If You Were Here: A Novel

by Jen Lancaster

  “. . . so I want you to put aside whatever you’re going through and concentrate, because, P.S., you don’t get paid until you’re done.”

  I’m too wiped out to tell her that Mac and I spent the past three days hauling wheelbarrows full of debris down our tenth-of-a-mile curved driveway because the Dumpster people left it in the wrong place. Nat doesn’t want to discuss the kitchen cabinet that fell out of the wall, taking out the dishwasher and damaging the oven; nor is she interested in my frenetic rush to prepare for Babcia’s visit.

  All Nat wants to hear is that I’m on it.

  “I’m on it,” I lie.

  “Good. Now, while I’ve got you on the phone, I have some interesting news. I got a call from a scout at HBO. The guy’s a producer and his kid made him read your books. Sounds like he’s interested in pursuing an option.”

  A healthy option check would go a long way toward easing my mind right now. With all the mishaps, things are getting too tight for comfort. Mac’s set the deductible on our homeowner’s insurance so high that all the repair costs are coming directly out of pocket. In his defense, a lower monthly payment sounded smart; he couldn’t have foreseen it raining toilets in my office. Prevented it? Yes. Foreseen it? No.

  So, the out-of-pocket expenses, plus what we’ve budgeted for a full kitchen rehab, plus replacing all the bathroom fixtures, plus all the petition-based repairs we’ve made have gone through a huge chunk of our cushion. I mean, we’ve already spent a mint just because of the mailbox.

  That damn mailbox has become the bane of my existence. When we moved in, the mailbox was housed in a big, crumbing brick-and-mortar pillar. The masonry seemed too far gone to try to repair, so Mac and I spent days swinging sledgehammers to bring it down, learning the hard way that “looks crumbling” doesn’t mean “is crumbling.”

  The whole time we slaved away out there, Lululemon and Elbow Patches kept walking by us really slowly. After a while, we stopped even trying to say hello.

  I found the most beautiful mailbox on eBay. It’s a tall, red iron box with separate slots for mail and newspapers. According to the auction listing, it’s an antique from India. If you squint at it just right, you might think it’s an overgrown fire hydrant. I love it and it’s unique and I actually spent a good deal of money on it. I thought it would really personalize the front yard—I mean, who doesn’t like objets d’art from exotic locales? This is the first piece of art I ever bought, and I assumed it would be a nice gesture to share with the rest of the neighborhood.

  I assumed wrong.

  So very wrong.

  First came the petition, which we chose to ignore, as it was signed by three families with enormous bass fish–shaped mailboxes, one with what looks like a birdhouse with a mail slot, and four with varying degrees of crumbled masonry posts. The only difference between my mailbox and theirs was that mine was beautiful. (Also, I didn’t plant the ornamental purple cabbage around mine because I thought it clashed with the red.)

  After we ignored the petition, our neighbors took additional action and we started getting letters from the city telling us our mailbox didn’t “meet code.” There’s a mailbox code up here? Really? And who has the kind of time to go out and inspect mailboxes, anyway?

  After receiving multiple fines for violating city ordinances, we’ve since taken down our beautiful Indian mailbox, which was no easy feat due to our having sunk it in cement. From the get-go, we’ve invested two thousand dollars in materials and fines, countless man-hours’ worth of labor, and now we have to go to the post office to collect our mail, since the letter carrier won’t deliver to our house, as we have no box. Argh.

  Anyway, in terms of finances, there’s always credit and a second mortgage, but I don’t want to go that route.

  “Does this indicate a possible bidding war between Persiflage and HBO?” Oh, please, oh, please, oh, please.

  “That’s my hope, anyway. But I want you to get back to work and I’ll worry about Hollywood. Deal?”

  “Deal.” My voice belies a confidence I do not feel.

  “Mia, one more thing? I don’t want to impede your creative process, and I understand that in sci-fi/fantasy there’s the obvious need to suspend disbelief, but I’m really having a hard time buying that teenage zombies in love have so much to say about wallpaper. Get it together; get it done. Talk soon!”

