A Mile in My Flip-Flops

by Melody Carlson

  “I was just looking for a T-shirt,” he says, “but I don’t seem to have any—”

  “There’s a towel in the bathroom,” I suggest, then remember that I used it on Kirsten, so it’s pretty muddy now too. “Or how about a nice clean drop cloth?” I suggest, trying to be cheerful for Kirstens sake. Right now her big blue eyes remind me of a scolded puppy that got caught rolling in the dirt. “I just got some at the paint store, and I could—”

  “Just get it, please,” she commands. I sense Noah’s eyes on me as I hurry to the pickup, and I suspect he feels somewhat responsible for his ex’s deplorable lack of manners. I dig around the backseat where the drop cloths are stowed along with paintbrushes, masking tape, and various other supplies. I finally find a package, which I open and shake out as I walk back to where Camille is standing by the car with a very impatient expression. “Here you—”

  “Thank you very much!” She snatches the white cloth and wraps it like a robe around Kirsten. Then she helps her into the passenger seat, carefully buckling the seat belt around the folds of the drop cloth, I’m sure more to protect the seat belt than to protect her daughter. I make a little wave to Kirsten, smiling apologetically. I won’t blame the poor thing if she never speaks to me again. And, okay, I know I’m staring as Camille struts around to the other side, gets in her fancy car, slams the door, and without even glancing back at us, noisily guns her engine, then shoots off down the street. I watch in stunned silence as she drives much too fast in the twenty-five-mile-per-hour zone, past sidewalks where children often skateboard or ride bikes. A word, beginning with the letter b, pops into my head as I watch that white convertible zip away. “I’m sorry,” says Noah.

  I turn and see his disappointed expression. “I’m sorry too.” To be honest, I’m not sure what I’m most sorry about. But I am definitely sorry.

  “She’s not always that bad,” he says sadly.

  “Well, I pretty much trashed her daughter,” I admit. “I’m really sorry about that, Noah.”

  “It wasn’t your fault,” he says. “I told Kirsten to stay out of the front yard.”

  “She said Riley got out the front door, and she was trying to stop him,” I say, replaying the explanation that Kirsten gave me as I attempted to clean her off in the bathtub. “She was sorry too.”

  “Even so…” He shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans, then just shakes his head hopelessly.

  Now, despite everything, I begin to see the humor in this, and although I try not to, I start to giggle.

  “What?” He looks curiously at me.

  “Oh, I’m sorry… I just keep seeing the shock on Camille’s face, like she was about to faint when she saw Kirsten. I thought she was literally going to blow up, you know, like a cartoon character that splatters all over the TV screen…or maybe we were going to see steam shooting out of her nostrils and ears.” I burst out laughing now. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone so angry and yet attempting to remain somewhat cool and controlled at the same time.”

  Noah starts to chuckle now. “And when she looked at you, Gretchen—” A loud snort of laughter explodes from him. “She just had this totally appalled expression, like some prissy old lady who stepped in a pile of—”

  “You can’t really blame her,” I gasp, laughing even harder as I look down at my soggy, sodden overalls and realize how truly disgusting I must look. I point my finger at Noah. “Your ex probably thinks you’ve really gone to the dogs, Noah.”

  He reaches over and gently pulls a twig from my hair, his blue eyes twinkling. “Well, that figures. Camille never was a very good judge of character.”

  Feeling flushed, I don’t know how to respond … so I don’t. “Well, umm, I better go finish up my mess,” I say, turning away and returning to the wand with the stuck trigger. I finally manage to dislodge the branch, and before long I’m back at it again. I still plan to work until dark. As long as I’m already a mess, I might as well get as much done as possible.

  After a while Noah comes out and waves good-bye. It’s hard to hear his voice over the noise of the power washer, but I think he’s saying that he’ll see me tomorrow. I just nod, then turn my attention back to the siding. I actually think I’m getting pretty good at this. But by seven, I’m tired. I’m also concerned that the noisy engine might be disturbing the neighbors, so I decide to call it a day.

