?”

  My heart was still pounding. I turned on the bedroom light and then looked down the hallway. Everything looked exactly how I’d left it, but something just felt weird. I went to use the bathroom and looked out the window. The light above my back door illuminated the backyard. Everything was normal there too.

  Franklin stayed by my side while I checked the living room and then the kitchen. I keep a tiny lamp on top of the fridge and leave it on for those times when I need a midnight snack. It cast a familiar, warm glow over the kitchen, which was clean—exactly how I’d left it.

  Relieved, I wandered back out to the living room and peeked out the window in my front door. The street looked messy from strong winds. There were brown leaves everywhere. A couple of garbage cans were tipped over. A white plastic grocery bag blew up the street.

  Over to the right, something looked off. I could see sticks, well, branches, lying in the yard. Those weren’t there before. I went toward the enclosed side porch that serves as my art studio to get a better view from the windows in that room. But when I tried to open the door to enter that room, the door wouldn’t open.

  The knob turned; it wasn’t locked. I looked at Franklin. He circled around me nervously. I pushed on the door harder and harder. Finally when I slammed my shoulder into it, it budged open an inch. Cold wind burst through the tiny opening. I could hear rain falling.

  “Oh my god, Frankie,” I said breathlessly. Somehow I remembered to put on a jacket but not shoes before I headed out my front door to see what had happened.

  The rain-soaked lawn made squelching noises when I walked on it. Cold mud and rainwater squished between my toes as my pajama pants quickly became soaked from the knees down.

  I ran through my small front yard toward the side of my house, to see what was wrong with my side porch.

  When I got close to the corner of the house. I could see my backyard. You’re not supposed to be able to see my backyard from the front
of the house—normally it’s blocked by the side porch.

  But the side porch wasn’t there any more.

  In its place was a heap of tree branches and a pile of rubble.

  I cupped my hands around my eyes to shield them from the piercing raindrops as I stepped closer. It was too much to see, or at least comprehend, all at once. The rectangle that had been the side porch roof was still attached at one corner, causing the black-shingled roof to dangle like a handkerchief held from only one corner.

  A big branch and half of the trunk from the neighbor’s old oak tree lay across the middle of the roof, smaller bare branches spreading out from it. A fractured piece of the trunk remained sticking up from the ground. Maybe it had been hit by lightning.

  Mounds of gray sludge that had been drywall seemed to ooze out from beneath the roof as well as boards, 2x6s and 2x4s. Rain pelted the black gash where the roof had been attached to my house. It looked like a scar. The rainwater gathered dirt and left black streaks on what was formerly the interior wall of the room. The door leading to my living room was wedged in by roof debris. I wondered how long until the weather destroyed that door, which was not designed to get wet, and the drywall, which appeared to be melting before my eyes.

  For a moment I thought about digging through the mess to see if any of my artworks had survived. But my feet were so cold now they were tingling and stinging. I knew that there was no hope my newest sculptures, made of wood and wire and plaster, would have survived intact. Maybe a couple of paintings could be salvaged. And I held out hope that some of my extensive collection of art supplies, very expensive professional-level art supplies, might be recovered from the mess.

  Before I went inside, I glanced up at the roof of my house. It looked untouched.

  I got back inside, took off my jacket and just stood there for a minute. Franklin made a beeline for me. I sat down on the floor and hugged him. I don’t know how long I was there, petting him, trying to put together a worthwhile thought. All of the new pieces I’d been working on for my portfolio were probably destroyed along with some of my older pieces that still needed to be photographed for slides. A lot—if not all—of my supplies were probably ruined, too. I didn’t keep much Candy Blue stuff in that room, so the business wouldn’t be affected. I’d been watching Netflix before bed, so my laptop was safe. Only for a moment did I allow myself to think about what would have happened if someone had been in the room when the roof came down. It was enough force to break a neck, for sure.

  “I need to call someone,” I finally said to Franklin. “When your roof falls in, you call someone, right?”

  The dog normally wags his tail and makes adoring eye contact when I talk to him. But tonight he didn’t. He just watched me intently.

  A wave of self-doubt, accompanied by the familiar haunting of social anxiety crept over me when I walked back into my bedroom to get my phone. I found it, but I didn’t want to make a call yet. I changed out of my soggy pjs, put on warm socks, and walked back out to the living room. I looked at my living room ceiling for signs of a water leak or problems with the roof. Everything looked normal.

  I looked down at my phone. It was 4 a.m. Should I get someone out of bed in the middle of the night for this? If I called Sophie or Lee or someone else, what would they do? It’s not like they could come rebuild that room for me. Or re-sculpt my destroyed sculptures.

  I wedged the side porch door open one more time, but only for a second. The cold wind and rain immediately began blowing in, so I let the door slam shut. Yeah, the room was still collapsed.

  I opened the contacts in my phone. I needed to decide if I would call anyone and if so, who would it be, Sophie or Lee? I sat on the floor next to Franklin again.

  I decided to call Lee. It rang for a while and then went to voicemail. I shouldn’t be surprised, most people I know sleep with their phones on mute. I decided to leave a voice mail.

  “Uh, hi. It’s me. I’m sorry to bother you in the middle of the night. Don’t worry, I’m fine. I just, well, a tree fell on my house and there’s some damage. I don’t really know why I’m calling you, it’s not like I’m getting a hammer and starting to fix things right this minute. I guess I should just call the insurance company. Ok. Sorry.”

