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R-E-S-P-E-C-T. Find out what it means to me. Aretha’s voice crackles over the cheap radio he takes on his jobs. He sings along, his face is fixed in concentration as he readies his tools. I have to admit, his enthusiasm is inspiring. I can’t help but hum along quietly too. Funny, he knows the song. But missed the meaning.
Her dissatisfaction over the holiday decor was evident. No one should be upset at Christmas—and I can’t blame her for wanting things to be perfect. She has a lot riding on it.
Just a little bit.
He mouths the words into his hammer before shoving it into his tool belt, which he fastens around his waist. Then he inspects his work area. When he’s satisfied, he climbs the ladder confidently, deftly. He’s a man on a mission—squeezing as many jobs as he can into a short window of time. Chasing the almighty dollar, he cuts corners where he can.
Safety should not be one of those corners. A split-second decision—like, say…whether to put on a harness or not—can mean the difference between life and death.
Shortcuts are everywhere these days. Mediocrity runs rampant. It’s just such a shame he takes this particular short cut on a day like today.
Because life is actually very precise. The angle at which a ladder stays upright and the angle at which it tips is pretty exact. It’s possible to sustain a fall from that height and survive. But then, so is honoring your word.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
SADIE
I didn’t see Ann knock the Christmas light guy off his ladder with my own four eyes (I lost my contacts again, don’t ask) but what else could explain him breaking both his legs and his back just one day after our conversation? That doesn’t even take into account the coma and the brain bleed.
Such a shame, Ann said when she called to tell me the news. Now he’ll never get back here, and I really do need you, Sadie. That’s what she said. He’ll never get back here. Thirteen thousand people fall each year in the United States, alone, hanging holiday lights.
Ann knows this, so I know this.
Can you believe that, she demanded to know over the phone.
I can believe it. I can especially believe it from the vantage point of her roof while trying to find what is causing the outage of half of her lights. Turns out, one of the connectors had become loose. Wind, likely.
When I call down to her to let her know that I’ve found the issue, she doesn’t seem surprised. She says it was probably the high wind that caused the lighting guy to fall. She hollers up that she’s just received a text. He died on the operating table.
I say the alphabet in my head. Over and over. It helps to distract myself. To remind me of what’s at stake. Heights are not my favorite thing.
It’s probably better that way, Ann calls up in response to my silence. She tells me it’s better than the alternative. I don’t ask what she means. I’m too afraid I might find out something I’m not yet ready to know.
CHAPTER TWENTY
SADIE
The holiday lighting guy’s death makes the local news but not for the reasons you might think. The headline reads: The Danger of Christmas.
Never mind that somewhere out there, there’s a widow. Somewhere a family is without. A man is dead, and the local media wants you to know there’s a better way. Their spin: Don’t be the fall guy.
When I express my outrage to Ann, she tells me I’m being ridiculous. The story was probably sponsored by a competitor, she says. Brilliant marketing, she says. That’s exactly how she’d play it, she says.
The dangers of Christmas. Can’t be too careful. Better to leave the decorating to a professional. If they screw up, it’s on them.
I know a thing or two about that. A few days later, when Ann calls to invite me to be her plus one to an event, I screw up by not agreeing right away. I can tell by her response: Never mind. She’ll just ask Darcy. When I remind her that she doesn’t even like Darcy, she hangs up on me, forcing me to call her right back and ask what I should wear.
I can hear the smugness in the pace of her breath. “Dress nice,” she tells me. “Business casual.”
“I don’t—”
“You need this, Sadie. You don’t know it. But you do. It’ll be good for you. For us. Stick with me, and you’ll see. I make things happen.”
I don’t ask what kind of things. Maybe I should have.
Instead, I’m too busy thinking about the fact that she asked me to be her plus one first and what this means. I am reminded of that story in her book about living with purpose—where she talks about how if you add the wrong things in the wrong order, everything gets messed up. I’m beginning to realize that’s what happened with Ethan and me.
Ann tells the story like this:
