“Can I do it too?” he asks eagerly.
“I don’t know.” She frowns at him. “How old are you?”
“Almost seven.”
“Well, I’m already seven,” she tells him. “What’s your name?”
“Cory.”
“Hey, Gretchen,” she calls. “Can Cory paint your house too?”
I come over and look down at Cory, like I’m doing an inventory. “Well, he looks strong enough.”
He stands straighter. “I am.”
“But you would need to get your mom’s permission. And you’d need to wear painting clothes.”
“I can do that,” he says eagerly, and I start feeling like Tom Sawyer.
“Tell your mom to come talk to me,” I say. “If she’s okay with it, Im okay.”
“Cool!” Then he heads back to his house, carefully looking both ways, I observe, before he crosses the street. Then I notice his mom out front, working on her flower beds. She waves, and I wave, and I once again think, This is nice.
Before long, both Cory and Kirsten are hard at work. And although there’s a lot of dripping going on and it takes them awhile to cover much territory, I think it’s better than nothing. Plus, they are having fun, and Kirsten is acting like a regular girl instead of a little dress-up doll.
“You got quite a paint crew going on here,” says Noah after he pulls up and comes over to check out my laborers.
“Daddy!” says Kirsten eagerly. “Gretchen said I can help her paint.” She holds out her arms to show off her new outfit. “And she got me work clothes.”
Noah tosses me a surprised but appreciative look. “And who’s this?” he asks, nodding to Cory.
“That’s Cory,” says Kirsten. “He’s almost seven, and he lives in the yellow house across the street. His mom is Jenna, and she said he can work too.”
“I’ll be seven in July,” proclaims Cory. “And I’ll be in second grade next year.”
“The same as me,” points out Kirsten.
“Well, it’s nice to meet you, Cory,” says Noah. “You two keep up the good work.” And they do keep it up for about another half hour, but then they need a break, so they go into the backyard, where Kirsten introduces Cory to Riley. Meanwhile, I continue priming. Im intently painting around a bedroom window when it suddenly opens, and Noah sticks his head out. I jump and nearly smack him across the face with my brush.
“Sorry,” he says. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”
“That’s okay.” I continue painting now.
“I was surprised to find Kirsten here. Sorry I wasn’t around when Camille dropped her off.”
“You mean you didn’t know she was coming?”
“No…and it’s not that I mind her being here. I just hope you don’t mind. I didn’t really plan that Kirsten would be around this much, and I don’t want to take advantage of—”
“I’ve already told you. I like Kirsten,” I say as I dip the brush again. “I don’t mind her being here.”
“Okay … I just thought I should check.”
I nod as I swipe the brush beneath the windowsill. “Seriously. She can come here any time.” He smiles, and I smile back, and then I return to my work. Of course, I’m wondering what that exchange was really about. Did he seriously think I don’t like Kirsten? Or that I’m irritated about having her around? Or was he simply being thoughtful? I think I know the answers to my questions. And although those answers make me feel good about Noah, I’m not sure I’m comfortable with that feeling.
My goal is to focus here. I need to get the rest of the house primed today. It’d be helpful to have it done before the roofers get here, which I hope will be tomorrow, like Dad promised. Thinking of Dad makes me check my paint-splattered watch. In a couple of hours, I’ll need to head over there. I’ll fix us a quick dinner, make small talk, then hurry back here to finish the priming before dark. It almost seems possible.
Being a normal kid, Kirsten gets antsy about midafternoon. Cory’s gone home, and she’s bored with painting and tired of Riley. I suggest she go inside and take a break. But, of course, there’s nothing in there to entertain her. Still, as I paint furiously, racing the clock, I tell myself that’s not my problem. As I continue to paint, I also begin to create a mental list of things I might keep here for times like this: picture books and crayons, felt pens, paper, scissors, art supplies—things I already have at home. And maybe some sidewalk chalk to use in the driveway. I also make a mental list of supplies I can bring to make the kitchen more user-friendly. I’ll borrow Dad’s card table and bring my microwave and get more paperware, like cups, plates, napkins, paper towels. It’s amazing how much you can think about while painting. But finally it’s time for me to call it quits and go check on Dad. Noah and Kirsten have already left, apparently to drop Kirsten at her mom’s in time for dinner.
When I get to Dad’s, he happily reports on the contacts he’s made while I fix a dinner of broiled salmon filets and a mixed-greens salad. I can tell that it’s been good medicine for him to be on the phone today, setting things up and probably having some friendly chats with his old subcontractor buddies.
“Don’t plan on doing anything outside tomorrow,” he tells me as I slice a tomato, “because the roofing crew will be there early in the morning, and they plan to have the old shingles stripped off by noon. It’ll be pretty messy.”
“And the new roof?”
“Hopefully by the next day … or maybe Thursday at the latest.”
“How about the cabinet guy?” I ask. “Any news from him?”
“I’ve left two messages asking him for a delivery date.”
“That’d be good.” I set the salad dressing on the table and look around to see if I forgot anything. Then we sit down, Dad says a blessing, and I give him today’s progress report, even telling him about my young paint crew.
“That Kirstens a pistol.”
“She’s a sharp little girl.”
“But that mother…” He shakes his head with disapproval.
“You’ve met Camille?”
“She’s dropped Kirsten off before when Noah was working with me.”
“She’s very beautiful,” I point out, as if he hadn’t noticed.
“Well, looks aren’t everything.” He dips his sourdough roll into the balsamic vinegar dressing around his salad.
“Mom was beautiful,” I say quietly.
He sighs. “She surely was … both inside and out.”
“I’m sure there’s more to Camille than meets the eye, Dad.” Okay, I’m not even sure why I said this. I guess I just want to keep the conversation going.
“You’re probably right. But it’s hard to see past the veneer sometimes.” He smiles. “It’s a good thing God can.”
“Yes,” I agree, “it is.”
“As for me, I’ll take my women with both inward and outward beauty. Like you and your mom.”
“Oh, Dad,” I say, “I’m not that kind of a beauty.”
He sets his fork on his salad plate with a clink and frowns at me. “What are you saying?”
I shrug. “Just that I’m not a beauty … not like Mom.”
He looks at me like I’ve lost my senses. “You don’t look like your mother, but you are most certainly a beauty, Gretchen.”
“Well, thanks, Dad. I wasn’t really fishing for compliments.” I don’t remind him that all parents think their children are beautiful.
I try not to be too obvious about being in a rush as I clean up the kitchen, but finally I admit that I want to finish priming the house before the roofers come.
“That’s good thinking, Gretchen Girl.” Dad slaps me on the back. “You get back over there and get ‘er done.” So that’s just what I do. But as it’s getting dark and I’m finishing the last bit of priming with the help of the builder’s light I’ve situated out on the back deck, with Riley lying nearby and watching me curiously, I think about what Dad said tonight. I think about how he likes his women beautiful on the inside and
the outside, and I realize that’s what I want to be too. I just don’t know if it’s even possible.
This, the fourth week of renovating, is a killer. Unfortunately, I don’t think the next two weeks will be any better. But slowly, slowly, things are getting done. By Thursday the roofers have ripped off the old roof and are now putting on the new one. Noah has removed the wall in the living room, opening up that whole area into one big great room, which everyone thinks is a huge improvement. Dad has located wood flooring for a good price, and both the plumber and electrician are scheduled to come next week. Still no word from our mysterious cabinetmaker.
Today, after taking a tile-laying workshop at the flooring store, I am beginning to install twelve-inch squares of travertine in what will be the master-suite bathroom. Fortunately, Noah, who knows the basics of plumbing, finished putting in the new doorway and closing up the old one, as well as removing the old toilet. Since I’ve decided on a pedestal sink, the kind with a wooden base that looks very contemporary but classic, I will be laying the tile from wall to wall and right up to the tub, which I have scheduled to be refinished a week from now. Then I will run the same travertine tiles up the sides of the freshly refinished white tub, which I think will be quite handsome. I’ve also picked out new bronze plumbing fixtures and bathroom accessories, also in a classic contemporary style. The final effect should be very nice. Already, with only a dozen tiles laid, I am happy with how things are looking.
“Gretchen!” It’s Cory, and he sounds frantic. “Come here! Hurry!”
I drop my trowel in the adhesive bucket and leap to my feet to see what’s wrong. Just like every other day this week, Kirsten is here today, and the last time I looked, she and Cory were doing chalk art on the sidewalk. My heart pounds furiously as I imagine Kirsten hit by a car that has driven recklessly up over the curb. But when I find Kirsten and Cory, she’s sitting on the front stoop with her foot in her lap.
“She stepped on a nail!” Cory tells me as he places one hand on her shoulder.
“Where’s your dad?” I ask as I sit down beside her to see that the nail has gone through her Old Navy rubber flip-flop and into her foot. It looks like a roofing nail, so hopefully it’s not too long. Still I know it hurts, and she has tears coming down her cheeks right now.
“He went to get us some lunch,” she explains.
“Oh yeah,” I say, remembering that he mentioned this while I was putting down tile. But I was so absorbed I barely registered it.
“Do you want me to pull it out?” I ask, unsure whether this is the best remedy or not.
“I don’t know,” she cries. “Will it hurt?”
“Probably,” I admit, wondering if it also might cause it to bleed more.
“You’ll probably need to go to the doctor,” I say. “I’m sure you’ve had a tetanus shot, right?”
“What’s that?” asks Kirsten.
“Never mind,” I tell her as I pull my cell phone out of my overalls pocket and dial Noah’s number.
“Hey,” he says.
I quickly explain the situation, and he tells me that he ran across town to pick up the hardwood flooring Dad located. “I’ll be right there,” he says without hesitation.
“No no. I’ll take her to the doctor. She’ll be fine, and I don’t want to make you come all the way back here after driving across town.”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course. Do you know if she’s had a DPT shot?”
“What’s that?”
“Tetanus,” I explain. “It’s required for school kids.”
“In that case, she must’ve had it.”
Now Kirsten is crying harder. I slip an arm around her shoulders and ask Noah where her doctor’s office is located and if he can call ahead and say that we’re coming. Then I hang up, and as I carry Kirsten to the pickup, I tell Cory that she needs to go to the doctor and that we’ll see him later. I buckle her up in the front seat and prop her wounded foot on a cooler, reassuring her that she’s going to be just fine. I even pause to wrap yet another soft cotton, multipurpose drop cloth around her, lest she go into shock, which I think is unlikely. I continue to chatter cheerfully, telling her about the time I stepped on a nail barefoot. I’m trying to conceal my own anxiety as I drive her to the doctor’s office, which is located at the opposite end of town from where Noah is picking up wood. Once we’re in the examining room, I call him.
“I really appreciate this,” he says. “Do you need me to come?”
“No,” I explain, “the doctor is seeing her right now, and it doesn’t look serious.”
“What about Hank?” he asks. “Don’t you usually check on him around now?”
“Oh yeah, I totally forgot about his lunch.”
“How about if I take him something?”
“He’d love that.”
“And I know, low cholesterol, low fat.”
“You got it. And I’ll get something for Kirsten and me.”
“Thanks, Gretchen.”
And when he says my name, I hear such warmth in his voice that my voice cracks ever so slightly. “No problem.”
“I think she’s going to be fine,” proclaims the doctor as the nurse bandages Kirstens foot. “Doesn’t appear to have any nerve or muscle damage. Just keep her off it for a day or two or until it doesn’t hurt. Keep the wound clean, a little Neosporin and bandage. No swimming for a few days, and a baby aspirin if she needs it.”
As we’re driving home, I commend Kirsten on her bravery and ask her what she’d like for lunch.
“Can I have a corn dog?” she asks timidly.
I laugh. “You like corn dogs?”
She nods, looking slightly embarrassed, like it’s rather uncouth to like corn dogs.
“Well, so do I, and I happen to know of a little kiosk that has the absolute best ones around.”
“Really? Do you like corn dogs too?”
“I do.”
“Cool.”
Within minutes we’re sitting outside the Corny Canine kiosk at a slightly grubby picnic table, with Kirstens foot propped up on the bench, still wearing our paint-splotched overalls and eating our corn dogs with mustard and drinking root beer. Suddenly Kirsten tells me that she wishes she could live with her dad all the time. And since she’s opened this door, I decide to walk on through.
“I’m curious about something,” I say to her.
“What?”
“Well, I know you were supposed to spend the summer with your dad, but then your mom changed her mind, and yet it seems like you spend most of your time with him anyway. Why do you suppose that is?”
“Mom thinks I’ll drown.”
I blink. “You’ll drown?”
“Because Dad’s house is on the beach, and Mom thinks I’ll run out there like a little baby and drown in the ocean.”
“Oh…”
“And his house is really small too,” adds Kirsten. “I think it’s really cool, but Mom says it’s not big enough for him to have me. She says he needs to get rid of it and grow up.”
I laugh. “Grow up?”
“Yeah. Mom says that Dad’s a little boy. But I love him. I think he’s a cool dad.”
“He is a cool dad,” I agree. “You’re lucky.”
“Are you my dad’s girlfriend?” asks Kristen, and it’s all I can do not to blast root beer straight out my nostrils.
“No-no,” I sputter.
“Why?”
I frown at her. “Well, because I’m just not. Why do you ask?”
“Because it would be okay with me … I mean, if you were.”
I want to ask her whether or not her dad has other girlfriends but feel this would be out of line. “Well, thank you,” I tell her. “I feel honored that you’d think that.”
She just nods, then ceremoniously dips her corn dog into the little mustard cup and takes a big bite. Okay, I really, really hate to admit it, but this is a girl after my own heart.
When we get back to the house, I’m relieved to see
that the roofing crew has arrived and is hard at work. I was starting to get worried that with my house-flipping luck the rain predicted for the weekend might come before the shingles were on. Of course, Riley’s not too sure about this intrusion and is running back and forth in the backyard and barking like a mad dog.
I help Kirsten into the house, and while she’s using the bathroom that had been completely gutted but that Noah just set the toilet into yesterday, I let my crazy dog inside, reassuring him the workers are here to fix and not destroy. Even so, he’s running from room to room, acting like we’re under siege and he’s the only protection we have. Then I get Kirsten set up in my makeshift bedroom with a bag of kids’ books I brought over just in case she needed some quiet time.
“You’d make a good mom, Gretchen,” she tells me after I set a water bottle nearby, just in case she gets thirsty.
I hardly know what to say at this point; the girlfriend comment was shocker enough. “Well, umm, thanks, Kirsten. I’m sure you’re a very good daughter.”
She nods somberly, as if she’s carefully considering this. “Yes, I am.”
“I’ll be working in the bathroom, okay? Putting down tiles. Just call if you need anything.”
But as I work, all I hear are the sounds of power tools and hammers banging and occasional yells from the roofing crew. When I peek in on Kirsten, she is fast asleep with Riley right next to her. Without disturbing them, although that seems doubtful in light of the noise, I slip out my camera from the hall closet and snap a couple of pictures. It’s not the first time I’ve caught these two on film. I’ve also got what I hope will be some adorable shots of them in the back of Noah’s pickup and playing ball in the backyard as well as some of Kirsten and Cory painting on the house. My plan is to get these photos printed in black and white and enlarged. Then I’ll mat and frame them to use for decoration when it’s time for the open house.
I go back to work in the bathroom and am almost done with the floor when my cell phone rings. Thinking it might be Noah checking on his daughter, I quickly answer it, but it’s Holly.
“Hey, I’m just calling to remind you that Saturday is Tina’s wedding.” She chuckles. “Not that you’d forget.”
A Mile in My Flip-Flops Page 22