  Natalie sounds harsh, but she’s my agent, not my bestie. Her job is to make sure I’m delivering contracted work, not only on time, but of a certain caliber. She’s actually being a good friend by being tough on me, and I’m always the one who says fifteen percent of nothing is nothing.

  I need her to kick me in the ass.

  I need to get my head on straight and write this book.

  I need to finish on time.

  I need to get paid.

  But first, I need to address this drawer-pull situation.

  And find a new mailbox.

  “I bet she’d be more comfortable at a hotel. Matter of fact, I’m sure of it.”

  I keep my eyes on the piece of floor where I’m removing carpet tacks, saying nothing.

  “Yes, yes,” Mac continues, gathering steam. “A hotel sounds great. Perfect, in fact. I read about a boutique hotel in Meridian Road magazine and it’s in downtown AC. Stag’s Leap Inn. Won the Brides’ Choice Award in 2010.”

  “They must be really proud of themselves,” I note mildly.

  “The inn’s part of the National Trust for Historic Preservation. Their dining room’s listed in the Distinguished Restaurants of North America guide.”

  “Fancy,” I acquiesce, giving a particularly rusty spike a good, hard yank with my pliers. It finally releases and I stagger backward with the force of its removal.

  Mac paces behind me as I work. “The amenities are top-notch: high-thread-count sheets, a flat-panel television in both rooms for suites and in the bathroom, plus L’Occitane products, a gourmet minibar, and your daily choice of three newspapers.”

  “Neat.”

  As soon as I’m finished removing all the carpet tacks/nails/ other protrusions, we can start smoothing out the hardwood. I’ve got a little belt sander for the edges and the detail work, while Mac’s responsible for running the rented orbital sander across the floors in the rest of this bedroom. We’ve already torn up the carpet102 and ripped out the padding. Judging from the stains on both, someone here had dogs, many, many large, incontinent dogs.

  “Their fitness room is state-of-the-art, and they do five kinds of massage in the spa.”

  “I was unaware five kinds of massage existed.” My bangs keep falling in my face and I keep brushing them aside. I’m overdue for a haircut, but I kind of don’t want to spend the money.

  “They do and they have them. Full beauty salon, too, plus a twenty-four-hour concierge service.”

  I swat at those annoying stray strands again. “Interesting. So, are they paying you a commission?”

  Before we can begin to sand, I have to hang wet bedsheets over the doorways. According to eHow.com, floor sanding creates a massive amount of sawdust. Since this house is already reminiscent of the Dust Bowl, circa 1930, I’m anxious to keep additional emissions to a minimum. I’ve got the windows open and I’ve turned off the air-conditioning so the grit has no possible way of circulating through the house.

  “Of course not,” he protests. “I’m just saying the place sounds very luxurious. Every night there’s a free wine-and-cheese reception from five to seven. Babcia loves free stuff.”

  “True enough.”

  Babcia does love free stuff, although “free” is somewhat subjective. Babcia interprets it to mean every sugar, Splenda, and Sweet’n Low packet she runs across, the sugar bowl, the entire contents of the breadbasket plus the butter and a means with which to spread it, salt and pepper shakers—particularly the crystal ones—candleholders, candles, bud vases including the buds, guest soap, shoehorns, bath mats, towels, wineglasses, ashtrays, ice buckets, throw rugs, throw pillows, trash cans
, the thick terry slippers you find in better hotels, the thick terry robes you find in better hotels, and any piece of artwork not bolted to the wall.

  If Babcia stayed somewhere with a wine-and-cheese reception, she’d line her enormous satchel with foil and walk away with an entire platter and as many bottles as she could shove in her waistband.103

  Admonishing Babcia about her sticky fingers is useless. I guess once you live through childhood poverty, no matter how much money you have, you never forget the old days.

  “Well, what do you think?” Mac’s all forced smiles and anticipation.

  “I think I’m going to need a tetanus shot after this.” I squeeze my index finger to drain my puncture wound before wiping it on the edge of my T-shirt. Mac was supposed to help me with this part, but he says his fingers “aren’t grippy enough.”

  “No, what do you think about Babcia staying in a hotel instead of with us?”

