Rise--How a House Built a Family

by Cara Brookins

  “Call me anytime you’re in a bind. I’ve built a house or two, and I’ll help you out for twenty-five an hour. Can bring a buddy who’ll work for the same. Get you past worrisome parts and leave ’til you need us again.”

  I left believing that little Pete was as big, brave, and noble as any knight in shining armor. And I had no doubt there were dragons in my path.

  Drew and I followed Pete’s advice to finish the shop walls. The plywood strengthened the structure, so we felt a lot safer climbing around on the roof to nail up the plywood and tar paper. I realized we never should have put the rafters in place until the plywood was up. It had been dangerous and unstable to climb around on the hollow walls with flimsy braces. Again, I was happy we were learning these things on a smallish shop rather than a full two-story house, where every disaster would be multiplied to a dangerous scale that could turn deadly. I had never once thought the project was dangerous when it was on paper, not more than a sliver or smashed thumb, but on site, the potential for sawn-off digits and falls from a deadly height loomed large.

  I hired a garage-door company to install the door after we had the header in place, which proved to be a good decision, based on the difficulty they had getting it to open and close smoothly. We had the shop watertight and locked up by the end of Christmas break, though it wasn’t finished by any stretch. It was missing siding and shingles outside as well as insulation and paneling inside. Drew wanted to keep going and finish it out with tool benches and pegboards, but I was determined not to let it turn into a distraction from the house, no matter how afraid we were to tackle the fifteen hundred cinder blocks stacked around the foundation. The purpose of building the shop first had been to have a place to store tools on site. We would work out the details later. Our construction clock was ticking and we had a lot of house to build by September 13, the bank’s final inspection day.

  They had already completed the first inspection, to make certain I was spending their cash on a house instead of crack cocaine, and the city had also sent an inspector over, prior to the pour, to make sure I had the rebar reinforcement in place.

  Everything was signed off on and ready except our courage. Oh, and the electricity and water. The electrician hadn’t shown up yet, and the plumber was failing at every turn. Yes, I was the plumber, but that didn’t stop me from being mad at what a failure the hookup to the city main had been so far. I was still trying to work out how to get the 250-foot trench to the house dug, and since the water main was on the other side of the street, I had to get someone to bore under the street to get to it. In this case, I was in over my head in a literal as well as a figurative sense.

  All in all, I was still confident that we would nail this project—pun intended. I had even bought tiny dollhouse furnishings for our stick house so Jada and Hope could put bookcases, a Victorian sofa, and framed pictures in place. Hope crocheted miniature rugs and let Roman march his Lego people around as long as she or Jada was helping him avoid booby traps.

  He wasn’t the only one skipping over land mines. I still watched my rearview mirror for Adam and woke in the middle of the night convinced that Matt stood over me, hands reaching for my neck. Fi-fah. When I was anywhere but the job site, I felt small, incapable, and as weak as I had for too many years. Hershey patrolled the yard with a silent promise to keep us safe, her tail dipping low between her legs when she ran across a suspicious scent. I wondered if dogs remembered the details of their own trauma like humans. Doggy PTSD. I hoped not.

  I was up late on Christmas Eve, catching up on projects for work and even writing a few pages. I had trouble falling asleep, even though I was beyond exhausted. I eventually meditated my way into a dreamless rest. Benjamin seemed to have vanished after I had finally let him in and felt at peace with him. I missed his little land of timeless light.

  Dim winter sunlight woke me, but I tucked my head under the comforter and willed myself to go back to sleep. Roman yawned in the bed beside me and lifted his arms over his head in a full-out stretch that two-year-olds do best. He had no clear memory of what Christmas meant, and it hadn’t crossed his mind yet that it was a special day. Next year would be different. When he was three, we would probably have trouble getting him to sleep past four on Christmas morning.

  I slipped out of the bed and tiptoed into the den to plug in the Christmas-tree lights. Hershey growled and I heard a noise outside. Even though we hadn’t seen him in a couple of years, I’d never stop wondering if it was Adam, especially on holidays and birthdays. The lights blinked in a repeating pattern, all red this year, like little warning lights. Danger. Danger. Danger.

  Jada, my only morning child, giggled and made me jump. She sat cross-legged on the sofa, red snowflake wrapping paper peeled back like flower petals from a small box she’d pulled from her stocking. According to our complex family Christmas rules, stocking gifts were fair game to early risers, but tree gifts had to wait for the family.

  Roman ran toward me, sleepy-eyed and red-cheeked. He stumbled, caught himself, and ran to the Christmas tree.

  “Santa!” Roman yelled. “We can open!”

  “Go wake Drew and Hope!” I said. “We’ll open when Grandma gets here!”

  His palms slapped the wooden stairs. “Up. Up. Up,” he said, moving faster than I’d like.

  I put a pot of milk on for old-fashioned cocoa, which would accompany our traditional Russian tea cakes for Christmas breakfast. My grandma Doris had started the tradition, and I couldn’t see any reason to end it. Cookies and cocoa were a dream team.

  Hope and Drew thundered down the stairs with Roman, their enthusiasm almost as fake as mine. They had been taught to push down the bad stuff and carry on. Hiding secrets had been a family talent for too long for us to let loose of the habit easily. We would work on it, I promised myself that, but not today. I was exhausted from working too many jobs and then hitting the construction site until after dark. The festivities would sap the last of my energy.

  “Ho! Ho! Ho! Who wants cookies?” I carried a tray with each of their favorite Christmas-themed mugs and a pyramid of cookies into the den. I’d spiked my mug and Drew’s half full of strong coffee before adding cocoa, and he closed his eyes to savor the first steamy swallow. The smile that followed looked genuine, and I returned it, thinking of him rolling in the mud and laughing at the job site. It was a good memory, a favorite one, and I now believed we would collect enough of those to outweigh the bad ones we’d been stockpiling for too long.

  My mom’s van pulled in before I had time to eat my cookie.

  “Grandma’s here!” Jada squealed.

  “Grandma brings cookies!” Roman said, running for the door.

  As always, she brought the real spirit of Christmas with her. We hadn’t seen her in a couple of months, and her dark hair had grown long, making her look very close to her Native American ancestors.

  Her van was loaded to the roof with food and gifts, all wrapped to perfection with huge bows and ribbons. She was my best friend in the whole world, and the only one who knew even half of what had happened with Adam, with Matt, and during the other messy times in my life. Domestic-violence victims don’t often have friends, and they rarely manage to hold on to family ties. Somehow Mom and I managed to stay close, but I had hid enough that it wasn’t perfect. I would make things better after the house was finished. We’d make time to rebuild things that had started crumbling years ago when she and Dad divorced. I hadn’t noticed when I stopped looking forward to the future, but now that the skill had returned I built tomorrows in my mind like neatly stacked bricks.

  The idea that things would be perfect after the build was like an incessant monk-like chant that followed every thought on every topic. After so many years of bad times, I needed to believe the good times were right there within reach. Even more, I needed to believe that my own hard work was bringing them closer. I wanted to see evidence that for the first time in my whole life my future was in my own control.

  It wasn’t. But if we
knew how out of control our lives are, how would we ever muster the courage to turn the next corner?

  We opened gifts slower than usual, taking turns rather than tearing into our individual piles all at once. Our heaps were smaller, too, and they had an obvious construction theme. We opened tool belts, work boots, and rubber-coated gloves like they were the hottest pieces from this season’s Milan fashion show. Jada tried out a chalk line on a large sheet of wrapping paper while Hope took selfies in her pink hard hat. When I opened a handmade coupon book from Jada, the kind promising the usual hugs, concrete mixing, chores, and wall framing, I realized that somewhere along the way we had all stopped pretending and were actually enjoying Christmas.

  Right on the heels of that holiday joy, something ugly bubbled in me, a bold anger toward Adam and Matt for the years of unhappiness. It came from someone else—from Caroline. I imagined setting their minds on fire with fear. For a second, I imagined towering over them at two A.M. and showing them what it meant to be afraid—to really be afraid.

