“It’s that dirty? That doesn’t sound like Nana.”
Okay, so I might be exaggerating a little bit. I’m a writer. I like hyperbole. It’s just everything is faded and worn. Cobwebs hung in corners until I swiped them away with my hand. I shiver with the memory of the spider I didn’t see that climbed up my wrist before I flicked him off me.
“Do you think she has Alzheimer’s?” Grace asks, her voice shaky with concern. My sister hasn’t been here in years either. With each new birth, travel became more difficult. The expense. The distance. The number of children.
“I just don’t know, but all this talk of Grandpa really weirds me out.” I’ve gently mentioned that my grandfather is no longer here a few times, hoping to prompt Nana to remember. When I say such a thing her face melts to sadness, and I’ve come to the point of not mentioning it, letting her chatter in her fantasyland. Still, it disturbs me. I’ve even asked her when she last visited a doctor and her response was she’s fit as a fiddle. But it’s obvious she’s not.
“I’ll just need to stay a week, take her to a doctor, and get this place cleaned up.” It’s easier said than done and even I know I need more than a week. I also need some things from home which I should have considered bringing with me. My laptop. Additional clothing. My notebooks. My weekend away has turned into more than I bargained for, and clearly, I’m not what I said I am to Jess.
I’m efficient, I’d snapped at his accusation that a week wouldn’t be enough time. What does he know about taking care of a house or another person? Instantly, I’m reminded he’s a father, taking care of a silent child who needs supervision and tenderness. My thoughts flip to Nana. The stove situation. Her car keys. Even the staircase worries me. This house is no longer fit for someone like Nana, but not fitting here will break her.
This is her place. Her roots. Her home.
And I need to get things in order for her.
However, I’m frustrated after a disappointing phone call with my boss, who begrudgingly gave me the week off when I reminded him, I’d earned the time. I’m cleaning up the kitchen when the cold water handle comes off the faucet and water shoots into the sky like the Buckingham Fountain in Grant Park.
“Oh my God!” I screech, attempting to stop it first with both my hands. Quickly, I realize that isn’t working. I lower and reach into the cabinet beneath the sink. While Grandpa tried to teach Grace and me simple mechanics and home repair, we were helpless with tools. Fortunately, being a homeowner myself—or, at least a condo owner—I’ve learned a thing or two, but there’s no condo association to call for this disaster. I fiddle with the knobs under the sink and manage to shut the water off completely, and then fall back on my ass. Water seeps into my shorts, another old pair of Grandpa’s pants hacked up for my new job as housecleaner. I’d cry if I wasn’t too tired to do so, and instead I laugh, though nothing about this is funny.
“Houston, we have a problem,” I call out to no one, feeling more alone than ever and wishing Grace was here. She’d expressed her own desire to be with me during our call last night but we both know travel is out. She’s eight months along.
“Did you say something, dear?” Nana asks. I spin in my wet seat and hold up my hands.
“Don’t come in here, Nana. I made a mess.” I pick up the cold water tap which I must have dropped on the floor in my rush to stop the waterworks. “We need a plumber.”
Nana’s eyes travel the length of her kitchen tiles. Like every room, this space is antiquated, with a chrome-edged dining table and four metal chairs with yellow canvas seats. It’s straight out of the fifties and probably worth something. I fixate on the table for a second until Nana says, “I’ll call John.”
She lifts a foot as if to step into the kitchen from the porch. There’s still a landline on the wall but it’s been disconnected. Nana got a cordless phone once her rotary one no longer worked, but it still hangs in its original place.
“No, Nana,” I warn. “You’ll slip. Just tell me where I might find the number for a plumber.”
“The phone book is in the drawer.” She points to the cabinet nearest the wall phone and I crawl on hands and knees to it. I swipe my hands on my makeshift shorts and slowly stand as water dribbles down my shins. After flipping open the traditional paper phone book, I find a business card taped inside the cover. Who uses these anymore? My heart aches at all the antiquity of this house and the woman who owns it. It’s going to break her heart if I need to move her.
QuickFix, the card reads. Specializing in emergency repairs. Plumbing. Electrical. You name it, we fix it. Quick.
Goodness. Who came up with that slogan?
Regardless, I dial the number, thankful my cell phone was on the kitchen table, and my feet tap in the flooded floor, like a kid sloshing through puddles.
“QuickFix.”
There’s something familiar about the voice on the other end of the line, but I delve into my situation with the sink and where I’m located. A pause follows my explanation.
“Hello?” I question as silence fills the line.
“I’m here,” he says, and the ruggedness gives away who he is.
Oh hell no.
“I thought you worked at Sound Advice,” I snap, mortified for some reason.
“I’m a Jess of all trades,” he teases, his voice almost playful. This is a side of him I’ve not yet seen.
“Don’t you mean Jack?” I correct.
“Don’t know who Jack is. My name is Jess. How easily you forget.” His light banter does nothing to settle me. “Give me fifteen and I’ll be there.”
Fifteen? I don’t have fifteen minutes to clean this mess and myself. Then I reconsider. What do I care if he sees me like this? Jess Carter gets what he gets when he looks at me, which is nothing. He stole my shoes last night, I remind myself, and hung up without a courtesy thank you. Nana would be appalled.
When I turn back toward the flooded kitchen, the tears still don’t come, only hysteria. I laugh and laugh at the craziness of the universe.
I’ve hardly encountered this man without looking like a wreck. First when I took the radio to his shop. Then when I made a rain shower in Nana’s garden, and now this.
He must think I’m a hot mess. And I am.
Rule 4
Listen. You might hear more than what’s said.
[Jess]
Ten minutes after Emily’s call, I enter her grandmother’s home to a mess. Elizabeth answered the door for me and leads me to the kitchen entrance.
This house has good bones, and it’s one I’ve always admired. I’d love to own a place like this one day.
As I enter the kitchen, I can tell the place needs more work than I could ever afford, and from the looks of the sink, there’s a steep bill coming Elizabeth Parrish’s way. The cold water tap is missing. The contents of the cabinet underneath stand outside scattered across the counter. The sink is almost a hundred years old, and I imagine I won’t find a replacement part. It’s not a quick fix after all, and I don’t know why I’m disappointed.
Because you want to get out of here.
Because you want to stick around.