What Doesn't Kill You

by Virginia DeBerry

  Friday night I prepped walnuts and dried cherries and measured out my dry ingredients, which lets you know the state of my social life. Hermits go out more often. But by the weekend I was ready to rock. I must admit I was in a good mood that whole week. My project gave me something to look forward to. Standing at the counter like I used to was not going to work, so I made myself a workstation at the kitchen table, put on some tunes—there hadn’t been music in my house in I don’t know when. And the smell—you cannot be grouchy in the presence of cookie aromas. And while I tried to keep my sampling to a minimum, I am happy to say I hadn’t lost my touch.

  I had just taken a batch out of the oven when the jingling of keys meant Amber was coming in. I thought she’d be pretty surprised to find me doing my Shaniqua Stewart thang, but she came in fuming. “I’m sick of him acting like we have to save every penny. My father already gave us money toward the down payment.”

  Uh-oh. Another wrinkle in wedded bliss. Seems Amber had found her dream house and J.J. did the math and for him it did not compute. Brand-new, four bedrooms, five baths, a three-car garage, granite, stainless-steel appliances—all it was missing was a moat and a throne room. I liked London too, but the Queen’s house has been in the family a long time. She couldn’t afford to buy it now either. I asked how much it cost. It was amazing how easily the number slid off her tongue. It sure made me choke. Amber fumed that it would be tight for a while, but they would both get promoted and make more money.

  I might have said the same thing—last year. Then she talked about how I had taught her to buy the best because people will always recognize quality. Sounds like me, doesn’t it? She proceeded to quote chapter and verse from Tee’s Economics 101: “Buy it now, it’ll cost more later.” “Sometimes you have to spend money to save money.” “What’s the point of having good credit if you don’t use it.” And the ever popular “Isn’t that why I go to work every day? So I can afford the nicer things in life?”

  I had no idea my child was such a devoted disciple. But I was living through the flaws in my theory, and however painful it had been for me, I was apparently a little too good at keeping the downside hidden from my daughter. Yes, she also got the hard-work message, and I never wanted to burden her with my worries, certainly not as a little one, and definitely not now. But I guess I had done her a major disservice by not letting her see the whole picture. Truth was, I didn’t start to see the whole picture until it was right up in my face and I couldn’t look anywhere else. Man, I couldn’t even get through baking without a major life crisis.

  So I gave Amber a cookie and told her to sit down. This was going to be harder than the sex talk. I didn’t think anything was more embarrassing than explaining why he sticks that in there, but admitting I was going, going, gone broke? It was difficult to make myself look her in the eyes.

  I didn’t know where to begin, so I jumped in before I could chicken out—’fessed up that I wasn’t thinking about selling the house for convenience. I couldn’t afford the mortgage anymore. It felt like when I’d told her there was no Santa Claus. I could see her lip start to quiver, and I had to keep talking or we’d both be red-eyed and snotty. I did my best not to sugarcoat the story. I had to let her know I had made mistakes with my money—big ones. I had to do whatever was necessary to keep her from following in my heavily indebted footsteps.

  First thing out of her mouth was how she and J.J. would fix it. I had to stop her right there—told her thank you very much, but no. Nothing would make me happier than to see them in their own house, one they could afford. What her daddy gave them was nice—very nice—I admit it, but unless they added more they would be saddled with a mortgage that would put a hurtin’ on their cash flow. I assured her I’d get myself straightened out and no, I wasn’t sure how, but she had to let me handle that. Then she fretted about how much I’d spent on the wedding. I had to admit that if I’d known then what I know now, I’d have done things a little different. OK, a lot different, but I loved every minute of it. I didn’t regret it, and neither should she. And that was the honest-to-God truth.

  By then I was exhausted, so I fixed their tin of cookies, gave her the photo, told her to stop, get some milk and go home to her husband and work it out. Oh, and I made her promise not to tell her father about my money problems. They talked, he and I didn’t and he just didn’t need to know that much of my business.

  And after we hugged and she kissed me good night, I mentioned, as nonchalantly as I could, that my Thursday nights were now free. Well, Amber’s smile would have lit up the Milky Way.

