Chapter 12
If your schedule leans toward early mornings, develop a repertoire of handheld breakfasts you can eat in the car. Take time the night before to lay out your clothes and everything else you'll need for the next day.
Â
From the Notebook of Maggie McDonald
Simplicity Itself Organizing Services
Â
Â
Saturday, September 6, Morning
Â
T
he remainder of the week passed in a flurry of chores, homework, and home repairs. Tess and I had spoken on the phone, but neither one of us could find a spare hour to meet for coffee. Friday afternoon, the moving van arrived with an extra team to speed up the unloading. After school, the boys and I made our beds, unpacked our clothes, and took warm showers that washed away much of the tension that had built over the course of the week. We ate pizza in our pj's and crashed early, serenaded by the coyote choir.
On Saturday morning, David and I were getting organized to leave for band practice when a sleepy-looking Brian drifted down the stairs in a T-shirt and boxers. Belle followed. I let her out and passed Brian a spoon, bowl, box of cereal, and a carton of milk.
“Thanks, Mom,” Brian mumbled around a crunchy mouthful of Cheerios. “Is it still okay if I stay here alone this morning?”
“If you want to,” I said, not sure whether he was asking to stay or if he wanted me to force him to go with me. Brian wanted to be independent, but staying alone in a house, particularly one in which a man had recently died, might be a little creepy.
“Umm . . .”
“You don't have to,” I reminded him. “I'd be happy to have your company. And I don't have many errands. The building inspector will be by later, but I should be home by then.”
“I'll stay here and go back to sleep.” Brian yawned. I put out my hand to rumple the little-boy curls, but pulled my hand back, remembering just in time how much he didn't like it.
David came down the back stairs two at a time.
“Hey, squirt,” he said to Brian, laughing as Brian responded by sticking out his Cheerio-covered tongue. “I thought you were going to sleep in?”
“Someone,” said Brian, glaring at his brother, “was bellowing marching-band tunes in the shower this morning. Woke me up.”
It was time to go.
“Got everything, David?” I said. “Let's get a move on.” I grabbed my keys and backpack, let Belle in from the porch, and told her to stay with Brian. She curled up under the table at his feet.
“Brian, can you feed her when you've finished breakfast? Just put your dishes in the sink.”
Brian nodded. He reached for the milk carton and knocked it over. Belle scrambled to clean the evidence off the floor. I tossed Brian a dish towel and a sympathetic glance, and David and I took off for the car, band, and errands.
We navigated the curves on Monte Viejo Road through the morning fog. It wasn't raining, but I had the wipers on. Every few feet, a big drop of condensation slid off the end of a branch and plopped onto the windshield.
The vast temperature swings typical of a California fall were one of the most difficult things about David's schedule. By afternoon, it would be warm enough for shorts, T-shirts, and iced tea. First thing in the morning, however, we shivered in jeans and fleece hoodies, and we each had an insulated travel mug for the predawn trips to school: hot, rich coffee for me, creamy milk chocolate for Brian, and hot chocolate with a splash of coffee for David. Hot drinks and peanut-butter toast were our favorite portable band-morning breakfast so far, but we would need to vary our repertoire as the season wore on.
I tapped my fingers on the steering wheel and tried to remember the items on my to-do list. David was quiet, and I looked over once or twice to make sure he hadn't fallen asleep.
When I dropped him at school, David told me practice finished at 3:30 p.m. and he was getting a lift home from another band parent.
“Hang on!” I said as he was closing the car door. “Who is this parent?”
David rolled his eyes. “I told you I had a ride for today, remember? On the first day of school? When I wanted you to sign my band form? You wanted me to set up a carpool to help out, so I did.”
I shook my head. “But I don't know her. . . .” I started to reply, but my cheeky kid was a step ahead of me.
“It is as I have feared,” he said in a fake accent. “My mother has indeed gone mad.”
