What Doesn't Kill You

by Virginia DeBerry

  I got chills.

  I told her about my background—what I had done for Olivia, leaving out the eerily similar start to our relationship. I also told her about how I had cleaned up thirty years’ worth of chaos and clutter at NAB. When it was time to talk terms, I got even more nervous. The minimum NAPO hourly rate—which is what I had decided to charge—was about equal to half a day’s NAB pay. Talking about money was never easy for me, but that hadn’t gotten me anywhere I wanted to go, so I pressed on—said my charges didn’t include costs for any subcontractors I would need, like carpenters or electricians, which of course I wouldn’t hire without her approval. Elena didn’t flinch, said it sounded about right. Then I remembered I was talking to a lawyer, so my hourly quote probably sounded downright bargain basement. She gave me her timetable. She wanted to be open for business right after Labor Day and asked how we were going to proceed. Apparently she had made up her mind.

  The project sounded simple, but I knew it wasn’t. We’d have to purge the room, and I was sure Elena was more attached to her overflow than she was letting on. Then I’d have to find acceptable places for the items that made the cut. After that we could set up her office. How was I going to do all that in six weeks of nights and weekends? I could hear Ron reminding me that the truth was always simpler—fewer moving parts. So I explained that I still had a job I wasn’t ready to leave yet, which limited my available time. I promised to see what I could do to accommodate her and call her back with a workable schedule in a couple of days. She got it, since basically we were doing the same thing—planning our exit strategy. So we shook on it.

  And my hand was still shaking when I called Ron from the car to let him know I wasn’t being held captive by some trash-worshipping loony with a vendetta against organizers. He wanted to meet me at my place to celebrate my first client, but I needed to think. Make a plan. Figure out how I was going to approach Julius. I needed to focus, and Ron understood.

  The next morning I went right into Julius’s office, asked if I could close the door—which I think I had seen shut only twice since I’d been there. I told him my story—starting with To a Tee, what it was and why I wanted to do it. Then I laid out the plan I had worked on most of the night.

  I had a client. I needed at least one full day off a week, preferably two. I wanted a ten-hour workday. I’d start earlier but needed to leave at the same time so my evenings were free for my client. It would reduce the hours he had to pay me, but I would give him almost the same amount of work. In addition I would be available by cell phone during the time I wasn’t in the office, to answer questions about any of my files. I finally paused for a breath, then added, “And I’d like a reference.”

  He sat back in his chair. It was one of those wooden swivel numbers from about 1955, and it needed 3-in-One oil in the worst way. The squealing sounded bad from my desk. Up close it was seriously annoying, but Julius didn’t seem the least bit perturbed. He looked at me a long while, too long, tapping his fingertips together like he was deep in thought. Meanwhile sweat streams were running down my back. Could have been because it was eighty degrees and the air conditioner in his office was the same vintage as his chair. Or was it my nerves? Perhaps one of those power surges Amber asked me about and my nurse practitioner had warned me were just around the corner. In any case, whether he could see it or not, I was sweating like a bull.

  Finally he spoke. “I like that you have thought about this, Thomasina.” He told me he admired my gumption in trying to start my own business. Gumption? Who has that anymore? But Julius wasn’t exactly the type to say I had big brass ones. He told me he always thought I was smart, even when I “screw up” it wasn’t because I was stupid or lazy. Was that a compliment? I didn’t know, but I kept listening, waiting for the answer. Come on, Julius, just say thumbs up or thumbs down. And did I have the courage to quit if his answer was no? The Elena project would last about six weeks. What would I do if I didn’t get another client?

  It felt like I’d sat there for hours before he said, “Your own business—this is good. And I like to help. I think this will be fine.” Hallelujah! I still didn’t know exactly how it would fly, but at least he’d given me the chance to try my wings.

  I didn’t exactly show up at Elena’s looking like a farmhand, but I didn’t wear the cute jeans either. I was ready for serious hefting. And I came armed with a contract. After all, I was dealing with a lawyer. It was pretty basic. I used a template I found online. Elena looked it over and signed on, which let the sorting begin.