  I had laced a length of sparkly gold ribbon through my fingers and pulled tight enough to make fat, purple sausage fingers. With a deep breath, I released the ribbon and balled a sheet of blue snowman paper into a tight wad. Conquering my fear and building confidence was good, turning myself into a mirror of Adam or Matt was not.

  “Did you put the chicken in?” Hope asked.

  I cringed. “Sorry. I got so wrapped up in making the perfect cocoa I didn’t even think about dinner.”

  “Roast beast!” Roman said. “I want roast beast!”

  “How did you know we were having roast beast?” My mom tickled him and pushed a button on his new ride-on fire engine. Sirens wailed and a deep voice said, “Put the fire out! Put the fire out!”

  He laughed and turned on the revolving red light that should have come with a seizure warning. Jada pushed him around the house, skidding dangerously sideways around corners. I opened my mouth to tell her to stay out of the kitchen, but Hope beat me to it.

  “No firefighters in the kitchen! Grandma and I are making spinach dip. Christmas dinner is postponed until two. And if you drive through this kitchen again, we’ll be eating you!” She chased the two of them, banging a wooden spoon on a mixing bowl.

  They sped out, laughing like she wouldn’t really whack them with the spoon if they rode through again.

  Drew scrolled through options on his new phone, the one gift that had nothing to do with construction. His headphones were back in place. I scooted in close and looked over his shoulder, pointing out a Scrabble app without speaking. The techno beat from his headphones meant that he needed space, but I didn’t want him to slip as far away as he had before. We started a game of Scrabble, which I was destined to lose without spell check. It was a lazy game, both of us trying harder to make ridiculous words than score points.

  Jada and Roman rounded the corner, both wearing capes, lipstick, and monster-claw slippers. Hershey jumped out of the way, carrying her enormous holiday bone to a quieter spot near the laundry room.

  “I a superhero!” Roman put his arms out and raced around the room, cape floating behind him through the maze of new toys and tape measures. “Presents! Ho! Ho! Ho!” Roman said, zipping past and tripping over his monster slippers. He skidded on his tummy for a couple of feet and pushed himself up, crying hard enough to smear his lipstick. I scooped him up and grabbed a handful of tissues to mop up the tears and smears.

  “I smell roast beast,” I told him.

  Roman laughed, twisting to get down. I pulled the slippers off before I set him free.

  Hope and my mom put the finishing touches on a spectacular meal while I set Great-Grandmother’s china around the table. My pumpkin and apple pies went in the oven just before we sat down. They would be piping hot by the time we finished, though no one except Drew would have room for pie. The rest of us would save it for our midnight snack.

  Dinner conversation centered on Hope’s college list, Drew’s latest inventions, and Jada’s plans for the WNBA.

  Roman fell asleep with his spoon dipped into the last of his dressing. A smear of mashed potatoes formed a Nike swish above his left ear. Jada looked ready to doze, too, blinking frequently, eyes locked on her empty plate.

  We spent a lazy day around the fire with Christmas movies. Mom jumped up frequently to clean or fix something around the house or fold a load of laundry. Near dark she went out and weeded my front flower bed, even though the house was up for sale and it wouldn’t be mine much longer. She held strong to her forgiving heart and her attitude of helping everyone else tend their garden even when her own heart was heavy with loneliness and endless frustration caring for my disabled brother. She had a habit of staying excessively busy in order to keep from looking too closely at her own problems. Boy was I glad I didn’t inherit that trait.

  Jada and Mom were up the next morning singing over breakfast preparations. Mom had always sung her way through chores when I was a kid, and I picked up the habit from her. But while she had a beautiful soprano voice, mine was a croaky alto. The kids learned young to turn the radio up loud for my sing-alongs.

  One day off was more than we could afford, so we slipped into our construction clothes and headed out to work while the rest of America hit the mall for sweater sales and marked-down tinsel.

  Mom took on the task of organizing our jumbled mess of muddy tools in the shop. She designed shelves for the back wall and helped Drew hang his long-awaited pegboards over a sturdy table that became our workbench. Drew had adopted an annoying habit of saying “Cool beans,” and Roman chose that day to mimic him, shouting “Cold bean!” when he found a lump of sparkly white quartz or a fat squirrel to chase around a hickory tree.