He switched to his normal tone of voice. “Look, Mom, I'll text you her number and you can call her. But I met her yesterday and she seemed okay. No horns. No knives. No chainsaws. I promise if she's a bad driver I'll ask to get out and I'll call you. I'm fourteen, Mom. I know this stuff.”
I might have scolded him for using a disrespectful tone, but instead, I laughed. “Okay, kiddo,” I said, “but remember that there is a very fine line between a smart kid and a smart-ass. Remember to stay on the right side of that line.”
He shut the door and strode off, waving. The car behind me honked and the driver gestured for me to move on. I sighed and moved forward. Being the parent of a young teen was tough. Just when I wanted to pull him close, David pushed me away. And when I thought he should be more independent, he tended to cling. I wished Max were here to consult with. Before I left the parking lot, my phone
ping
ed with what I assumed was the contact information David had promised me. I'd try to meet the mom for coffee, but if that didn't work, a phone call would have to do. But if she sounded like a flake, didn't answer, slurred her words, or sent my mom antennae aquiver in any way, I'd be at school to pick up David.
By noon, most of my errands were done. I'd phoned the mom who'd be driving David home. She lived less than a quarter mile from us and we agreed to meet for coffee the next day. She confirmed that she'd met David the day before when she was checking uniform measurements, and thought he was a charming child. Her son also played trumpet. She hoped I wouldn't mind if she drove David home and that I might be willing to carpool from time to time.
I thanked her and said I looked forward to meeting her. I refrained from mentioning that I also wanted to confirm that she wasn't a chainsaw-wielding psychopath.
I'd forgotten to get gas until I was almost home and didn't have time to turn around and still get back in time to meet the building inspector. I typed a reminder on my phone. The gas gauge was on empty, but I hoped I still had a little fuel in reserve.
* * *
I called to Brian as I walked into the kitchen. No answer. No Belle running to greet me. I walked to the table to look for a note and deposit my grocery bags before going back to the car for more. I nearly slipped on the tiles and banged my elbow hard on the table as I tried to avoid dropping the eggs.
The kitchen looked like something out of an old
I Love Lucy
episode. A thin sheen of soapy water covered the floor and bubbles oozed from the running dishwasher. I sighed and leaned my head on my hand, wincing as my bruised elbow hit the table.
Poor Brian. It looked like he'd tried to help by starting the dishwasher, but made the classic mistake of using laundry detergent or regular dish soap in place of the powder formulated for dishwashing machines.
I turned off the washer and grabbed towels from the drawer next to the sink. I threw them on the floor, kicked off my shoes, and pulled a mop from the rack Adelia had installed behind the basement door.
I'd barely started mopping when I heard Belle and Brian on the back porch. They burst into the kitchen and Belle kept going, sliding across the kitchen trailing her leash and snapping at the bubbles floating in the air. Brian just stood in the doorway, staring.
“What happened?” he asked.
“Oh, honey, can you grab those soaking towels and put them in the sink? And bring me some dry bath towels from the linen closet upstairs?”
“But what happened?”
“Did you start the dishwasher after breakfast? And grab the wrong soap?”
“No way. You told me to put my dishes in the sink!”
“It was great of you to want to help. It's a common mistake, mixing up the soap.”
“Mom, I didn't do this!”
“It's okay, Brian.”
“
But I didn't do it!
”
I stopped mopping and looked at Brian. I believed him.
“But then . . . who did?” I asked.
“Adelia?”
“She had a family thing today. She's not coming until late this afternoon. Could you have forgotten to lock up?”
“With bad guys blowing up the mailbox? No way.”
“But no one else has a key. . . .”
We stared at each other. I thought about the implications. Obviously, someone else
did
have a key. But what kind of a vandal starts up a dishwasher? Had it been someone trying to help who'd made a mistake? Or someone trying to do more damage to our house and make it
look
like a mistake? Either way, it was creepy to think of someone being in the house without an invitation.