  When my hair’s fixed, I reply, “What I think is you need to not be terrified by an old lady. What do you expect to happen? Granted, she’s a bit of an acquired taste, but she can’t hurt you. You’re safe as kittens around her.”

  Mac crosses his arms and levels his gaze. “Sal Domenico.”

  Ooh, kind of forgot about him. Sal Domenico lives in Babcia’s building in Miami, and he’s got that mob-boss-type slicked-back hair and wears fat gold chains and, um . . . may or may not walk with a limp now. “I suggest you don’t take her parking space.”

  “Mrs. Irving Zielinski.”

  “Made the critical error of trying to cheat at Makao.104 They were playing for quarters; what did you expect? Mrs. Z. is lucky Babcia didn’t go more biblical on her and actually remove her hand.”

  “Frank Barnes?”

  “Fluke. And probably faulty brakes.”

  “Bobby Chesney?”

  “Not a fluke, but also not unwarranted. Bet he never institutes a special assessment without condo board approval again.”

  “Roger Esparza, Wanda Shapiro, Ethel Wicker, and Samuel L. Jackson?”

  “Mistake, mistake, accident, and should have never remade Shaft.”

  “I’m saying she’s a lot more dangerous than you give her credit for and—”

  “‘Shut yo’ mouth!’” I sing.

  “I’m serious, Mia. Babcia is scary and—”

  I set down my pliers. “And she’s my grandmother and she practically raised me. She’s not perfect—some may say she’s a complicated (wo)man—but I’m not shuttling her off to some motel. Can you dig it?”

  “Hotel! It’s a hotel! Award-winning!”

  Patiently I explain, “Honey, people have said that same kind of stuff about you to me. If I’d have listened to Ann Marie’s friend when she went on about what a jerk you were, we’d never be here now. What you have to do is look past Babcia’s”—do not say history of violence, do not say history of violence—“um, tough exterior and see her sweet center and huge heart. She has so many of the good qualities I see in you. How come you refuse to look for them in her?”

  “But—”

  “Honey,” I say gently, “there is no ‘but.’ Babcia’s coming next month, and all I ask is that we have one room done when she gets here. I realize it sounds like a lot of detailed work, but once we’re finished, it will be perfect.”

  To prepare for Babcia’s visit we’re completely rehabbing the master suite. Once the floors are sanded and stained (we’re leaning toward pickled oak), we’ll top them off with a couple of coats of polyurethane. Once we remove the wallpaper, Mac will install a wide border of crown molding on the ceiling, and we’ll give all the windows and existing woodwork a fresh coat of white paint.

  After the trim’s cleaned up, we’ll repaint the ceiling, install the ceiling fan, and coat the walls with Benjamin Moore’s Haystack (#317), which the brochure describes as “a clean, pure yellow that reminds us of a sun-drenched day at the beach.”The test sample we painted has the same opalescent, mellow golden glow as a glass of sauvignon blanc and will be amazing with the blue Persian rug I found at the Winnetka Church of Christ rummage sale last fall.

  The plumber’s coming at the end of the week to reinstall the toilet, and then we’ll DIY a travertine tile floor, which entails doing a dry layout of all the tiles, applying thin-set mortar, setting, notching, and grouting. Mac claimed we could install electric warming cables, but after he blew all the circuits on the first floor trying to install a dimmer switch, I nixed the idea.

  We bought a new vanity from the Restoration Hardware outlet store in Pleasant Prairie, and its Italian Carrara marble topper should tie in nicely with the shower’s existing subway tile—or will once we power-wash the rust stains off the grout.

  After all the construction’s done, Mac will hang the new linen curtains and rods, we’ll put the brand-new Tempur-Pedic mattress down and make the bed with a pale blue toile duvet. As the final touch, I’ll place fresh-cut flowers in a clay pitcher on my mixedwoods copper-lined dry-sink dresser.105

  I feel like it’s important we get this room tackled for a couple of reasons. From a psychological perspective, we really need to have one room that isn’t either painfully dated or utterly deconstructed. If we can do that, we’ll have a retreat where we can just relax and not have a million constant visual reminders about how much we have yet to do. We could use the confidence boost that’ll come from having done it ourselves, too. Personally, I need to feel like we’re heading toward a victory so I can put this damn house out of my head for a while and write my book.

