Page 26 of The Promise Of You

It’s a small, white cape with an overgrown yard. I pull all the way up the weedy driveway, to the cobwebby porch with peeling paint. I brace myself. Aunt Dawn didn’t say anything about the restaurant needing TLC, but she had reservations about the cottage. I wonder what awaits me.

The screen on the front door opens with a wail, and the front door needs a shoulder push.

The inside smells dusty, but nothing worse, and I breathe in relief. The downstairs consists of an open kitchen on the left, with a round plastic table and four chairs defining an eating area cornered by grimy windows on the side and front of the house. On the right of the front door, there’s a brown-ish couch smack in the middle of an empty space.

In front of me, dividing the house, a carpeted staircase leads to two bedrooms and a bath.

One bedroom is empty, its wallpaper peeling. The other bedroom boasts a queen-size frame and mattress and received a coat of paint in the last decade. There’s even a set of linens and towels in the closet.

It doesn’t look like anyone has lived here in a long time. Years ago, someone had the idea to do something with it, and then they changed their mind. They brought a bed, a couch, a table and chairs, and then found better things to do. Or ran out of energy. I wonder briefly if that someone was Aunt Dawn, and then I focus on other things. Like making this space mine for now.

With what Aunt Dawn said, and Uncle Kevin passing away a couple of weeks ago, I was dreading long-forgotten, overflowing trashcans. A fridge with brown leaks where there once was food.

I was expecting mice.

There is nothing of the sort.

I prop all the windows and the front door open to create a nice airflow, bring my luggage in, then get to work.

I vacuum and mop and dust. Clean the windows. Wipe the fridge. I find a single-use packaged powder detergent that smells fantastic and run the kitchen curtains in the washer.

Then I unload my U-Haul and unroll my Moroccan carpet—that Tucker had thought was weird—in front of the couch. With its blue and green hues, it looks awesome. My off-white, distressed coffee table I set right smack in the middle of the carpet and proceed to place three candles at an angle on it. Tucker didn’t like the candles. He said they got in the way of watching the game.

Well, there’s no TV here. Not that I need one.

I drag one of the four kitchen chairs next to the couch as a makeshift side table and plop my tiffany lookalike lamp on it, plug it in and turn it on, for effect.

Then I proceed to carry my bookshelves inside, assemble the shelves, stack my books, arrange my knickknacks, and then plop on the couch for a beat.

It looks like home.

I thought I’d miss my apartment, with its high windows and airy views and open space. It felt like I was making a home there, and that that home was ripped away from me.

It wasn’t. Home is where I decide it is.

I get my ass off the couch, set my laptop on the kitchen table, and plug it in.

I had left my fern inside Aunt Dawn’s house for her to babysit, which means it had plenty of water and regular misting. It looks fantastic. I set it on a chipped plate on the floor next to the couch, for now.

I bring all my kitchen stuff and store most of it in the empty cupboards and drawers, set my red and white ceramic vase on the countertop. After I wipe down the bedroom closet, I hang and fold my clothes there. Make my bed with my own sheets. Again, a feel of home.

Then I move to the bathroom, give everything a wipe, and open the faucets. While they do their coughing and gurgling from going too long without being used, I set my toiletries on the side of the sink, under the vanity, in the medicine cabinet, and in the shower.

When the water flow is nice and even and the bathroom is steamy, I strip out of my sweaty clothes and get under the warm shower. Shampoo and conditioner have never felt so good. Shower gel so indulgent. The weariness from travelling and setting up, washes out, and I’m left with only a feeling of peace.

The sun is setting when I walk back downstairs. The place smells fresh and clean.

My new home, sparse but cozy.

A new start.

I close the windows and take one of the three remaining kitchen chairs to the porch. Finally sitting down, I plop my feet on the railing and bask in the landscape turning crimson while I snack on strawberries.

The next morning, after a restful night, I take a minute to truly enjoy the coffee from my own espresso machine. And the unbeatable taste of a scramble made with fresh farm eggs.

And I’m glad I did, because the minute I walk into the restaurant, holy crap.

It’s going to take more than a good wipe.

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