What Doesn't Kill You (22 page)

When I got home Ron was waiting out front in a vintage acid-green Charger. It saved me from changing my clothes forty-two times and wondering if I looked OK. He walked up the drive, opened my car door for me and said, “Nice ride.” I said, “Yeah, it's a classic—like me.” That part slipped out.

As I put my key in the lock it dawned on me that Ron was about to step over the threshold and into my house. Guess part of me thought he'd ring the bell, I'd hand him the box and say thank you and good night, like this was a UPS pickup. So I'm trying not to panic as I give the place a mental once-over. Did I fluff the sofa cushions? Had I cleaned under the seat in the powder room? There are some places you don't look as often when there's no man in the house on a regular basis. I knew my bed was made—not that that had anything to do with that night, I just like for things to be in order, in case somebody should happen to see them.

Anyway, now we were inside, and I realized he had no idea
what this visit was about, so I cut to the chase, mostly because I was too antsy to do anything else. I had sorta rehearsed my thank-you speech—how I couldn't begin to tell him how much I appreciated his help, and that I didn't know what I would have done without him. I did try to keep it under forty-five seconds—like at the Academy Awards—but the music might have come on. When I gave him the box he said I didn't have to do that. I said I wanted to, and I did. It had been rather humbling to be at the mercy of not exactly strangers but people who had plenty of their own stuff to take care of without having to tend to mine.

And I was right. Of course, he liked cookies, but after he'd had a couple I realized I hadn't planned how the rest of the evening would go. You should have dinner before dessert, right? So I asked if he'd eaten, I could rustle something up. He said he hadn't and suggested we go to the diner not far from my house—if that wouldn't cause any problems. Perfect opening. I said it was no problem for me and these days I didn't have anybody else to consult. He kinda nodded, but I was sure happy to have that on the record—not for any particular reason. And the diner was an excellent idea. Thanksgiving was coming soon, but I wasn't sure I was prepared to cook with Ron again yet—or have him watch—but I was starting to relax enough to have a real conversation, which would be a first.

We had a nice dinner. I ordered the roast beef, because I never cook it for myself. He had flounder. We talked about the kids and their house-hunting dilemma; he had heard the story from J.J.'s side. Bottom line: he thought they'd work it out too.

We talked about some of everything in no particular order. He made me laugh—that had been missing from my repertoire for quite some time. I told him about the wacky world
of auto-insurance claims and how it was an industry I didn't care to explore any further. And I'm not sure what made me say it—maybe because he was the only bona fide entrepreneur I knew—but I mentioned the organizing idea I had kicked around with Julie. I explained how it wasn't some crazy notion I had because I'd seen a TV show. I had really done it.

He said I should go for it. His business had started with a rented bay at a local gas station, flyers at classic-car shows and word of mouth. That was amazing seeing what it grew into. Ron told me how the shows about customizing your ride had increased his business; he was trying to get the shop featured on one. “Make a plan and get out there. You don't know if the water is hot or cold unless you stick your toe in.” And he said if he could be of assistance, to let him know.

While he was talking I kept thinking how I had blown this—for Gerald? What had I been thinking? And I realized I hadn't been—I had just been doing what I was used to doing, whether I liked it anymore or not. OK. Lesson learned. There's no room for the right thing if you don't let go of the wrong one.

Ron held my hand as he walked me to the door—good thing my foot was still on the mend or I might have been tempted to skip. While I looked for my keys he told me how much he was going to enjoy his cookies, and that he wasn't usually like this, but he didn't plan on sharing them with anybody. Uh-huh. I'd been unlocking that door for years, but suddenly I had trouble getting the key in the hole, so to speak, but I finally got it open. And he kissed me good night. This time I stood there and took it like a woman, no bobbing and weaving. Definitely more than a peck, we had full lip-to-lip contact, but no dueling tongues. Mercy, it made me dizzy. He said he'd be in touch, made sure I had his cell digits, said I could call him any time.

I came in putting on water to boil for tea—herbal because I needed no caffeine; I was having my own wave of delayed tremors. There hadn't been any activity in that sector for quite a while. Yeah, I closed my eyes and did the instant replay until I started feeling giddy, but I reined myself back from a gallop to a trot. We had at least gotten back to the starting line, where Ron and I could be friends. Whatever happened after that, well, I'd have to wait and see. I had an awful lot to sort through.

