Page 11 of Lovingly Restored

After a workout in my building’s gym and a long shower I sit at my kitchen counter and wonder how long my dad planned to give me the axe? If he figured he’d never be able to force the love of doing things the good, old-fashioned way out of me, then he’s right. I inherited a lot more than height from my grandfather. I spread a copy of my condo’s lease out on the cold quartz bar, skimming through to find the clause about breaking the agreement early. Whistling low at the amount, I open my banking app. Paying the price end my lease early is better than watching my savings account dwindle every month. I don’t want to dip into that money for overpriced ocean-view rent. This money is earmarked for the day I finally take a chance on starting my own company. I’ve put it off for so long. I send an email to the property management company to break the lease. Goodbye, condo. I’m not attached to the place anyway. It’s sparsely decorated, cold. There’s one place I can get free room and board in this city, and while most thirty-year-olds would rather sleep in the forest than live with their grandmothers, I’m not one of them. Mummo and Pappa basically raised me after my mom left. I can use Pappa’s old workshop to get myself started, and it’ll only be for a few months anyways.

Ashlyn’s name sits at the top of my contact list. I roll my shoulders, finger hovering over her number. My career might have combusted yesterday, but the girl made me laugh, and I could use some more of that. I type something out:

Delete.

Delete.

Jesus Christ.

What do I even bring to the table at this point? No job, about to have no house of my own, and a bad fucking attitude. A real trifecta. She’ll have to settle for the car delivery. I was the one who insisted she hang up and come with me, so it was the least I could do. I had the lights changed and the screaming fan belts fixed, too. As I shove the lease paperwork back into the file folder, her wide brown eyes and glowing cheeks pop into my mind. I press the heels of my hands over my face and rub until I see stars. I need that pressure washer again. As lovely as she looked, as flattered as I am that she gave me her number, I need to focus on the goals I’ve avoided for too long.

It’s been four, maybe five, weeks since I visited Mummo over the Christmas holiday. Too long. If I had to offer an excuse, I’d say mine is pretty good. Figuring out how to start your own business is fucking hard. When I pull up at the house, the neighbourhood looks different. West Isle’s downtown and the surrounding areas have transformed during the last decade. Now that change is spreading into the older residential areas. Every time you drive down a street, there’s something new. An excavator bumps over churned up soil in the front yard across the street. Solar panels protrude from a green roof on a newly renovated triplex. Rezoning application signage stands outside a century-old brick home. A tasteful mix of old and new in a neighbourhood is beautiful, but I’d sooner die than let my grandparents’ 1930s Craftsman home become someone’s house flip money grab. Someone like my dad. I rub at my chest as I exit my truck. Death might realistically befall me before I’ll have the million dollars, minimum, that it will take to buy it. The price keeps rising.

With a duffel bag on each shoulder, I regard the single-story house on its corner lot, blowing air out of my cheeks as I take in the state of semi-disrepair. This area is wide awake with renovations, but Mummo’s address looks tired. The butter yellow siding is faded and some of the planks need replacing. A brick chimney stack reaches up valiantly toward the mature trees on the property. The porch that had once been a focal point of the house sags slightly in the centre as if the wood has grown tired.Thinkingabout the work it needs is overwhelming. Actually getting it done seems impossible. I transfer my weight onto the short staircase, cognizant of my two-hundred-pound frame and the recent unrelenting rain. Aside from creaks of protest on each soggy step, it holds. The porch swing on my right hangs crooked, rust gathering on the silver chains. Building that swing was one of the first projects Pappa let me manage.

I let myself in with the key that’s been on my keyring ever since I was old enough to not lose them. The snug living room is pure nostalgia. I hid amongst those overstuffed couch cushions as a boy, dragging clean sheets from the linen closet to create forts. Thick wool area rugs cover wide-plank hardwood, and a rough brick hearth frames the fireplace. The air smells of teak oil and laundry and…bleach? That’s not right. The harshest things Mummo uses to clean are vinegar and dish soap.

I call out, “Mummo? I’m here for a visit!”

An extended one.

I drop the heavier of the two bags by the door and slip off my boots, striding silently past the never used formal dining room in my sock feet. Through the swinging door of the closed concept kitchen, I hear faint humming. Bleach and singing in the kitchen? Mummo’s on a roll.

“Where’s the prettiest lady in West Isle?” I holler, pushing against the swinging door.

I freeze, eyebrows shooting up. A figure, and I mean afigure, is bent over the gas range. Black leggings hug shapely hips that sway with every aggressive scrub of the cooktop. That isnotGrandma’s ass. A familiar floral apron is tied snugly around her waist, a neat bow centred right above a round backside. I clear my throat, but earbuds poke out of the maid’s ears, her music and steel wool scouring pad drowning me out. My dad hired a maid? Guilt washes over me. I should be doing more. It’s not enough to take out the trash every couple of weeks and put up the Christmas lights and drive her to the odd appointment. Shaking out her arms and wiggling her fingers in pink, elbow-high rubber gloves, she straightens, stretching her arms overhead. A long, brown braid hangs down her back, grazing her trim waist. I gulp and pull at my collar.

Don’t gawk at the hired help, Lauri.

“Excuse me!”

She shrieks and spins around, flinging a soaking scouring pad directly at me with impressive aim. It spirals towards centre mass, but I reflexively catch it, wincing when cold liquid splatters across my chest. Her gloved hands cover her heart, bumping into the range as she backs up as far as she can. I raise my hands in surrender, terrified of further onslaughts of corrosive chemicals as bleach-scented water drips down my right forearm. We stand on opposite sides of the kitchen, divided by a handcrafted dining table, and both our jaws drop.

Nofuckingway.

“What areyoudoing here?“ Ashlyn’s tone conveys that I’m the absolute last person she wants to see.

“Me?”

She fumbles in her apron pocket, withdrawing her phone.

“I trusted you! YousaidI could trust you.”

I step around the table toward her, “Who are you calling?”

I have a sinking suspicion the number only has three digits and starts with nine.

She holds a hand up, warning me not to come closer.

“No, no, no. Please, wait. I can explain. This is my grandmother’s house. I’m IsaacLauri.Aada Lauri’s grandson.”

Why amIexplaining myself? For years this was my home.

She tucks her phone and earbuds away and doubles over, hands on her knees, taking slow breaths.

“You scared the absolute crap out of me. I thought… I don’t know what I thought.”

“It didn’t seem like anything good. Do you always consider the worst-case scenario?”

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