If You Were Here

by Jen Lancaster

  Her voice is small. “I guess . . . .”

  “Think of all the success stories you’ve told me—like that woman who was afraid to let her boyfriend see her stretch marks, or the guy who was too shy to make the first move with his platonic roommate, or the kid who didn’t know how to end her friendship with a mean girl. Happy endings, all of them! Yeah, sometimes you write about sex, but big deal; you do it in a clinical way. Your mom stares at lady parts all day. You think she doesn’t field some of the exact same questions you get?”

  Kara warms a tiny bit. “Maybe. Go on.”

  “Honey, you’re writing for newspapers—hundreds of them—not Penthouse Forum! You do nothing salacious.You never started a column,‘I never thought it would happen to me, but . . .’ If anything, your parents should be proud. Now, tell me what you’re going to do when you talk to them.”

  Kara launches back into panic mode. “What am I going to do? I’m going to do exactly what Parvati did! Deflect, deflect, deflect! She told me she once kissed a girl at a party; I’m probably going to lead with that and follow up with the time she walked out of Macy’s without paying for a bra. Totally accidental, but I’ll leave that part out.”

  I try to speak in a slow, calm voice to make sure she’s actually listening and not just plotting how to screw over her cousin. “K, that’s a temporary solution and you know it. You’ve got to come clean, because the longer you drag this out, the worse it’s going to be when you tell them. And you’ll feel so much better when you do,” I try to reassure her. “Let me ask you this—if someone in the same situation wrote to you, what would you tell them?”

  “I’d tell them they were thirty-four years old and that it was time to man up. I’d tell them the only way to get their parents’ respect would be to demand it as an adult, as an equal.”

  “That sounds like excellent advice. Why don’t you follow it?”

  “Because I’m chickenshit.”

  “Kara, you’re not—”

  She bursts in,“Wait. I’ve got it! I’ve got the perfect solution! I’m going to bring you with me to dinner, because she won’t yell at me if you’re with me. My parents won’t make a scene if you’re there.Yes, that’s it! Tell me you’ll come! You have to come! Meet me at their house on Friday night, six p.m., please!”

  “Of course. I’ll be there if you need me. But I swear you’ll feel better if you face—”

  “Mia, I am currently hiding in a closet thirty miles away from my parents in Abington Cambs. Clearly I am not ready to face anything. Now please distract me. Since you won’t tell me any dirty stories because you’re boring—”

  “Hey,” I protest. “That’s not fair. I’m not boring; I’m private.”

  She snorts.“You weren’t private in college—at least, not according to Ann Marie.”

  I frown and this time my forehead actually furrows, since I haven’t wanted to waste money on Botox lately. “Ann Marie has a big mouth.”

  “Ha, I’ll say. She told me about one time that you and her and four Sigma Chis—”

  “Excuse me,” I interrupt. “Do you want me to come to dinner or not?”

  “Fine. But you really are Amish now.” She laughs.

  I nod. “You wouldn’t be the first person to say so.”

  “How’s the rehab going?”

  I glance at my surroundings and sigh. “I’m not sure how to describe it,” I say. “I guess it’s going well? Vlad told me living here would feel worse before it felt better. We’re definitely in the ‘worse’ part right now. Everything has been ripped out, and I mean everything. Last week they demoed the kitchen and they took it all away—the nasty old cabinets, the Formica counters, the twentyyear-old appliances. All we have left is our wine fridge and a toaster oven, and we brought those with us.” Unless Mac brings home carryout, I’ve been subsisting on grilled cheese toasties and wine coolers.

  I can’t describe how depressing it feels to be here. When everything was ugly, that was one thing, but at least I could mentally redecorate, swapping out Formica for granite and a banged-up enamel sectional sink for something deep and wide of the farmhouse variety.

  I hated the window treatments in the dining room, but when I looked at them, I was briefly reminded of the end of Sixteen Candles and remembered why we wanted this place. Plus I enjoyed painting over the living room’s chintz wallpaper in my head, but now that the walls are down to studs in here, I’m having trouble picturing anything.