  Julie was easy. I invited her over for dinner after work one night. Nothing fancy—burgers with onion rolls, my fresh-cut seasoned fries and a salad. After that I presented her token of my appreciation. She was tickled. I made coffee and we had the TV on in the background while we nibbled some of the baker’s batch and talked about nothing in particular, like how happy I was to finally be back in my bedroom, and how I’d found a pair of flat slides in my closet that fit over the taping I still had to do to my toe so I wouldn’t have to go through the winter in sandals and socks.

  Julie told me she hadn’t been home in a while, so she planned to visit her family in Toronto over our Thanksgiving, then she looked up at the TV screen and said, “Will you look at that mess.” It was one of my organizing shows and they were tackling a home office with papers, cartons, shopping bags, files and the samples for their T-shirt business thrown all over the place. Julie wrinkled up her nose and wondered how anybody could run a business like that. “They can hardly find the computer.” I told her how I had to tame Olivia’s clutter bug back at the beginning in the loft. She couldn’t believe it. “Everything was always so nice at Markson.” I was happy to inform her I was the reason and told her what I was doing at NAB. I had found stuff in that office that had been there since low-rise pants were around the first time. They were called hip-huggers then, and why anybody needs a new generation of butt cracks to look at I’ll never know. Anyway, organizing the stuff at the office had made my day and everybody else’s go smoother, not to mention the break it gave me from yet another disgruntled claimant.

  We kept an eye on the progress while we talked. The moldy turkey sandwich they found buried in a long-lost box of office supplies was nasty, and why a grown man would become unhinged over parting with his Mighty Morphin’ Power Rangers lunchbox was beyond me, but we stopped to watch the “reveal.” The room looked three times bigger, and there was a whole wall of good-looking storage for inventory and supplies, papers had a filing system to call home, the new L-shaped desk had sleek accessories and a place for everything. I always wondered how long the rooms stayed in their pristine state, but hey, at least they had a good start—the rest was on them. Julie said it was a miracle. I said, “I can do that.” It was just logic, common sense and a dollar’s worth of style. And she said, “Well, you should charge for it.” I told her I had always made it part of my workday, so I was getting paid, and she said, “No, like a business.”

  A business. Yeah. Right.

  But Julie was serious. And I said I was hardly in a position to start a business. Money was tight, I was tired when I got home, I had never taken a design course…

  And she said, “If you really want to do it, you’ll find a way.” It was becoming her theme song already, but when I thought about it, Julie had pretty much reinvented herself after Markson let her go. She had started as a receptionist and was on her way to sales executive. I’m not even sure she saw that coming, but somewhere along the line she decided to go for it.

  So I promised I’d think about it. Which I did while I cleaned up the kitchen. Yes, I was good at organizing things, but who was going to hire me? And how was I going to advertise, and what would I charge, and I needed a job, not an adventure. Then I saw Ron’s tin on the dining room table, which gave me something else to worry about. How was I going to get him his cookies?

  I mean, this whole episode started with him, but his was the only box left and th
ey were best while fresh, so the clock was ticking. And what was my problem? I don’t know, it just seemed so fourth grade for me to go marching into his business to give him my goodies, so to speak. I didn’t want to draw attention to myself and have his employees whispering about this woman whose car he painted, because I was sure it wasn’t something he did every day, and there was no reason for him to have to explain it to anybody, not on my account.

  And I didn’t know his home address, which meant I’d have to ask Amber or J.J., and I didn’t want them to wonder what was going on, because it was nothing more than a simple thank-you. Or I could call him at the shop, disguise my voice and ask him to meet me behind the tree on a dark corner, so I could get him “the stuff.” I hadn’t worked it out by the time I went to bed. But when I laid back down after a middle-of-the-night, “getup-and-pee-’cause-there’s-no-point-holding-it” bathroom run, I told myself to just call the man. He was a friend of the family who had done an exceptionally nice thing for me—that’s all. Whatever might have been, wasn’t—I had seen to that. Surely he had not been sitting home waiting for me to come around. I chose not to get specific about what he might have been doing and with whom. There are things even I don’t need to know.