“I think it's time to change the locks, Mom,” Brian said. “Maybe this afternoon?”
“Good idea. Do you want to look up a locksmith on your phone or should we see if someone on Adelia's team can do it?”
Brian pulled out his phone. “Can I see if there's someone who can come out before Adelia gets here?”
I nodded. Brian called and after checking with me, arranged for the locksmith to come out within the next hour.
I finished mopping and fixed lunch. The locksmith came on time, fixed us up with new keys, made copies on the grinder in his truck, and was gone. Brian and I agreed that the new keys made us feel even safer than we'd thought they would.
The building inspector came and suggested we plan to: Redo the roof, gutters, and downspouts. Replace the windows. Add to the insulation. And have the place tented for termites. In general, though, his report was far better than I'd feared and uncovered few surprises.
Adelia came and her team helped me get all the furniture in place on the now-gleaming floors. By four thirty they'd come and gone, and I was wondering where David was and whether I should phone him.
David had said practice would finish at three thirty, but I didn't know yet whether marching practices tended to run late, or if the kids stayed and chatted afterwards. I decided to wait a few more minutes before phoning him to check up. I walked to the living room, sank into the down cushions of our denim sofa, and admired all that Adelia and her team had accomplished.
Boxes still needed unpacking and lamps needed to be matched up with their shades and plugged in, but the heavy pieces were in place. Adelia had surprised me earlier by unrolling one of the most beautiful Persian rugs I'd ever seen. It had belonged to Aunt Kay and had been stored in the basement, still wrapped in brown paper from its last cleaning. The rich blues, greens, golds, and reds pulled the room together, merging our faded denim sofas with the rich wood of the Craftsman house.
I was about to call David when I heard a car door slam. David trudged up the drive looking worn-out from his long day of practice.
“Daniel's mom said to tell you she'll see you for coffee tomorrow,” David said. “She would have stopped to say hi, but practice ran late and she needs to pick up Daniel's little brother from soccer.”
He kicked off his shoes, walked into the living room, and tossed his backpack and trumpet on a window seat. “I'm starving. How long âtil dinner?”
“It will be a while, but you can make a sandwich now if you want. The sandwich fixings are in their usual spot in the fridge.”
David made and gobbled two sandwiches and a huge glass of milk, regaling me with tales of marching-band practice in between bites.
In the same way that I was building a home for us here, within the daunting, fast-paced confusion of Silicon Valley, David was building himself a comfortable home within the confines of Orchard View High School.
David said he planned to take a shower and start on homework. Brian was practicing his French horn. I decided to gas up the car in case I forgot later, despite the reminder note on my phone. Belle stayed with the boys. With the locks changed and both boys home together with Belle, I figured they were probably safe from the dishwasher-starting prowler. I shook my head over that. A prowler was a prowler. It was creepy thinking someone had been in our house uninvited. But a prowler who did housework? Was that even more creepy or something I could get used to? I shrugged, hoping that it wouldn't happen again and I'd never have to find a real answer to that question.
I'd stopped at the closest gas station when a familiar Subaru pulled up to the pump next to me. Its roof rack held a silver road bike that looked to be pretty high-end, though I didn't know much about the nuances of cycling and its equipment. A lean man wearing a green Lycra cycling outfit unfolded from the front seat, smiling as if he knew me.
“Paolo Bianchi, ma'am, remember me?” he said, holding out his hand. “Officer Paolo Bianchi.”
My hand smelled like gasoline from the pump, but I made a show of wiping it on my jeans before I shook his hand.
“Of course I remember you,” I said. “I was confused by the switch in the sports gear on top of your car.”
Paolo laughed. “The guys at the station are always on my case,” he said. “I'm new to the force and they say they've learned more about me from what's on top of my car than from talking to me.”
I smiled, happy to have a friendly face to talk to while I waited for my tank to fill. “Has there been any progress in the investigation?”