What Doesn't Kill You

by Virginia DeBerry

  Ms. Gardener—“Call me Lily. Plant me early and I’ll make the blooming sale”—came by at seven-thirty on Saturday morning. She was pleasant and clipboard efficient. She questioned me about the age of the roof, the furnace, and all the systems and finishes in between, scribbling notes during the whole tour. I asked if a winter offering put me at a disadvantage. She said spring was the hot season, “but when you need a house, it’s always spring.” She said my neighborhood and school district were pluses—glad to hear it, I always thought so. She pronounced it a good starter house. That’s funny, because for me it was an ender house.

  By eight-fifteen Lily assured me that even in a soft market, the house was worth more than twice what I paid for it. Except I had to keep in mind that the equity I had eaten up on the second mortgage and the ARM would reduce my net proceeds. Then she estimated the value of my chunk of the American dream—both “as is” and what she could sell it for if I painted the bedrooms, put in a hardwood or tile kitchen floor, replaced the powder-room vanity and installed a new garage door for better curb appeal. According to her, two weeks, and about six grand, give or take, would up the listing price by at least twenty thousand—maybe more. Great. I had to spend money I didn’t have to realize theoretical profits. On the plus side, she said I kept a lovely home, without the usual clutter and tchotchkes, so my house wouldn’t need staging. I’d seen that on DecorTV—they come in, cart away the home owner’s snapshots and tacky mementos and replace them with generic showroom furnishings, because obviously buyers have no imagination and can’t see how their stuff will fit in when they’re looking at yours. I thought that only happened in Malibu or on Park Avenue, not in little ol’ Jersey.

  I was just glad for whatever I didn’t have to subtract from my ever-shrinking bottom line. So minus-ing the commission and taxes, I could still come out of the sale with enough to make a serious dent in my credit-card debt and have a few bucks left over. Not enough for that diamond tiara, a month in Bora Bora or the penthouse Amber thought I should look at, but I could get a crown for my tooth, and while I might still be in a hole, I’d at least be able to see out of it again. The big, red, all-capital-letter question: Where was I going to find six thousand dollars for upgrades?

  I already nixed Amber and J.J. Besides, they had finally found a house they both really liked and were closing right after the first of the year. Julie offered to lend me the money. But that was too big a strain to put on a new friendship, no matter what she said about her new salary.

  Don’t even think about Ron. The car was enough.

  Which left my parents. I had come clean with Amber, but what was I supposed to say to Mom and Daddy? I was grown, had been on my own and getting into and out of my own trouble for a few decades now. How was I supposed to say, “I messed up and I need your help”? I hate being a disappointment. But the sad and sorry truth was I didn’t have a choice.

  So I had to change my tune. I was practicing, “Ain’t too proud to plead, baby, baby,” but I didn’t really have to. When I called, they both got on the phone. I brought up everything under the sun, including Dad’s friend Mr. Ferguson’s golf game, until my father finally said, “Do you need some money, Tee? We’ve got it, and you know you can have it.” Excuse me? Was that my father? The one who had had no trouble letting me know when I was too old for an allowance? My mother added, “We already told you to ask. It’s about time you paid attention—acting like you don’t wanna tell us nothin’. We’re not dummies, you know.” That’s the Mom I know and love.

  Somehow when you become an adult, and have children of your own, it’s easy to forget you’ll always be your parents’ child—and that their radar is as tuned to you as it was when you thought you got away with sneaking in past curfew. That, and I suspect they had a spy—code name Grandbaby. Anyway, they overnighted the check—for twelve thousand—with a note that said, “It always costs twice as much as you think. We’ll check in from the wild, wild west. Love and Merry Christmas, Mom and Daddy.”

  OK. I could dissolve, or I could just get it done, the faster to pay them back. So I made my list, checked it twice, then hit the home-design warehouse with my projects all mapped out. Before you can say “renovation,” I had a cart full of paint and had ordered ceramic tile for the floor and a bathroom vanity—those would be delivered the following Saturday. The garage doors would take a month. To quote my friend, “If you really want to do it, you’ll find a way.”

  Oh, before he left town, Ron came by and made me pick out a tree. I wasn’t planning to put up a garland, a light or a ball, but then he showed up in his bright red pickup truck. Who needs eight tiny reindeer if you’ve got four hundred horses under the hood? He took me to a Christmas-tree farm where we traipsed through the snow, along the rows of pines and spruces and fir—don’t ask me the difference, but they smelled good. Normally, I’m up for the biggest tree I can fit through the door, but I didn’t have the heart. It reminded me this would be my last Christmas at my current address. So I picked out a cute little one; it wasn’t as tall as me, but it was chubby and full. And I don’t know what possessed me, but when he was carrying it back to the truck, I made a snowball and threw it at him. I missed. Probably because I’m way out of practice. He said I was lucky his hands were full.