  So next day I got up, looked in the mirror while I brushed my teeth and gave myself the lecture about being a grown woman who was perfectly capable of a simple thank-you. Is that why I dialed the shop four times before I stayed on the line long enough for anybody to answer? When Ron came on the line I temporarily lost control of my tongue, and before I regained it I had asked him if he could come by my house that evening because I had something for him—probably a lot like what I’d said to Julie, but when I’d hung up from her I hadn’t spent the rest of the day beating myself up for sounding juvenile or wondering how I got myself into this in the first place. Come by the house? What was I thinking?

  When I got home Ron was waiting out front in a vintage acid-green Charger. It saved me from changing my clothes forty-two times and wondering if I looked OK. He walked up the drive, opened my car door for me and said, “Nice ride.” I said, “Yeah, it’s a classic—like me.” That part slipped out.

  As I put my key in the lock it dawned on me that Ron was about to step over the threshold and into my house. Guess part of me thought he’d ring the bell, I’d hand him the box and say thank you and good night, like this was a UPS pickup. So I’m trying not to panic as I give the place a mental once-over. Did I fluff the sofa cushions? Had I cleaned under the seat in the powder room? There are some places you don’t look as often when there’s no man in the house on a regular basis. I knew my bed was made—not that that had anything to do with that night, I just like for things to be in order, in case somebody should happen to see them.

  Anyway, now we were inside, and I realized he had no idea what this visit was about, so I cut to the chase, mostly because I was too antsy to do anything else. I had sorta rehearsed my thank-you speech—how I couldn’t begin to tell him how much I appreciated his help, and that I didn’t know what I would have done without him. I did try to keep it under forty-five seconds—like at the Academy Awards—but the music might have come on. When I gave him the box he said I didn’t have to do that. I said I wanted to, and I did. It had been rather humbling to be at the mercy of not exactly strangers but people who had plenty of their own stuff to take care of without having to tend to mine.

  And I was right. Of course, he liked cookies, but after he’d had a couple I realized I hadn’t planned how the rest of the evening would go. You should have dinner before dessert, right? So I asked if he’d eaten, I could rustle something up. He said he hadn’t and suggested we go to the diner not far from my house—if that wouldn’t cause any problems. Perfect opening. I said it was no problem for me and these days I didn’t have anybody else to consult. He kinda nodded, but I was sure happy to have that on the record—not for any particular reason. And the diner was an excellent idea. Thanksgiving was coming soon, but I wasn’t sure I was prepared to cook with Ron again yet—or have him watch—but I was starting to relax enough to have a real conversation, which would be a first.

  We had a nice dinner. I ordered the roast beef, because I never cook it for myself. He had flounder. We talked about the kids and their house-hunting dilemma; he had heard the story from J.J.’s side. Bottom line: he thought they’d work it out too.

  We talked about some of everything in no particular order. He made me laugh—that had been missing from my repertoire for quite some time. I told him about the wacky world of auto-insurance claims and how it was an industry I didn’t care to explore any further. And I’m not sure what made me say it—maybe because he was the only bona fide entrepreneur I knew—but I mentioned the organizing idea I had kicked around with Julie. I explained how it wasn’t some crazy notion I had because I’d seen a TV show. I had really done it.

  He said I should go for it. His business had started with a rented bay at a local gas station, flyers at classic-car shows and word of mouth. That was amazing seeing what it grew into. Ron told me how the shows about customizing your ride had increased his business; he was trying to get the shop featured on one. “Make a plan and get out there. You don’t know if the water is hot or cold unless you stick your toe in.” And he said if he could be of assistance, to let him know.

  While he was talking I kept thinking how I had blown this—for Gerald? What had I been thinking? And I realized I hadn’t been—I had just been doing what I was used to doing, whether I liked it anymore or not. OK. Lesson learned. There’s no room for the right thing if you don’t let go of the wrong one.

  Ron held my hand as he walked me to the door—good thing my foot was still on the mend or I might have been tempted to skip. While I looked for my keys he told me how much he was going to enjoy his cookies, and that he wasn’t usually like this, but he didn’t plan on sharing them with anybody. Uh-huh. I’d been unlocking that door for years, but suddenly I had trouble getting the key in the hole, so to speak, but I finally got it open. And he kissed me good night. This time I stood there and took it like a woman, no bobbing and weaving. Definitely more than a peck, we had full lip-to-lip contact, but no dueling tongues. Mercy, it made me dizzy. He said he’d be in touch, made sure I had his cell digits, said I could call him any time.