  I don’t want to say I bit off more than I could chew, because, as you know, I have a pretty sizeable mouth. But Elena was a trip. The first challenge, just like it is on TV, was getting her to relinquish stuff she had stashed that she had no use for, would never have any use for and didn’t have any business saving in the first, second or third place. Like the fly-fishing equipment she bought after she had seen A River Runs Through It in 1992. Elena went fishing once. “It looked so relaxing when Brad Pitt did it.” But it bored her senseless. What a surprise. Then there was the easel, canvases, brushes and tubes of oil and acrylic paint—because she thought painting might relax her too. After two attempts she realized she was no Picasso and she was done with that. Ditto the cello. I think Elena came without a relax setting.

  We worked our way from the threshold in—skis, an inflatable kayak, copies of every college and law-school application and acceptance letter, her prom dress, eleventh-grade butterfly collection—she had grown up on a farm in southern Jersey. Never would have guessed that, but I guess the wardrobe was a hint.

  And don’t think this process went smoothly. We debated and rebutted every ironing board—she had three. We kept the best one. Memento—“When was the last time you looked at the program from the Ice Capades when you were ten?” “But it was the last one they ever did.” And appliance—“I’m really going to use that juicer again.” “Sure. Right after you take up macramé.”

  I’d describe my style as tough love, and I kept reminding her of the goal—the first office for Elena, counselor-at-law. Over time we trashed piles of crap. And discovered the floors were oak. I think she’d forgotten too.

  Then I had to find storage units to go in the basement and garage, for the now streamlined remaining items. That’s when I found out making up her mind was not Elena’s strong suit. We’d go through options for shelving systems and she would have weighed the pluses and minuses forever if I hadn’t kept reminding her Labor Day would be here in no time. Then she’d finally make a decision. And call the next day to make another one. That girl changed her mind more times in six weeks than I’ve changed underwear in my whole life. After canceling the shelving order three times, my new strategy became to wait a minimum of three days before finalizing anything.

  I ate, drank and slept the Elena Project. Because I knew as soon as the space was cleared, the next hard job would begin.

  She showed me dozens of photographs of offices she liked, but they were all contradictory. She wanted neutrals but liked color. The space should evoke a feeling of cool but be warm and inviting, be modern but traditional. She wanted the office bright but hated overhead lighting. I wasn’t a decorator. I was an organizer. I could find the proper office furniture to give her space, good flow, make sure it had the right bins and dividers to manage her supplies and files and give her sufficient workspace with room to grow. Paint chips, rug samples, fabric swatches and furniture finishes were not my territory. But I made friends with the in-store design people. They got me through and I learned a lot, but there were at least forty times a week when I was sure I’d lose my mind.

  Thanks in no small part to my former handyman, Franklin—who was not exactly a minion, but he wielded a mean hammer—I maintained my sanity. He was only too happy to work with me because it had the potential to expand his own client base. And he saved my butt even when I didn’t know it needed saving. Occasionally I was even thankful for the serenity of NAB.

  I didn’t see as
much of Ron as I would have liked that summer, but we talked every day and squeezed in time whenever we could. Amber was busier than ever—in line for her boss’s job, so because Paris was her company’s largest foreign office, she spent most of the summer there—poor baby. My favorite son-in-law sent me an email I was thrilled to get—and you know how I feel about my inbox. It was an article from the Financial Times about Interpol arresting Steven Wu in Thailand on charges of international fraud and money laundering. Sometimes life handles itself. And Julie? Well, Julie had met a man. And what was it she said to me? “You know, Tee, you don’t know what’s around the next corner if you don’t turn it.” Alrighty then, Miss Julie.