  So Ron helped me decorate. I hadn’t trimmed a tree with a man since my ex—he liked to toss the tinsel too. What is it, a guy thing? But I dug out the Christmas music, and instead of coffee I made us some hot chocolate while he was out in the garage getting the last few pieces of firewood because he said all fireplaces must have fire—it’s a rule. It was fun I wasn’t planning to have; maybe that’s what made it so good. He got me to promise to go ice skating with him later in the season, toe permitting. But skiing—I didn’t commit to anything more than the lodge. Yes, my health coverage had come through—which was the best gift of all—but I wasn’t breaking any more body parts any time soon. I didn’t have a name for what we were doing, what we were to each other, but I wasn’t convinced I wanted one. I enjoyed being with him, but at the moment my hands were full trying to save myself. Oh, and he did bring some mistletoe—but before you go there, all we did was kiss under it. He’s quite the kisser. Thinking about it still makes me all melty.

  While I was sitting home one evening, looking at my little ol’ tree, I got inspired to dig out those Christmas cards I’d bought the year before and never mailed. I even went to the post office for Christmas stamps. And I wrote checks to two of the charities that had sent me a blizzard of mail. They weren’t big. It was what I could afford, but it reminded me there were folks in worse shape than I was.

  So I got through the holiday without trauma or drama. Julius, bless his heart, gave us a week’s pay as a bonus. I went to candlelight service on Christmas Eve with Julie and her sister Arlene, who was visiting from Toronto. And I’m sure some of you are wondering—and have been for a while—about me and church and why, with all my trials and tribulations, it hasn’t come up. I haven’t mentioned it because that’s kind of how I feel about it. My relationship with the Almighty, and when, where and how we communicate, is personal and private. Maybe it’s from my checkered church past—Catholic school ’til fifth grade, my mother is AME, Daddy is a Baptist, Mary Marshall, my best friend from third through fifth grade, was Pentecostal, my ex was a Buddhist and Olivia was a Jewish Anglican. I had been to church or temple with all of them—sort of a potluck worship experience. So I’m not a heathen; I just have my own way of relating. And believe me, without faith I’d never have made it this far. Well, after the service they came home with me for lasagna and salad—red and green, in keeping with the season. Next day Julie fixed Christmas brunch, and after that we all went to the movies, like we used to when we were teenagers.

  By the new year my life became a blur of activity. Luckily I had a long-standing relationship with Franklin, my carpenter and general handyman. He took pity on me when I first moved into the house and it became clear I didn’t know a sink trap from a pi
lot light. Over the years he had done everything in my house, from installing replacement windows to hanging Sheet-rock when Amber let the bathtub overflow and water leaked through the family-room ceiling. If he couldn’t do it, he knew who could. I wouldn’t have survived without him—and neither would my house. He said he’d miss me. I said I’d give his name to the new owners.

  Then there was the slight detour of getting Amber and J.J. moved into their new place. It was freezing cold that day, and I thought my child was going to give herself a stroke when the movers bounced the coffee table down the front steps, but she survived. I told them they could have some of my furniture once I got myself relocated. Wherever I went, I wouldn’t have the kind of space I had gotten used to. At first Amber kind of screwed up her face—our tastes are very different. Not surprised, are you? But I said it didn’t have to be forever. It takes a while to furnish a whole house. It would beat empty rooms and an echo. She saw my point. So did my son-in-law.

  Fortunately, getting my house in order didn’t cost twice as much as estimated, so the rest I used to ease my monthly squeeze. But by mid-February the renovations were complete. The house looked spiffy enough to make me wonder why I hadn’t made those changes when I could have enjoyed them. Oh yeah—I couldn’t afford it.

  The asking price Lily and I agreed on was less than I would have liked but more than I could have imagined when I bought the place. I was hedging my bets toward a fast sale. I didn’t have time to hold out for maximum profit.

  Leaving my house while Lily showed it, and letting total strangers tromp through, serving up opinions on the way I lived, was torture. “The master bath is too small.” “I prefer white cabinets in the kitchen.” “I wanted a fenced-in yard.” Who asked you? Then you have to live like you don’t really live there because you could have company at a moment’s notice. Heaven forbid there’s a plate in the sink. Lily said the aroma of fresh baked apple pie might be a lovely touch. I started to say, “Then you can bring one,” but I kept my mouth shut. And the bath towels I was really using were in a storage bin under my bed so the ones on the towel rack looked fluffy and fresh. What, the buyer is not supposed to think you bathe?

  By week three I was antsy. Forty-six pairs of feet had waltzed through the premises and kept on walking. If the last year of my life was any indication, I was sunk. There wasn’t much negotiating room in the price; I couldn’t afford to go much lower. But week four was the charm. We got a serious offer from a couple with two kids, four and seven, and they were preapproved for a mortgage. Glad somebody has good credit. We signed contracts, inspections went smoothly. They wanted to close within sixty days. That’s when it became clear to me I wasn’t going to live there any longer, which meant I had to move somewhere.

  Why hadn’t I been looking? Dumb, huh? But you already know my decision-making style. Maybe selling the house used up all my proactive energy. I don’t know, but I had to find a new residence pronto.