  I came in putting on water to boil for tea—herbal because I needed no caffeine; I was having my own wave of delayed tremors. There hadn’t been any activity in that sector for quite a while. Yeah, I closed my eyes and did the instant replay until I started feeling giddy, but I reined myself back from a gallop to a trot. We had at least gotten back to the starting line, where Ron and I could be friends. Whatever happened after that, well, I’d have to wait and see. I had an awful lot to sort through.

  So I got ready for bed and let my mind wander to the conversation Ron and I had had about my business—whoa, that’s a phrase I had never used before. I thought of what Julie had said, about making it happen if I wanted it to, but it seemed a little crazy. Yes, my little bit of degree was in business administration, and I sure had the advanced tutorial for all those years with Olivia. I remembered the first time I saw her with those pigtails and the pots in her kitchen. She didn’t even remember she needed labels for her first order until it was almost ready for delivery. And she survived. There were definitely mistakes—like the soap that didn’t fit in the boxes she’d ordered for it—but somehow the slipups and close calls never kept her from venturing out further the next time. I’d be scared for her, but she moved right ahead, like failure never crossed her mind.

  Then, because I had to, I eased back into the day-to-day—made myself a turkey sandwich for lunch, laid out my clothes for in the morning. It became clear to me that before I could even think about wrangling the chaos in somebody else’s life, I had to tame my own. My first order of business? The house had to go—before they came and got it.

  15

  “Somebody scream!”

  As you may have figured out, some c
hoices I weigh a long time. I shuffle the possibilities in my head until it hurts, and even after I make the informed decision for miney instead of mo, I worry it’s a mistake. Then there are the situations where I get my mind set and jump in, consequences be damned. But more often than not, I’m guilty of decision by default: I deny, delay and dillydally until I’m out of options and the choice makes itself. Yes, I was sad and petrified, but I was determined not to procrastinate about selling the house until I found myself trapped in the corner wondering why I was holding that wet paintbrush. I’d heard winter was a bad time to put your house on the market, but I needed to get a move on.

  So there I was in the supermarket after work. Christmas was two weeks away, and the aisles overflowed with Yule fuel—inflatable snowmen, candied green and red cherries for that fruitcake recipe you’ve been aching to try—and where exactly do green cherries come from? There was eggnog for spiking, ham for baking and cardboard fireplaces complete with stockings for stuffing. All that was missing was the figgy pudding and Tiny Tim. Bah, humbug. I was definitely feeling more than a little Scroogey.

  I’m sure some of it was acute mall withdrawal. It was my first year away from the retail races. I had always been a first stringer, but this year I was on the sidelines, without so much as a shopping bag, but the jingle bells of my phone and the chorus of collection calls reminded me why.

  Amber and J.J. would be in Dallas—again—and my parents were headed for a dude ranch in Arizona with another couple from Shoreline. Who made them Roy and Dale, and where was Trigger? Even Ron would be out of Dodge, headed for NASCAR preseason in Daytona to hook up with a buddy who ran the pit crew for an up-and-coming contender. Suffice it to say, I was expecting merry and jolly about as much as Donner and Blitzen.

  I was about to drop a bag of triple-washed Romaine in the cart to join my other decidedly nonholiday staples when I noticed the ad on the back of the kiddie seat—because obviously you need something to look at if you don’t have a four-year-old banging the heels of their light-up sneakers against your cart and screaming for Marshmallow Froot Loops instead of multigrain O’s. You know the ones: “Let us fix your aching spine. Free Consultation” chiropractor ads. Or the dial-a-lawyer ads: “Injured by a chiropractor? Free Consultation.” This time the ad was right on my street and up my alley. “Buying or Selling—Let Me Take the Hassle Out of Your Real Estate Deal.” There was a smiling photo of a perfectly ordinary woman—no starched and streaked hair, fake nails or Cruella DeVil makeup. Lily Gardener—no kidding, her parents were either hippies or comedians—didn’t look like one of those “I eat condos for breakfast” überbrokers. I called her from the parking lot. She sounded as normal as she looked, so I made an appointment for her to appraise my house.