  Riley is in the backyard, and to my surprise he’s clean. I run my hand over his damp coat and realize that he, unlike me, has been recently bathed. I figure this must be Noah’s doing, and I am very appreciative. So I give Riley fresh water and a bowl of food and promise to be back in an hour or so. I hurry home, where I take a long, warm shower, put on a clean set of work clothes, and then lug several loads of things, including an air bed that’s still in it’s box, down to the pickup. My plan is to get that one bedroom set up so I can spend the night. It’ll be very campy, but at least I’ll be at the house and ready to get back to power washing in the morning.

  Although I’ve been trying to eat more healthfully, I’m starving, so I pick up fast food along the way and eat most of it before I even get there. And maybe it was a smart choice, because by the time I’ve unloaded the pickup, I feel like I’ve gotten a second wind. So I decide to try out the new paint color in the bedroom. I put a Norah Jones CD into the player and begin to paint. I have always liked to paint. Dad taught me the right way to do it when I was fourteen and tired of living in a bedroom with ballerina pink walls. I changed those walls from pink to bright orange, which was awful, and finally to a soft periwinkle blue, which remained there until Dad sold the house while I was in college. But whenever anyone needs help with painting, I’m always quick to volunteer. I love cutting in around baseboards and then filling the roller with paint and evenly rolling it on. I find the whole process soothing. It’s like I’m in control.

  But by 1:30 a.m., when I finally finish the room, I am beat, and although I had originally planned to set up my bed in there, I decide that sleeping in those paint fumes might not be the best idea. In fact, I begin to wonder if it was a very good idea to spend the night here in the first place. For one thing there are no window coverings, so it’s like I’m walking around in a fishbowl. Also, there is no shower. Only a very dirty tub. But I’m too tired to pack it up and go home. So I set up the air bed in a different bedroom and nail a drop cloth over the window for a curtain. Then I bring in Riley and his bed, and before long we are tucked in. And thanks to complete and utter exhaustion, I quickly fall asleep.

  I awake to the sound of my dog barking. It takes me a couple of minutes to get my bearings, and when I check my watch, I see it’s not even six, and yet Riley seems ready to go. Still wearing my sleeping shorts and a flimsy camisole, I slip on my flip-flops and go to the bathroom, where to my surprise I find Noah just strapping on his tool belt, like he’s all ready to go to work.

  “Whoa!” I literally jump, then turn around and dash back to the bedroom, where I quickly dress in my work clothes.

  “Sorry to startle you,” Noah calls from the hallway. “But I told you I was coming early today, and I’ll be leaving early this afternoon too.”

  “It’s okay,” I call back. That’s probably what he said when I couldn’t hear him over the power-washer noise. Now fully clothed, I take a quick inventory of all that needs to be done. Is it even possible to make the six-week deadline? With only three weeks left until the loan comes due, I wonder if I should check on some kind of extension. I also wonder why I didn’t bring my coffee maker last night. How am I supposed to function with no caffeine? I’ll have to make a list of must-haves if I’m going to be camping here the next three weeks.

  “Hey, you did a great job on that bedroom,” Noah says as he steps into the living room, where I’m still standing and gazing blankly out the front window.

  “Thanks,” I tell him. “Made for a late night.”

  “I assume you slept here.”

  “Yeah. I decided now that I’ll be helping with
Dad, I can save myself some commute time by kind of camping here. I brought a few things over last night, but unfortunately I didn’t think of coffee.”

  “Wish I’d known,” he says. “I could’ve brought you a cup. Some people say I make the best joe in town. But you know there’s a kiosk over on Eighteenth Avenue, not that far from here.”

  “Good idea,” I say, suppressing a yawn. “Without caffeine I might not ever get moving again. And I really want to finish up the power washing.”

  “It’s looking really good out there too,” he says. “You’ll be ready to start priming as soon as it dries out.”

