God took the wrong sister.
Why her and not me?She would have done a lot of good in this world.She would have healed people.She would have saved lives.She would have made a difference.I help people get shit out of their yard.I mean, it’s probably God’s work too, but not in the same way.
The words on the page of my sister’s "you’re alive and I’m not" bucket list are unfocused and hazy.I touch my face, confirming my glasses are on.Maybe they’re not strong enough anymore.Maybe the lenses are dirty.Maybe my brain just cannot process looking at Richie’s handwriting and seeing her dreams written out in blue ballpoint pen.
The wide cavern of grief rips through my chest again as I realize I’ll never see a new piece of her handwriting again.I put the paper down and haul myself out of bed.It’s time to go to work.These septic pumps aren’t going to sell themselves.
Chapter 2: Rachel
"Sorry I’m late.Traffic was bad," I huff, dropping my bag on the floor next to my desk.Gramps looks over from where he’s studying blueprints hung on the wall.Years ago, when his back started reminding him of his age, his physical therapist, Kim, suggested this modification of hanging materials on the wall so he didn’t have to bend over anymore.
"Rachel, we live on the other side of the lot."He turns back to the drawing he’s studying, making some marks as to where lines and pumps will go on a new construction job site.An apartment complex, I think.
"Yeah, but I had to pet Butch and then Hazel and then Gus."I’m not lying.The cats were lounging in the yard and demanded tummy and ear scratches.It’s almost as bad as a traffic jam.
"Don’t get too comfortable.There’s a backup over on Baldpate Road.Dale said you should come.Whole side yard flooded, and they’re supposed to have a party there this weekend."
My grandfather started Cramer-Romero Associates Pumps with his father-in-law more than fifty years ago.Gramps is the Cramer, and Gram is the Romero.Boxford, where they grew up, was an ideal place for this business because it didn’t—and still doesn’t—have a public sewer system.How that still exists in the twenty-first century is beyond me.The plan had always been for my mom and my uncle to split the business fifty-fifty.My mom was supposed to handle the pump and grinder install side, while Uncle Robert would do the septic pump repair side.Since Mom took off for the first time when Richie was three and I was five, the business plan has changed slightly.During her intermittent visits, usually between boyfriends and husbands, she would work here, when she bothered to show up.Uncle Robert is out in the field, and now I pick up the slack in the office, doing what should have been my mom’s job.Officially, I’m the bookkeeper, but I also do parts ordering, scheduling, and basically anything else no one wants to do.I started here when I was fourteen, so I’ve worked here more than half my life.Like most small family businesses, weathering economic ups and downs is tricky.The pandemic shutdown nearly did us in.
There was one thing that saved us.
Believe it or not, it’s me.
I started making videos for ClikClak.People are fascinated by septic systems, especially when they fail.Sure, it’s a niche audience, but we have enough followers to get paid for views.I mean, it’s not like I’m super viral, like that hot guy who cooks in his underwear.I’m not one for gratuitous thirst traps, but perhaps I watch for a few seconds before scrolling on.I’m grieving, not dead.
Back to me and my video success.They’ve also expanded our client area, which is both a good and bad thing.We’re going to have to open a secondary office to handle the client requests coming in south of Boston.The guys are getting sick of driving down to the south shore, especially for multi-day jobs.It’ll be more cost-effective for the business to have a secondary location than to pay for gas and tolls, wear and tear on the vehicles, lodging, and per diems.
"Lemme get my gear, and I’ll head over."My gear officially consists of knee-high rubber muck boots and a tripod.Most days, I’m too lazy to use it, so I just do handheld shots.The tripod, I mean.I’m neverevertoo lazy to use my rubber boots.That’s a priority.I don’t even bring a microphone, because I’ll record voice-overs later on.
I hop in Gramps’s Toyota Tundra and head over to Baldpate Road.If the ground is soft, I don’t trust my Civic not to sink in.The site is fifteen minutes from the home office.Enough time to jam out to some old-school 2000s pop and forget my life for a brief moment.I consider driving a full-body experience, complete with lead vocals, backup singing, and as much choreography as I can manage without driving off the road.
I’m reserved everywhere but in the driver’s seat.There, I’m a star.
However, I am reminded of my reality as I round the corner.Before the truck is even stopped, I can smell it.No matter how many years I’ve been doing this, I don’t think I’ll ever get used to it.And it’s ten times worse in the late-July heat.The yard is a disaster, probably 12–14 square feet covered in an inch or so of standing water that’s created a mud sludge.
But we all know it’s not just mud.
I keep meaning to buy Vicks VapoRub and put it under my nose like the coroner inThe Silence of the Lambs, but I never seem to remember.Sometimes I wish for the good ole days of COVID when you’d lose your sense of smell.
I swear, it invades my nose and lives in my nose hairs for days afterward.I really need to come up with a life plan that doesn’t involve poo.
I unplug my phone from the charger and hop out.
This is going to be a good one.I mean, bad for the homeowners and their party this weekend, but probably good for views.The worse the damage, the more people watch.And as we all know, the more people who watch, the more money we make.I’ve offered on more than one occasion to put it back into the business, but Gram insists that I save the money for myself.
"You never know what’ll come up," is her standard reply.
She used to say it to Richie, too.We used her rainy-day fund—not that there was much in it—to pay burial expenses.I mean, dying was one way to get out of paying her student loans back.Extreme, yes, but that was my sister.Her list is proof of that.
The yard is even worse up close, the water squelching under my muck boots.For the record, if it’s backing up this much in the yard, there’s no way it hasn’t backed up in the house.These people’s weekend party plans are toast.
Their homeowners’ insurance premium is going to go through the roof.
I start recording, taking in the yard.Dale’s already got the excavator and has started digging.Uncle Robert walks over, leans on his shovel, and says, "Apparently, they’ve been here thirty years and have never cleaned out the septic tank."
FYI, it’s recommended to clean out your tanks every three to five years.
I wrinkle my nose."Yuck.It’s been sitting in there longer than I’ve been alive."