So I got ready for bed and let my mind wander to the conversation Ron and I had had about my business—whoa, that's a phrase I had never used before. I thought of what Julie had said, about making it happen if I wanted it to, but it seemed a little crazy. Yes, my little bit of degree was in business administration, and I sure had the advanced tutorial for all those years with Olivia. I remembered the first time I saw her with those pigtails and the pots in her kitchen. She didn't even remember she needed labels for her first order until it was almost ready for delivery. And she survived. There were definitely mistakes—like the soap that didn't fit in the boxes she'd ordered for it—but somehow the slipups and close calls never kept her from venturing out further the next time. I'd be scared for her, but she moved right ahead, like failure never crossed her mind.

Then, because I had to, I eased back into the day-to-day—made myself a turkey sandwich for lunch, laid out my clothes for in the morning. It became clear to me that before I could even think about wrangling the chaos in somebody else's life, I had to tame my own. My first order of business? The house had to go—before they came and got it.

A
s you may have figured out, some choices I weigh a long time. I shuffle the possibilities in my head until it hurts, and even after I make the informed decision for miney instead of mo, I worry it's a mistake. Then there are the situations where I get my mind set and jump in, consequences be damned. But more often than not, I'm guilty of decision by default: I deny, delay and dillydally until I'm out of options and the choice makes itself. Yes, I was sad and petrified, but I was determined not to procrastinate about selling the house until I found myself trapped in the corner wondering why I was holding that wet paintbrush. I'd heard winter was a bad time to put your house on the market, but I needed to get a move on.

So there I was in the supermarket after work. Christmas was two weeks away, and the aisles overflowed with Yule fuel—inflatable snowmen, candied green and red cherries for that fruitcake recipe you've been aching to try—and where exactly do green cherries come from? There was eggnog for spiking,
ham for baking and cardboard fireplaces complete with stockings for stuffing. All that was missing was the figgy pudding and Tiny Tim. Bah, humbug. I was definitely feeling more than a little Scroogey.

I'm sure some of it was acute mall withdrawal. It was my first year away from the retail races. I had always been a first stringer, but this year I was on the sidelines, without so much as a shopping bag, but the jingle bells of my phone and the chorus of collection calls reminded me why.

Amber and J.J. would be in Dallas—again—and my parents were headed for a dude ranch in Arizona with another couple from Shoreline. Who made them Roy and Dale, and where was Trigger? Even Ron would be out of Dodge, headed for NASCAR preseason in Daytona to hook up with a buddy who ran the pit crew for an up-and-coming contender. Suffice it to say, I was expecting merry and jolly about as much as Donner and Blitzen.

I was about to drop a bag of triple-washed Romaine in the cart to join my other decidedly nonholiday staples when I noticed the ad on the back of the kiddie seat—because obviously you need something to look at if you don't have a four-year-old banging the heels of their light-up sneakers against your cart and screaming for Marshmallow Froot Loops instead of multigrain O's. You know the ones: “Let us fix your aching spine. Free Consultation” chiropractor ads. Or the dial-a-lawyer ads: “Injured by a chiropractor? Free Consultation.” This time the ad was right on my street and up my alley. “Buying or Selling—Let Me Take the Hassle Out of Your Real Estate Deal.” There was a smiling photo of a perfectly ordinary woman—no starched and streaked hair, fake nails or Cruella DeVil makeup. Lily Gardener—no kidding, her parents were either hippies
or comedians—didn't look like one of those “I eat condos for breakfast” überbrokers. I called her from the parking lot. She sounded as normal as she looked, so I made an appointment for her to appraise my house.

Ms. Gardener—“Call me Lily. Plant me early and I'll make the blooming sale”—came by at seven-thirty on Saturday morning. She was pleasant and clipboard efficient. She questioned me about the age of the roof, the furnace, and all the systems and finishes in between, scribbling notes during the whole tour. I asked if a winter offering put me at a disadvantage. She said spring was the hot season, “but when you need a house, it's always spring.” She said my neighborhood and school district were pluses—glad to hear it, I always thought so. She pronounced it a good starter house. That's funny, because for me it was an ender house.

By eight-fifteen Lily assured me that even in a soft market, the house was worth more than twice what I paid for it. Except I had to keep in mind that the equity I had eaten up on the second mortgage and the ARM would reduce my net proceeds. Then she estimated the value of my chunk of the American dream—both “as is” and what she could sell it for if I painted the bedrooms, put in a hardwood or tile kitchen floor, replaced the powder-room vanity and installed a new garage door for better curb appeal. According to her, two weeks, and about six grand, give or take, would up the listing price by at least twenty thousand—maybe more. Great. I had to spend money I didn't have to realize theoretical profits. On the plus side, she said I kept a lovely home, without the usual clutter and tchotchkes, so my house wouldn't need staging. I'd seen that on DecorTV—they come in, cart away the home owner's snapshots and tacky mementos and replace them with generic showroom furnish
ings, because obviously buyers have no imagination and can't see how their stuff will fit in when they're looking at yours. I thought that only happened in Malibu or on Park Avenue, not in little ol' Jersey.

I was just glad for whatever I didn't have to subtract from my ever-shrinking bottom line. So minus-ing the commission and taxes, I could still come out of the sale with enough to make a serious dent in my credit-card debt and have a few bucks left over. Not enough for that diamond tiara, a month in Bora Bora or the penthouse Amber thought I should look at, but I could get a crown for my tooth, and while I might still be in a hole, I'd at least be able to see out of it again. The big, red, all-capital-letter question: Where was I going to find six thousand dollars for upgrades?

I already nixed Amber and J.J. Besides, they had finally found a house they both really liked and were closing right after the first of the year. Julie offered to lend me the money. But that was too big a strain to put on a new friendship, no matter what she said about her new salary.

Don't even think about Ron. The car was enough.

Which left my parents. I had come clean with Amber, but what was I supposed to say to Mom and Daddy? I was grown, had been on my own and getting into and out of my own trouble for a few decades now. How was I supposed to say, “I messed up and I need your help”? I hate being a disappointment. But the sad and sorry truth was I didn't have a choice.

So I had to change my tune. I was practicing, “Ain't too proud to plead, baby, baby,” but I didn't really have to. When I called, they both got on the phone. I brought up everything under the sun, including Dad's friend Mr. Ferguson's golf game, until my father finally said, “Do you need some money, Tee? We've got
it, and you know you can have it.” Excuse me? Was that my father? The one who had had no trouble letting me know when I was too old for an allowance? My mother added, “We already told you to ask. It's about time you paid attention—acting like you don't wanna tell us nothin'. We're not dummies, you know.” That's the Mom I know and love.

Somehow when you become an adult, and have children of your own, it's easy to forget you'll always be your parents'
child
—and that their radar is as tuned to you as it was when you
thought
you got away with sneaking in past curfew. That, and I suspect they had a spy—code name Grandbaby. Anyway, they overnighted the check—for twelve thousand—with a note that said, “It always costs twice as much as you think. We'll check in from the wild, wild west. Love and Merry Christmas, Mom and Daddy.”

OK. I could dissolve, or I could just get it done, the faster to pay them back. So I made my list, checked it twice, then hit the home-design warehouse with my projects all mapped out. Before you can say “renovation,” I had a cart full of paint and had ordered ceramic tile for the floor and a bathroom vanity—those would be delivered the following Saturday. The garage doors would take a month. To quote my friend, “If you really want to do it, you'll find a way.”

Oh, before he left town, Ron came by and made me pick out a tree. I wasn't planning to put up a garland, a light or a ball, but then he showed up in his bright red pickup truck. Who needs eight tiny reindeer if you've got four hundred horses under the hood? He took me to a Christmas-tree farm where we traipsed through the snow, along the rows of pines and spruces and fir—don't ask me the difference, but they smelled good. Normally, I'm up for the biggest tree I can fit through the door,
but I didn't have the heart. It reminded me this would be my last Christmas at my current address. So I picked out a cute little one; it wasn't as tall as me, but it was chubby and full. And I don't know what possessed me, but when he was carrying it back to the truck, I made a snowball and threw it at him. I missed. Probably because I'm way out of practice. He said I was lucky his hands were full.

So Ron helped me decorate. I hadn't trimmed a tree with a man since my ex—he liked to toss the tinsel too. What is it, a guy thing? But I dug out the Christmas music, and instead of coffee I made us some hot chocolate while he was out in the garage getting the last few pieces of firewood because he said all fireplaces must have fire—it's a rule. It was fun I wasn't planning to have; maybe that's what made it so good. He got me to promise to go ice skating with him later in the season, toe permitting. But skiing—I didn't commit to anything more than the lodge. Yes, my health coverage had come through—which was the best gift of all—but I wasn't breaking any more body parts any time soon. I didn't have a name for what we were doing, what we were to each other, but I wasn't convinced I wanted one. I enjoyed being with him, but at the moment my hands were full trying to save myself. Oh, and he did bring some mistletoe—but before you go there, all we did was kiss under it. He's quite the kisser. Thinking about it still makes me all melty.

