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5
Finn
Sylvie has just come out of the beautician’s, and she calls Emma across the street. As usual, Sylvie looks excited and is delighted to see Emma. Anyone would think the two women were not currently living in the same house and didn’t see each other every day, but this is my sister. She’s just delighted at everything all the time. A second later, they disappear back into the shop.
Once I finish loading the paint, I climb into the truck and wait. I’m thinking back to Emma’s strange but amusing overreaction in the store. Anyone else might have laughed off Mr. Shilliday’s mistake of thinking she was my wife, but not Emma. She had gone full denial on that statement. It had been funny to watch, because clearly, she could not imagine being affiliated with me, but I now wonder why.
It’s not an end-of-the-world kind of question. I’m just curious. I’ve already figured out she’s a bit reactive. Screaming the house down at my arrival was overkill, and her actions in the hardware store were a bit the same. There is something about her. Like, she’s not really used to the world.
A bit deep for this time of the morning, Finn.
Yeah. Probably.
I twist my wrist and look at my watch. We need to get going if this decorating has any chance of being done this side of Christmas. I hit the horn and wait. And then, Emma comes hurrying out of the shop and rushes across the street.
“These walls aren’t going to paint themselves,” I quip.
“I know. I know,” she replies, running around the front of the truck.
When we get back to the house, we leave the paint in the truck. Our first job is to move some of the smaller furniture and throw dust covers over the bigger stuff. Mom has already left the dust covers out, which saves me from having to go and search for them. In truth, I wouldn’t have had the first clue where to look.
“All right, so we need to move these smaller tables into the other room,” I say. I move toward a round table and take hold of it, ready to pick it up. But Emma doesn’t follow straight away.
“Would it not be a better idea to take all the ornaments and breakable things off the tables first?” she says.
I swipe a dismissive hand and shake my head. “It’ll be fine. That’s going to take forever. We’ll just take it easy.”
She doesn’t look too convinced, but moves toward the table, anyway. Today, she’s wearing Doc Martens boots, a pleated plaid skirt, and a Led Zeppelin T-shirt. With her short pixie hair and pale skin, the outfit gives her a rock-chick look. I’m suddenly reminded of my guitar days. I listened to a lot of Led Zeppelin for inspiration. When I think of this woman having a Fine Arts degree, it feels like she should be a Mozart fan or something. Her tastes are certainly eclectic.
We move the first table with no problems. The second one works out the same. Emma is the one backing out of the door, and I’m calling out instructions to guide her.
“Go left,” I say.
She turns right.
“Your other left,” I say, quickly realizing I was talking about my left and not hers.
She raises her eyebrows at me. I throw a smirk. “Sorry.”
“My left or yours?” she says.
“My left, your right,” I confirm.
“Okay,” she replies with a nod.
We get back into the Den and take hold of the last table. It’s bigger than the other two, but not really heavy.
“One, two, three, lift,” I say, giving the same instructions as I’ve given for the last two. We lift the table, but then my foot catches on the thick rug, and I falter. The table leans, the lamp on it wobbles, and with neither of us fast enough to stop it, the lamp slides right off the table and smashes onto the floor.
Of course, it couldn’t have landed on the thick soft rug three inches to the left. Nope. It had to land on the parquet wooden floor that the rug doesn’t quite reach. At this point, this stuff no longer surprises me. My life is on a downward trajectory at the moment. If something can go wrong, it will.
We both stop dead and stare down at the splintered pieces of porcelain. The wire that runs through the lamp is now exposed. There are big pieces and tiny pieces. We stare at it as though by doing so, it’s suddenly going to miraculously repair itself.
Emma blurts out a swear.
My eyes fly up to her, and I burst into laughter. I’m shocked, and yet, that word coming out of her mouth with her proper British accent just sounds funny.
Emma’s now staring at me in bewilderment. “Why are you laughing?” She gawps. “We just broke a lamp. Your mum is going to be so annoyed.”