  And it might be nice to work as a team and not be mad at Mac.

  Seems that Mac didn’t pay attention when I explained why I was taping an enormous Mr. Yuck symbol over the air-conditioning controls.

  Between the blowing fan and the air intake vents, the whole house looks like a sawdust-filled snow globe.

  I am not happy.

  Correction, I am industrial-strength not happy.

  Here’s a pro tip for the DIY crowd: Just because oil-based paint can go over latex-based paint does not mean the converse is true.

  Seems like someone might have inquired about that at Home Depot before he grabbed a couple of buckets.

  In completely unrelated news, if you need instructions on how to strip every last bit of paint off a bathroom wall before completely starting over, I’m your gal.

  Apparently Mac didn’t rent an orbital sander for seventy-five dollars.

  Apparently Mac thought it would be more cost-effective to buy an orbital sander.

  For five thousand dollars.

  He says we have a thousand places we can use it. Yet all I can think about is where I’d like to stick it.

  So far this project is not bringing us together like I’d hoped.

  Chapter Eleven

  THE BIG REVEAL

  “To be perfectly candid, I had my doubts we’d make it. Big doubts. The last two weeks have been entirely miserable. I feel like everything that might have gone wrong did, from the splotchy floor stain to the grout that changed colors to the door that swelled up and trapped me inside after I painted it. Nightmare, total nightmare. What really gets me is, with all the tools Mac bought, we could have easily done the room professionally for that price. Twice. Three times. Maybe more.

  “Mac’s obsessed with having the right tools for the job. He says that’s why the bathrooms went so sideways. He said he was trying to half-ass something that should have been whole-assed.106 Hence the major cash outlay that’s causing me so much distress.”

  He doesn’t respond, naturally, so I continue. “I hate that I’ve been getting mad at Mac, because he listens but I don’t know that he hears me. For example, I’ve been going over our budget with him and he insists we’re ‘fine.’ The problem is, his version of ‘fine’ is way different from mine. ‘Fine’ to me is six months of living expenses saved up, plus a rainy-day fund, plus a little something foldable in the safe in case the bubble goes up.”

  I pause, then nod. “Mac says the expression is actu
ally ‘in case the balloon goes up,’ but that doesn’t make any sense either. Neither balloons nor bubbles are inherently threatening. Anyway, Mac’s much more fast and loose in terms of fiscal responsibility. He says I’m stressing out needlessly, particularly since we’ll get plenty of cash once I finish my book. But I’m terrified of not having enough in the interim.”

  I take his silence as tacit encouragement. “Right, you’re right. Mac’s concept of money being completely different than mine doesn’t make it wrong. I mean, he grew up solidly middle-class. His folks weren’t wealthy, but they were definitely comfortable. He never had to watch his mom’s face burn with shame in the grocery store as the cashier took away items to bring the total under twenty dollars. He never heard his folks screaming at each other all night long because they couldn’t pay the electric bill. My parents still loved each other when they split up, but ultimately, their marriage failed because they couldn’t come together on finances. Buying this house may be the first time I haven’t been completely fiscally conservative, and even that was with my accountant’s blessing.”

  I take a couple of big breaths to gather my thoughts before I continue. “Oh, no, please, I have no regrets about buying the place. I mean, Mac’s living his dream of doing renovations, and I don’t have to tell you again how important it was to live in Jake Ryan’s house.You don’t mess with destiny. I know I’m being silly and selfindulgent. Forgive me; I’ve been inhaling a lot of paint fumes; I’m not quite myself.”

  I pause a minute to take in my surroundings. I still can’t get over how gorgeous and serene it is here. “To me, I see that house like Jake saw Samantha. Sure, he had Caroline, who was perfection on the outside. Put her and Samantha side by side and there’d be no contest on who embodied more of the classical elements of beauty. Blond hair, blue eyes, killer body, blah, blah, blah. But ultimately, Caroline didn’t respect Jake enough to prevent her friends from trashing the joint, whereas Sam was pure and good and kind enough to lend her panties to a geek. Jake saw that in her. Jake realized that he’d be a better man with Samantha in his life.”