  Now, unfortunately, in real life it’s not like the home or business owner moves into a hotel and they show up for the final reveal and ooohs! and aaahs! at the amazing, miraculous transformation. Elena was there every day, or night, with questions, comments, suggestions—because it was her house, her office, and, of course, her money. So I paid attention. Smiled. Listened. Nodded. Showed concern about her wishes and suggestions. And did I say smile and nod? She was my customer, after all, and you know, just like they do, that they’re always supposed to be right. Even when they’re wrong.

  Elena worked my last half a nerve, but she also taught me a lot. She has a good heart and a big mouth and she was so tickled with the results—I was pretty impressed myself—that she took it upon herself to spread the word about her new find—that would be me. She knows half of the lawyers in the state—80 percent of the female ones. I think she personally sent my brochure to all of them and offered tours of her new office as proof of my skills.

  When I started, I had no idea how many people work at least part time from home—and a whole heap of them watched the same before and after shows I did. And they wanted their space to look like the ones on TV—polished and professional—but didn’t have the time, patience, or frankly, the taste to create it on their own. Which is, of course, where I came in.

  And I really, really love what I do. I shop all the time, but with other people’s money and they pay me to do it. Heaven. Franklin likes working with me because the jobs are simple from his point of view—in, out and on his way. And he’s gotten more extensive jobs as a result.

  I busted my hump for the first eight or nine months, keeping up with my NAB work, consulting with prospective clients, shopping, supervising them as they made sense of their possessions. Some days I felt like a therapist—OCDD, Overwhelming Crap and Debris Disorder, goes deep. Probably back to the time mommy threw away the box of broken Crayolas, the one-legged GI Joe or the knobless Etch-A-Sketch. And ta-da! Let the hoarding begin. Now, I don’t want to toot my own horn, except I sorta do. I’m good at it—always was, way before anybody paid me to do it—I just like things neat and orderly. And I have a knack for easing people through the transition from slop to sleek. Oh, I know there’ll be plenty of backsliders, but that just assures me repeat customers.

  I stayed up nights deciding whether it was time to leave NAB. It had taken me for-freakin’-ever to find any kind of job with health benefits. The idea of letting that go kept me up many a night. It was never really more than a bridge to the next opportunity, but knowing I’d have something to cash on a regular basis sure was comforting. It wasn’t as scary for Olivia—Eliot was the safety net, no matter what. When I talked to Julie about it, she reminded me I had a safety net too. I was completely and totally, for the first time in my adult life, debt free. Now I used my plastic like cash and paid the whole bill at the end of the month. I really thought about getting a new car—something in a snappy convertible—but I got so many compliments on my Ron-mobile I decided to let it ride for a while. And I had been careful to put money aside. I don’t know if it was a full cushion yet, but it was at least a pillow.

  Ron reminded me he used to have a J-O-B, and that it had made him miserable. Then he said I was friskier when I was self-employed. I threatened to show him frisky. He was not a-scared.

  Daddy and I had a long talk about it. He was still old school—you get a good job and you stay there until your pension kicks in. I reminded him that pensions were an endangered species. Then my mother—my mother—got on the line and told me how proud she was. She didn’t exactly understand how the money came in, but she knew I was making it happen. “Do what you gotta do and don’t look back.” My mother.

  So I let go. And the world kept on turning. I was a wreck the first few months—and I was a good bill collector for myself, like I had been for Olivia, not like those heartless blood-suckers who used to harass me. We all deserve to get paid. But I had time to take on more clients, stir up more business. I got the idea to do presentations for sorority alumni chapters and professional organizations. I got lots of good contacts from that.

  And to show how far I’ve come, I started a blog with organizing ideas. It doesn’t cost anything, and I like it when people make comments and ask me questions—not that I’m a know-it-all, but I do have some expertise. And it was the blog that got me noticed by a community newspaper. They asked me for my top ten home-office organizing tips. Clipping the article and putting it in my brand-new scrapbook reminded me of starting one for Olivia, with that article, about the Ginger Almond Crème, with the labels I had handwritten. Well, that pretty much brought me full circle.