  For a hot minute I thought about buying a condo. Lily strongly encouraged it, but I knew most of them cost as much or more than I had paid for my whole house. Yes, that was back in the day, but come on. I wasn’t prepared yet to spend that much for a two-bedroom matchbox—a thousand-square-foot, second-floor walk-up with outside parking? Give me a break. And I wasn’t kidding myself. I knew my credit rating was shot to hell, so I wasn’t getting the preferred-borrower mortgage rate. Would they give me one? These days, who knows. The banks aren’t in such hot shape either. Truth was, I wanted a time-out—to live in a place where I wouldn’t have to worry about a busted hot-water heater, leaky faucets, toilets that won’t stop running, mulch, leaves, snow, repaving the driveway, replacing the roof, repairing the garage door, or what I would do if another rainstorm uprooted a tree in my front lawn. That was the owner’s problem. For a while I wanted no worries—only a place where I could just be.

  As soon as I mentioned my dilemma at the office, everybody had a suggestion about where I should live, so pretty soon I stopped talking about my search, because I did not want the second floor over their second cousin’s store in Carteret, the garage their brother-in-law in Jamesburg turned into a one-bedroom apartment, or half of the duplex Aunt Esther rents in Spotswood.

  I scoured the Sunday papers, tore out ads for places that looked like possibilities and spent my after-work evenings checking them out. There were dozens of brand-new construction “apartment home communities” like the one Amber and J.J. just left, but their walls were too thin. I wasn’t used to hearing my neighbors’ burps, sneezes and other personal noises. The layouts were awkward—designed to maximize space and minimize grace, the rooms were small, and the rents were astronomical because you got to be the very first tenant. One leasing agent repeated that about a dozen times while she showed me the apartment. Big whoop. I couldn’t get that worked up about a room because no one had put a sofa in it before me.

  I liked Julie’s complex—it had been around since the ’60s—solid brick construction, decent-sized rooms and closets, and none of the apartments shared interior walls. I have no idea how they did that, but it didn’t matter because there weren’t any two-bedroom units available for at least six months. I needed at least that much space. Besides, I know I could have ended up on the other side of the complex, but I wasn’t sure I was ready for that much nearness. I wasn’t being antisocial—really. Julie had turned out to be my bestest, dearest friend—in a way I didn’t realize I had missed since I was a kid. I mean, after I confided my no-bra status to Mary Marshall and she blabbed it to the class and all the boys started calling me No-Tit Tee: we didn’t make it to best friends in the sixth grade. How do you do that to somebody you go to church with? Then, in high school, a girl I thought was like my sister iced me so she could get in with a hipper crowd. So after two strikes, I was out—kept my feelings and my business to myself. Which, come to think of it, could be why the Live Five suited my friendship requirements so well, for so long—or at least I thought they did. But with Julie I really felt she was someone I could count on in good times and sucky ones, and that when the occasion arose, I would do the same for her, but that didn’t mean I was ready for us to be Lucy and Ethel.

  Then, two weeks into my search and a month from closing on the house, Julie told me there was a “twin” to her complex, owned by the same company, built around the same time. She said it was about five miles from hers and they had two two-bedroom apartments available—would I be interested? Obviously, the short answer was yes.

  A week later I signed the lease. So it was time to pack up my stuff and move on. I was still on my “do not put off what you can do today” kick, so once I had signed the contract to sell the house, I started consolidating and weeding out. I didn’t have to make all the decisions right then. The kids said I could store things in their basement, maybe have a yard sale in the spring. That would be a hoot. I didn’t grow up in a neighborhood where you spread clothes, books and household items on your lawn for other people to buy. Well, there aren’t actually many lawns in Brooklyn, and nobody was interested in your old stuff anyway. But going to yard sales was a hobby in these parts, so I could get with the program—make back a few cents on the dollar. It all helps.

  You never realize how much stuff you can accumulate in a house. I had clothes in all the closets—makes separating the seasons so much easier. There were storage bins in any and all available nooks and crannies. Some of it was stuff I had forgotten I owned. Clearly, I didn’t need it if I didn’t remember it was there, and some of it I was probably still paying for. It was sobering, really. Part of the reason I couldn’t afford to stay in the house was because of all the things I’d bought, and now I couldn’t take them all with me. Ironic, huh?

  I didn’t sleep my last night in the house. All the packing was done. J.J. had rounded up a bunch of his buddies to help with the move the next day—I have the best son-in-law. I was camped out on the couch again. It was closer to the door, and I’d already said my good-byes to the rooms upstairs. Periodically
I’d get up, roam around taking the last lap of the old-memories tour. I have to say Amber and I had a good time there. I hoped the next family would too. I wasn’t leaving them a haunted house. Truthfully, handing over the key would be a relief—and getting the check. Once it cleared, I was going to have my own private bill-paying party—and when the DJ says, “Somebody scream,” that would be me, with pure relief. I was just sorry I had let it all come falling down around my ears. Maybe I needed to hear the crash to let me know it was time to move on.

  I didn’t hate my new apartment. I know that isn’t the same as loving it, but it’s a long way from miserable, which is what I bet you were expecting me to be. It didn’t take me long to get settled in—thanks to my smooth move plan: less than twenty-four hours after the truck had left, clothes were in drawers and pictures were on the walls. I’m not saying it felt like home already, because I’d be lying, but there was something kind of cozy about the way my life fit into my new space.