  I was restless and a little irritated, feeling like we were wasting time when the house was so far behind schedule. But other than shuffling blocks around, there was little work to be done until I figured out how to lay the foundation. And since the edge of the pond was iced over, it was clearly too cold for mortar to set properly. The real source of my irritation was exhaustion. We were only a month into the project and the weather was as awful as the work. I wanted to quit so badly that I spent hours making mental lists of excuses to pack it all in, and followed that with hours overwhelmed with disappointment for my own weakness.

  My stomach rumbled while I filled the wheelbarrow with rocks and dumped them into the tire ruts from parking in the muddy backyard. While I generally organized meals of crackers, granola, and jerky on the job site, Mom had planned ahead with a gallon of chili, cooking it on her dad’s old tripod over the fire that Jada and Roman fed with sticks, two-by-four scraps, and popping sweetgum balls.

  When Mom called us all over for a late lunch, we washed up with a thermos of icy water and tipped over five-gallon pails for our chairs. Mom had lifted a length of plywood across two sawhorses and lined it with Styrofoam bowls, Fritos, and shredded cheese—a construction-site buffet. We ate slowly, cupping the bowls and warming our noses over the chili steam.

  “It’s hot,” I told Roman. “Even after you blow on it, be careful of the beans.”

  “Cold beans, Drew! Hot chili, cold beans,” he sang.

  Hershey roamed our fire circle, watching closely. She had always been a fire dog, shoving me out of the way if I got too close and barking if a flame escaped along a leaf trail. Drew gave her a small bowl of his leftovers and she settled by his feet, eyes shifting hopefully between the rest of us.

  Mom told stories about her own childhood in rural Wisconsin after her dad returned silent and dreamless from World War II. We listened until the half of our bodies facing the fire was toasty.

  “Cold beans, cold butt,” Roman adapted his song.

  Warm heart, I added silently.

  I still wanted to quit, don’t get me wrong. But I knew I wouldn’t, and neither would the kids. We had navigated the worst of our isolation and crossed over the bridge that had held us apart. The construction project was still half impossible, but build
ing our family no longer was.

  We closed up the shop and moved concrete blocks around until our numb toes and red ears led us home to defrost. None of us would list that year as the best Christmas ever, but in a dozen quiet ways it may have been the most important.

  –10–

  Fall

  Karma Points

  My phone rang just as I was climbing into bed, and I froze, balanced in an awkward yoga pose that would be titled startled half-recline. I tried to talk myself out of answering it. My heartbeat stampeded through my chest and ears as I remembered other late-night calls. I wondered if I would ever hear a phone ring after dark without remembering. I sat, drew my knees to my chest, and answered, my voice weak and insignificant.

  “Hi,” said Sophie, Adam’s sister, making the short word somehow apologetic. “I just left the hospital. Adam got a really good doctor, Dr. Christe.”

  I waited. Even though I knew it was mean, it was hard for me to want any connection to him after he had scared me so many times. After he had forced me to be the one to decide if he woke up from the latest suicide attempt or not. I was angry. It was impossible to direct anything but sympathy at the ill Adam, but I was plenty angry at the good Adam for abandoning me when I needed him. Sophie knew I didn’t want him to come back to my house. She knew I didn’t want him around my kids. She knew how scared I was. She knew I had a right to be. But she also knew how I had loved him.

  “I thought it might help if you come by and talk to Dr. Christe. He changed the diagnosis.” She exhaled loudly through her nose, twice. “Mother says Christe is wrong, that he’s a kook and doesn’t know her boy, but he isn’t wrong, Cara.” That exhale again. Three times.

  Time enough for me to wonder if her anger might turn into a twin of her brother’s anger, or his madness.

  “It’s schizophrenia,” she said in a rush. “Dr. Christe said schizoaffective, actually, but that just means schizophrenia and bipolar both. I would have supported Mother that the doctor was a kook if I hadn’t seen him myself. I mean, he was always a bit different, you know? But in a charming way, like an eccentric genius, not someone scary. Or that’s what we all thought. Everyone but you, I imagine. You knew more of the truth than any of us. Didn’t you?”