While I was sitting home one evening, looking at my little ol' tree, I got inspired to dig out those Christmas cards I'd bought the year before and never mailed. I even went to the post office for Christmas stamps. And I wrote checks to two of the charities that had sent me a blizzard of mail. They weren't big. It was what I could afford, but it reminded me there were folks in worse shape than I was.

So I got through the holiday without trauma or drama. Julius, bless his heart, gave us a week's pay as a bonus. I went to candlelight service on Christmas Eve with Julie and her sister Arlene, who was visiting from Toronto. And I'm sure some of you are wondering—and have been for a while—about me and church and why, with all my trials and tribulations, it hasn't come up. I haven't mentioned it because that's kind of how I feel about it. My relationship with the Almighty, and when, where and how we communicate, is personal and private. Maybe it's from my checkered church past—Catholic school 'til fifth grade, my mother is AME, Daddy is a Baptist, Mary Marshall, my best friend from third through fifth grade, was Pentecostal, my ex was a Buddhist and Olivia was a Jewish Anglican. I had been to church or temple with all of them—sort of a potluck worship experience. So I'm not a heathen; I just have my own way of relating. And believe me, without faith I'd never have made it this far. Well, after the service they came home with me for lasagna and salad—red and green, in keeping with the season. Next day Julie fixed Christmas brunch, and after that we all went to the movies, like we used to when we were teenagers.

By the new year my life became a blur of activity. Luckily I had a long-standing relationship with Franklin, my carpenter and general handyman. He took pity on me when I first moved into the house and it became clear I didn't know a sink trap from a pilot light. Over the years he had done everything in my house, from installing replacement windows to hanging Sheet-rock when Amber let the bathtub overflow and water leaked through the family-room ceiling. If he couldn't do it, he knew who could. I wouldn't have survived without him—and neither would my house. He said he'd miss me. I said I'd give his name to the new owners.

Then there was the slight detour of getting Amber and J.J. moved into their new place. It was freezing cold that day, and I thought my child was going to give herself a stroke when the movers bounced the coffee table down the front steps, but she survived. I told them they could have some of my furniture once I got myself relocated. Wherever I went, I wouldn't have the kind of space I had gotten used to. At first Amber kind of screwed up her face—our tastes are very different. Not surprised, are you? But I said it didn't have to be forever. It takes a while to furnish a whole house. It would beat empty rooms and an echo. She saw my point. So did my son-in-law.

Fortunately, getting my house in order didn't cost twice as much as estimated, so the rest I used to ease my monthly squeeze. But by mid-February the renovations were complete. The house looked spiffy enough to make me wonder why I hadn't made those changes when I could have enjoyed them. Oh yeah—I couldn't afford it.

The asking price Lily and I agreed on was less than I would have liked but more than I could have imagined when I bought the place. I was hedging my bets toward a fast sale. I didn't have time to hold out for maximum profit.

Leaving my house while Lily showed it, and letting total strangers tromp through, serving up opinions on the way I lived, was torture. “The master bath is too small.” “I prefer white cabinets in the kitchen.” “I wanted a fenced-in yard.” Who asked you? Then you have to live like you don't really live there because you could have company at a moment's notice. Heaven forbid there's a plate in the sink. Lily said the aroma of fresh baked apple pie might be a lovely touch. I started to say, “Then you can bring one,” but I kept my mouth shut. And the bath towels I was really using were in a storage bin under
my bed so the ones on the towel rack looked fluffy and fresh. What, the buyer is not supposed to think you bathe?

By week three I was antsy. Forty-six pairs of feet had waltzed through the premises and kept on walking. If the last year of my life was any indication, I was sunk. There wasn't much negotiating room in the price; I couldn't afford to go much lower. But week four was the charm. We got a serious offer from a couple with two kids, four and seven, and they were preapproved for a mortgage. Glad somebody has good credit. We signed contracts, inspections went smoothly. They wanted to close within sixty days. That's when it became clear to me I wasn't going to live there any longer, which meant I had to move somewhere.