  The desk I kept in the spare bedroom has an ‘important papers’ drawer. I found some documents from my homeowners insurance and I called their 24-hour hotline. The woman I talked to was really nice. She asked a lot of questions and said it sounded like the house is safe, “But just to be sure, you can go to a hotel if you like, until we’re sure your home is structurally sound. You are covered for up to fourteen days in a mid-level hotel or motel.”

  I told her thanks, I’d think about it, but I knew I wouldn’t leave. This house has been standing for almost a hundred years. I knew it wasn’t going anywhere. That side porch was just some crappy addition from the past forty years or so.

  The lady also pointed out that the home wasn’t secure because that interior door—now an exterior door—between the living room and porch didn’t lock. I assured her I was secure. First of all, there was Franklin. Secondly, someone would have to move my flopped-down porch roof in order to get that door open.

  As soon as I ended the call, my body seemed to suddenly be aware that it was the middle of the night. I put my phone down and lay next to Franklin on the floor, patting his belly. I kept my eyes on the line where the ceiling and wall met, looking for signs of water coming in. Soon I heard Franklin snoring and my own eyelids grew heavy.

  The next thing I heard was a gentle but quick knock on my front door. I rolled over and raised my achy neck and shoulders to look toward the window. The sky was an almost-sunrise shade of purple. Now the knocking was on my window and Franklin was giving his usual “red alert” bark.

  I walked to the door and saw Lee’s truck in front of my house. When I opened the door, Lee ran up to me and hugged me.

  “I’m so sorry I missed your call. I tried calling you back but there was no answer.” He was squeezing me really tight.

  “Ugh, I think I had my phone on mute! I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you,” I said. “You didn’t have to come over. There’s nothing to do, really.”

  Lee walked around the side of the house and looked at the damage for a long time. I put Franklin on his leash and joined him beside the pile of roof, wood, drywall, and smashed art. Now that it was almost light outside, the mess looked even worse.

  Lee turned and looked over at what was left of the tree. “That’s not your tree? I think your neighbor is going to be responsible.”

  “Yeah. She’s an older lady, lives by herself. I’ve only said hi a couple times,” I said. “My insurance adjuster is supposed to get out here today. I guess they’ll contact her insurance.”

  Lee put an arm around me. “I’m just glad you’re ok.”

  I stepped closer to the pile. I needed to get dressed, put on some heavy work gloves, and figure out if there was anything I could save.

  “I’m supposed to make a list of the stuff that I lost,” I said. My words seemed hollow and far away.

  Then I saw something that I hadn’t noticed—hadn’t even thought about until now. It was a muddy tattered corner of my koi fish painting, smashed under rubble. I had spent months on it and now it was ruined.

  All at once, without any warning, I was sobbing. I stood shivering, in my pajamas, hiding my face with my hands, crying with loud gasps that seemed like they were coming from somewhere else. Lee walked up beside me and put his arm around me, pulling me close to him, but staying beside me, not in front of me. Maybe he knew I needed to look at the mess a while longer—to take it all in and convince myself it was real.

  “My paintings, my sculptures, my art,” I said, allowing myself to fully indulge in my crying meltdown. “My whole career was in that room.”

  Lee could have reminded me I still had my slides or told me that I’ll make new, better stuff. Or he could have pointed out that Candy Blue was my livelihood,
not those paintings and sculptures. But that would have been patronizing, even insulting. Instead, he did what I needed him to do. He stood beside me and held me as I tried to accept the impact of what I’d just lost.

  18.

  The bitterness I felt walking past all the fine arts studios and classrooms at LHU was a surprise. I was on my way to an appointment with my old college advisor, Mark Schenley. Most of my body of work was gone now, and with it went part of something else, something I couldn’t quite name. I caught myself—and felt ashamed immediately—feeling jealous and resentful of the students who had their entire careers ahead of them and whose artworks were still intact.

  My MFA application was due in less than three weeks. Before the contractors arrived with a dumpster earlier in the week, I had been able to salvage exactly one painting and one sculpture from the pile of rubble that had been my side porch. Lee and Sophie had both helped me pick through the mess. We recovered some usable art supplies: a set of pens in a sturdy plastic case and some sculpting tools that were underneath a table. When I got scratched by a nail and Sophie got poked with a splinter that was so sharp it pierced her glove, I called the recovery mission off. The insurance settlement would be enough to rebuild the porch and replace the supplies.

  Mark greeted me with a somber hello. I’d emailed him a few days earlier to tell him what had happened to my house and ask him if he’d review my portfolio with me.

  “It’s ok,” I said, forcing a smile. “Nobody died, I’m ok.”

  “Losing your work is a big deal,” Mark said. “That happened to an old colleague of mine. He lost everything in a house fire: his lifetime body of work, pen and ink and watercolors. It was a really long time before he could produce again.”

  I shrugged and Mark let the topic drop. He knew I wasn’t someone who enjoyed touchy-feely conversations. I preferred sarcasm any day. Besides that, I felt like I was grieving. I’d definitely lost something huge, something special, but I wouldn’t say I was devastated. I still had Candy Blue. My livelihood and day-to-day work didn’t really change at all. At that very moment, a crew was at my house, rebuilding the porch. I would have a nice, new room there in a couple weeks.