  Vlad suggested we move out while they work, but where are we supposed to go? All our money’s tied up in this project. We can’t afford a rental, because we had to pay for almost everything up front, since Vlad doesn’t have lines of credit anywhere. I suppose we could move into the tiny apartment over the detached garage, but no one’s touched it since the sixties. I went up there once to scope it out and practically threw myself out the window when I tangled with a bat.133

  I lean against one of the few standing lath-and-plaster walls. “The basement’s a wreck because most of our stuff is in storage down there. The upstairs here isn’t so bad, except every single bath fixture has been ripped out.”

  “Toilets and everything?”

  “Yep. We’ve got a Porta Potti stationed outside of the back door, and oh, boy, are the neighbors excited about that! Like this was intentional, as clearly my dream has always been to poop outdoors. Yesterday I was using the hose to wash my hands afterward and Lululemon came over to bitch about something. The thing is, she kind of snuck up on me, so when I spun around, I blasted her with the hose.” Pow. Right in the kisser. It was both awesome and awful.

  Kara giggles, which is a good sign she’s starting to unclench. “Classic! What’d she do?”

  “What does everyone do around me? Swore revenge and stomped off.” I have to admit to laughing while she stormed away trailing water, but I’m not looking forward to how she might retaliate.

  “Wait. Where are you showering?”

  “At the gym. That’s kind of a pain, but I figure it’s all temporary. Vlad said he’s going to start on a bathroom today, now that he’s shored up the floor underneath it. Speaking of Vlad, I wonder where he is? It’s almost ten a.m., and they’re always here by now.”

  “I’m sure they’re just at the lumberyard or something. Now, how’s the book going?”

  I try to shake off the vague feeling of uneasiness stemming from the crew’s absence. I shouldn’t worry, because so far, everything’s run smoothly on the project. Plus, I feel comfortable around Vlad, because his no-nonsense approach reminds me of my grandmother. He doesn’t believe in idle chitchat, and he works with dogged, albeit brusque, efficiency. He’s been plowing through this place like a machine, and his one nod to being human and not, like, a robot or something is the occasional brief, curt cell phone call. Would I want to have him over for dinner? Not really. But I’ll be able to prepare dinner only because of his efforts, so I’m okay with that.

  Vlad’s team has done excellent work so far, too. I expected them to be a little more . . . I don’t know, fast and loose. Ribald and raucous or something. I mean, you always hear stories about construction workers ogling ladies and joking around over their lunch pails, but that’s not the case here. These guys move with the steady, focused purpose of men in battle. They don’t even listen to the radio while they work. Once we had a shower repaired in a rental house, and the guys our landlord hired did nothing but horse around and listen to daytime talk shows on their mini TV.

  Naturally, Mac is suspicious of all the crew, because they seem to hail from the former Soviet republic of Somewhere-istan. Again, I suspect this is less because of the work they’re doing and more because of Red Dawn. Mac came home from work early one day last week and I swore I heard him shouting, “Wolverines!” in the driveway, but he says he didn’t. But who else could it have been? Citizen Cane? Elbow Patches? Doubtful.

  Mac should lighten up, because the crew has done nothing but prove to have an innate understanding of all that needs to happen here
. I’m wowed by their efficiency, and Vlad’s already placed orders for every single item we’re going to need, from tiles to appliances to fixtures to pipe fittings. He even made it easy to decide what drawer pulls I wanted. He brought over ten different styles and colors and told me to choose among them. Done and done!

  So I should be all happy and relaxed, but still ... why aren’t they here?

  “Mia? You listening?”

  “Sorry. I was distracted for a second. You were saying?”

  “I asked how the writing is coming.”

  “Better. I’m working in what was Jake Ryan’s bedroom, because it’s the farthest away from the noise. I’m not in love with a lot of what I’ve written, but at least I’m closing in on getting done. I’ve got about six chapters to go.”

  “Then you get paid?”

  “Pfft, I wish it were that easy. Then I turn in the manuscript, my editor requests rewrites, I turn those in, then I get paid. If I get this done next week when it’s due, I’m looking at at least six to eight weeks before I see any money. That’s about when Vlad and Co. anticipate being finished with the house.”

  “Cool. Bet you can’t wait. Anyway, it’s after ten, so I should probably come out of the closet and get to work.”

  “You going to be okay?” I ask.

  “As long as you come with me on Friday, I’m golden. Thank you for talking me down.”

  “Bye, Kara.”

  “Go write! Be brilliant! See you in a few!”