  So I was working hard, making plans. I had this long-range hallucination about franchise opportunities. I was enjoying my love life—hadn’t used that term in a couple of decades ’cause what I had with Gerald wasn’t love, and it certainly wasn’t a life. I was pretty much feeling I had it all—quite a turnaround. Then this envelope arrived in my mail—a big one—from Markson & Daughter. It had been forwarded from my old address, just in the nick of time. It had been almost a year since I moved.

  I treated that envelope like it was radioactive—dropped it in the middle of my dining-room table and circled it at a distance. What the hell could they want with me after all this time? I was so upset I didn’t know what to do with myself. What were they starting with me now? Well, I decided I wasn’t letting it drag on and torture me. So I stood there—because I wanted to take it standing up—and I ripped open the envelope.

  Inside I found another envelope, from a law firm. What the hell? I ripped into that and read—and read.

  My whole life had fallen apart when Markson let me go. It was damn hard to pick up the pieces. I flipped through pages of wherefores and insomuch as-es. Then I just laughed, in my apartment, by myself, and cried.

  When Olivia died and Hillary was so detached, unconcerned, callous and money grubbing, I was mad. But I was hurt too. It seemed like Olivia had forgotten where we had been and how she had gotten there—because of we. Well, she hadn’t. The estate was just a long time figuring out where all the pieces went, and they were slow letting people know which ones were theirs. It seems Olivia valued my participation more than I’d known. And she had left me quite a handsome token of her appreciation. Oh—and a permanent seat on the managing board of any corporate entity that acquired the company should that eventuality happen. Pretty cagey for a hippie girl, but she knew her daughter. So, basically, she had made me Didier’s boss—at least one of them. Does it get any better than that?

  Well—yes.

  Amber and J.J. had another one of those hand-holding moments on my couch. I don’t know how much longer I can survive these, but it’s getting to be tradition. Amber started babbling about how this wasn’t part of the plan and how she didn’t know what she was going to do. Her voice was getting higher and tighter, and I’m starting to think she got passed over for the next promotion she’d been working so hard for. Or worse, she’d lost her job altogether, or maybe J.J. had. Or they were being transferred to Bangalore or Budapest or Baton Rouge.

  J.J. squeezed her hand, rubbed her arm and said it was a surprise to both of them, but they were happy. Amber looked like she was about to have an ing bing—hadn’t seen one of those in a long time. Then she blurted out, “But I don’t kno
w how to have a baby.”

  I felt like I’d swell up and float, like one of those birthday balloon bouquets, which surprised me. Amber had been charging so hard on the career path, I had given up the idea of her being a mom yet. Besides, that made me Grandma Tee. Me? Grandma? The name was gonna take some getting used to, but I swear in that moment my heart got bigger, ready for somebody new to love. I could even imagine how happy my ex would be when he found out. And great-grandma and-grandpa? They’d be bragging all over Shoreline as soon as they got the news.

  So I got up and hugged them both. That’s when Amber started to boohoo. I told her people have been having babies for as long as—I don’t know, as long as there have been people. She would survive. Of course, at that moment she had no idea how that was possible. So I admitted she was a surprise too, and that at eight weeks I didn’t have a clue how I’d manage either.

  “But this wasn’t supposed to happen for another seven years,” she told me through her sniffles. You will be proud of me because I did not laugh, since I was supremely aware that what happens, and what’s supposed to happen, can be so far apart you can’t even see it in the distance. Then she looked at me with her tear-streaked face like she just wanted me to make it better. For the first time in ages I saw my little girl, looking just like she did the day she didn’t get the part of Pocahontas in the second-grade play. So I held her, let her cry. And poor J.J., Lord love him, sat there patiently waiting. I winked at him over Amber’s head and let her sob until she was through.

  This time I did not quote The Fool’s Guide to Motherhood. I quoted John Lennon—told her life is what happens while you’re making plans and that she would be a wonderful mother, my son-in-law would be the best dad, and I would be the sassiest, hippest grandmother ever. Oh, and that I could already see Ron helping J.J. build the swing set for the backyard.