When I first started making money, I rented a flat above a warehouse in Bushwick. The owner was an artist and gave me more leeway than I could have expected. It was my first opportunity to really express myself with décor, and I took advantage of it for the few years I was there.
Me:
Thanks, I’ll do you (and Irma) proud.
Juliet:
I don’t doubt it.
With a renewed sense of direction, I dig out a notebook from the pretty hand-painted desk in the bedroom at the end of the hall, brew a cup of tea, and take them both to the back deck to start brainstorming.
I have three pages full of nearly illegible notes due to my horrible handwriting, when I hear an excited squeal from next door. A young girl whoops and hollers. Her happiness is so palpable I can’t help but grin, ignoring the tightness that stilllingers under my eye when I do. Whatever is happening next door, the Steele house is contaminating my melancholy with what feels like joy.
I’ve roughly sketched the floor plan of the house, drawing the furniture in positions that will open spaces up more, create a better flow, allow the natural light to be enjoyed in areas that would get the most use. Before now, I hadn’t spent much time in the Pacific Northwest, but I know sunshine is a precious commodity here.
The architecture is what they call mid-century modern, a term I never particularly liked. It feels contradictory. But I don’t make the rules. The color palette, however, doesn’t allow the light from all the windows to properly brighten the place. It’s darker than it should be, which lends to a gloominess that climate already has.
I can fix this house.
And in the process, maybe I can fix myself a little too. Shine some sun through my own cloud cover. Break through the fog that is my life.
Looking up while I think about new color schemes, I see a small face poking around the end of the fence that runs a line between the two houses. When we make eye contact, she quickly ducks back to her side. Again, I smile. Though, I do pull my hair around my shoulders to camouflage my bruises, in case she takes another peek.
A few minutes later, I hear rustling and look up to see that she’s back.
“Squid,” Grady warns. “I told you not to pry.”
“I’m admiring, Dad,” she protests, disappearing again.
“You’re snooping.”
“You’re Snoopy!” Infectious giggles erupt, and I laugh quietly. “I need more dirt.”
“We’ll get more tomorrow,” he tells her.
“But there’s a whole pile at Grandma Irma’s.”
“But there’s somebody staying there, now. I told you that already, remember?”
“She’s pretty. I bet she’s nice,” the girl says.
“You’re not going to let it go, are you?”
“It’s just some dirt, Dad. I can be super quick!”
I set the notebook down and walk to the end of the fence. On the other side is a small but well-kept yard with what might be the world’s smallest greenhouse. The girl stands at the door of it, explaining how she needs to fill the orange five-gallon bucket. I knock on the fence to get their attention.
Simultaneously, their heads pop up and their mouths shut. It’s almost comical how synchronized they are.
“It’s…” I pause to clear my throat, my voice barely more than a rasp. I take a few steps closer. “It’s fine. She can come get what she needs.”
“See, Dad! I knew she was nice!”
Grabbing a small shovel in her other hand, she runs around to Irma’s yard. Grady comes to stand near me. Not too close, but close enough to see his daughter.
“Thank you,” he says.
“It’s no problem,” I say, wrapping my arms more tightly around myself. I feel his eyes on me and risk a look toward him. Unapologetically, he’s examining me.