  “Thanks. Once I got the hang of that machine, it was kind of fun… in a messy sort of way.” I don’t admit to him that I was the kind of kid who loved getting dirty and making mud pies, the kind of girl that someone like Camille would’ve looked straight down at.

  “Have you noticed that this house has really good light?”

  I nod absently. “Yeah, although this is the first time I’ve been here early in the morning. With the trees and the angles of the sun, it really is pretty. I can’t wait to see how it looks in here when those walls are gone.”

  “When did you want them to go?”

  I turn and look hopefully at him. “As soon as possible?”

  He smiles and salutes. “You’re the boss.”

  After a large coffee with two extra shots, I feel wired enough to finish the power washing. I work fast and hard and am surprised to find that I’m finished by eleven, which gives me plenty of time to clean up and head for the hospital. Noah emerges from the house just in time to help me reload the power washer.

  “Are you heading over to get your dad now?”

  “After I return this and clean up,” I explain as I wipe off the safety goggles and toss them into the backseat. “Dad told me yesterday that his ETD is one o’clock sharp and that I better be there or be square.”

  “Sounds like him. And sounds like he’s ready to go home. Tell him hey for me.”

  “According to him, he’s been ready for days now.”

  “Will you be back to work this afternoon?”

  “Probably not until this evening. I thought I’d stick around long enough to get him really settled, make him some dinner, buy a few groceries, and make sure he’s got everything he needs.”

  “Good for you.”

  “So would you mind locking up when you go? Riley is all right in the backyard on his own for an hour or two. I’d take him with me, but I’m not sure how long I’ll be tied up in the hospital.”

  “I’ll make sure Riley’s got food and water before I leave.”

  “Thanks,” I say as I get into the truck cab. “See you tomorrow.”

  “Oh, hey,” he calls out. “I forgot to tell you I’m going out of town this weekend, so I won’t be back to work until Monday.”

  I feel a frown crease my forehead but remind myself that I don’t own this guy or his time. Also, I remember his tale about being a recovering workaholic. “Okay, see you on Monday then.”

  “Hope you don’t mind.”

  “I understand,” I say. “And, hey, somebody needs to have a life.”

  He nods. “And you should too, Gretchen.”

  I try not to roll my eyes. “Yeah, well, hopefully I will … in about three weeks.”

  Now he frowns. “Three weeks? Is that the actual deadline?”

  “The drop-dead deadline.”

  “Wow…” I can tell by his face that he does not think this is even close to possible. “Then what happens? Does the house turn into a pumpkin?”

  “No, but it’s a short-term loan. So penalties incur. Dads credit rating, and probably mine too, goes down. Profits get eaten.”

  “Can you renegotiate it?”

  I consider this. “I’m not sure. Dad set it up. I just signed on the line.” The truth is, I don’t want to let Dad down. I don’t want to renegotiate. I don’t want to fail. “Is it hopeless?” I ask weakly.

  “All things are possible with God.”

  “Meaning it’ll take a miracle?”

  His brows lift like I just nailed it. And I’m afraid he might be right. Still, it’s not like I can give up.

  “Have a good weekend,” I say as I start the truck. Forcing what I hope is a brave smile, I wave. I cannot believe how disappointed I feel, knowing that Noah won’t be working on my house this weekend. But then why should I have assumed that he would? Just because I’m obsessed with getting this done doesn’t mean that he is. Still, I wonder, What is he doing this weekend? Where is he going? And who is going with him?

  How’s Noah?” asks Dad when I finally have him in the passenger seat of his pickup and am driving him home. It’s nearly two now, and I can empathize with Dad’s frustration at how slow things seem to go at the hospital. I guess that’s why they call their “inmates” patients—it takes lots of patience to be there. “He’s fine. He said to tell you hey.”

  “He hasn’t been by to see me since Monday.” Dad wipes his finger through the dust on the dashboard. “I’m assuming he’s been busy at the house.”

  I nod and give Dad the latest update on progress, probably painting a cheerier picture than is accurate. And I don’t mention that this weekend looks to be fairly unproductive or that the deadline is halfway here.

  “Why don’t we stop by?” he suggests suddenly.

  I glance over at him and chuckle. “Yeah, right, Dad. I just signed you out of the hospital, promising that you were going straight home to rest. Like I’m going to take you over to the house.”

  He scowls like a little boy and looks down at his lap, picking at the piping of the sweatpants I brought for him to wear home.

  “Have you heard from Betty?” I ask, hoping to change to a happier subject.

  He brightens. “Yes. She called this morning, and we had a nice chat. She and Louise were in France, some little town down south. They’ll be heading for Paris in a few days.”

  “Aah, that sounds wonderful.”

  “Maybe for some. It’s sure not my cup of tea.”

  Once we get home, Dad is resistant to taking a nap, but I notice that once he’s in his own bed, he falls immediately to sleep. I do a little cleaning and freshening of his apartment and tend to the cats, who seem pleased to have Dad home. I stir up a pitcher of his favorite iced tea, the kind that comes in powder form with lots of sugar. Oh well. I check what’s in his freezer and pantry, making a list of what I’ll get at the store, including a few things I know my dad likes as well as things I know are good for him. A compromise. Then I get some soup ready to heat, and as soon as I hear him stirring, I pop it into the microwave.

  “Here you go,” I say as I carry the steaming bowl of hearty chicken and wild rice soup to the table. He still looks groggy, and tufts of white hair stick out on both sides of his head. “A late lunch.”

  “Thanks,” he says, sitting down. Then he smiles, and I think it’s the first genuine smile I’ve seen from him in days. “It really is good to be home.”

  “I’ll bet it is.”

  “Did this place get bigger while I was gone?” he asks as he glances around the space with wide eyes.

  “I’m sure it must feel that way after being cooped up in that hospital room.”

  “I’ll say.” Dad glances at me curiously. “Aren’t you eating?”

  “I already had a bowl of soup while you were sleeping. I thought I’d go to the store while you have lunch.”

  He nods, then bows his head and says a quick blessing. “Now, will you hand me that remote?” he says. “There’s a golf tournament I want to see.”

  I give him the remote and a kiss on the forehead and promise to be back before five. It’s weird how familiar this feels to me—taking care of Dad, grocery shopping for him, fixing him food, cleaning his place. Not that I’ve done much of it recently, certainly not since he retired and got into cooking and housekeeping himself. But while I was at home after Mom died, caring for Dad was pretty much my routine. I got a
break during my college years, but then I came back home and fell right into the same old groove again. Finally, a couple of years ago—when I turned thirty—I got my own apartment. And I suppose I only did that because Holly gave me such a bad time about needing to grow up. Not that I didn’t enjoy that freedom, although I sure did seem eager to toss it aside when I agreed to marry Collin. Just look where that got me.

  “Enough!” I say to myself as I park in front of Safeway. “No more trips down Memory Lane, Gretchen Hanover.” Great, I’m talking to myself again.

  It’s about seven o’clock when Dad’s finally settled for the evening. I’ve gone over everything that he has to eat, which I think would easily sustain him for about six months if necessary. I’ve written down when he can take his pain meds and placed a bottle of water on his bedside table. I’ve programmed my cell phone number as number one on his speed dial and told him, in no uncertain terms, to call me anytime. Although I doubt he will. I also spoke to his neighbor while he was napping. I told her that he’s much better but still recovering. Then I gave her my phone number, and she promised to send her husband over in the morning. “They often have coffee together anyway,” she assures me. “And I’ll have Richard bring Hank his newspaper too.”

  I can’t think of one more thing to do as I stand nearby—hovering, I’m sure it seems, but still not willing to leave. “Dad,” I begin, “I could spend the night if—”

  “No.” He firmly shakes his head. “I’m just fine. Go. Now.”

  So I bend down to where he’s comfortably reclined in his La-Z-Boy, his remote and a fresh glass of iced tea on the end table, and kiss him on the cheek. “I’m so glad you’re home, Dad, and feeling better.”

  “You and me both, sweetheart.”