  I’m glad I was able to calm Kara, but as I head up the stairs to my office, I can’t help but feel a twinge of something stress related.

  Where are they already?

  Twelve o’clock and they’re not here. Not panicking.

  I come downstairs for an apple juice at one thirty. I kind of hoped the guys had simply been working quietly and I just didn’t know they were here. My eyes immediately dart to the bucket of Monday Munchkins I set out this morning.

  They’re completely untouched.

  Trying really hard not to panic.

  At two, I call Vlad and get his voice mail.

  At three, I text him, and keep doing so at ten-minute intervals throughout the afternoon.

  At five p.m., I receive a text back from Vlad.

  It contains one word:

  Revolution

  With my heart in my throat, I drag the television out from under its tarp and turn it on, flipping to the first news channel I can find. After Anderson Cooper finishes his think piece on Miley Cyrus, he mentions a violent flare-up in Kyrgyzstan between Uzbek and Kyrgyz forces. While he speaks, they smash-cut to footage of opposing armies.

  I can’t help but notice how half of the soldiers are clad in outfits exactly like my builders wear.

  My builders.

  Who should be installing my toilet but instead are likely on the other side of the world engaging in civil war.

  With all my money.

  I briefly wonder if the cash for my six-headed steam shower is helping fund this revolution.

  Yeah. I can probably panic now.

  Chapter Sixteen

  DON’T TAZE ME, BRO

  I scan the Web page in front of me to make sure I’ve ordered everything we need.

  Your Amazon.com Shopping Cart Items—To Buy Now Bathroom Remodeling for Dummies The Complete Idiot’s Guide to Electrical Repair Home Improvement for Dummies Kitchen Remodeling for Dummies Landscaping for Dummies Painting Do-It-Yourself for Dummies Plumbing Do-It-Yourself for Dummies

  Before I press “Proceed to Checkout,” I add one more item.

  Wilderness Survival for Dummies

  There. That ought to cover it.

  “Hello, sir, hope you’re enjoying the weather today. How am I? Better than I was on Monday. I guess the bright spot in our contractor’s absconding with our whole renovation budget is that it wasn’t intentional. Nobody expects the Kyrgyzstan Inquisition, right?” I laugh bitterly.

  I lean back and let the sunlight hit my face. “No, I don’t really know what I meant by that either; it just sounded funny. Ironically I was unaware Kyrgyzstan even existed last week, and now it’s pretty much all I talk about. Want to know about the city of Bishkek or Lake Issyk-Kul? I’m well versed. Did you know their national sport is horse riding, and no one in the EU will allow planes registered in Kyrgyzstan to fly in their airspace because of security concerns? Because I do. Shall I go on? I’m kind of an expert now.

  “Anyway, boring, I know. Point? At first I thought this was all an elaborate ruse by Vienna to completely screw us, but I gave her far more credit than she was due. She’s more low-grade thug than criminal mastermind. Turns out Vlad isn’t a thief so much as he is a mercenary with terrible timing.”

  I glance down at the flowers I’m holding. I cut wild roses from the backyard today because peonies don’t come cheap. “On Wednesday, the supplies he said he ordered began to arrive. So far we’ve received the spa tub for the master, a whole bunch of toilets,134 Sheetrock and cement backer board, boxes and boxes of various tiles, and I just got a call that our countertops will be delivered next week. Granted, Vlad still has all the money earmarked for labor, so it’s not exactly like we’re ahead of the game, but it could be worse.”

  I smile and nod. “You’re right; I’ve got to stop saying that. Every time I say it could get worse, it gets worse. Speaking of, Mac’s started his leave of absence—unpaid, of course. At least he’ll still have his job once we get these projects knocked out. But I’m not looking forward to the process. When I get home, we’re bringing the tub upstairs; then he and his friend Luke are working on plumbing. I’m a little afraid.”

  I pick a damaged petal off one of the roses, and, not knowing what else to do with it, I stuff it in my pocket. This is not the kind of place where I want to litter. “I got a one-week extension on my book. Yep, that’s it; that’s all Nat could arrange after the first one. I’ve got to kick ass this week, because I’m out of second chances. And that’s what’s going on. I should probably scoot but I didn’t want to leave you hanging.”

  I place the roses on the ground.

  “See you next week, sir. And thank you for listening.”

  Many things can put the strength of your marriage to the test.

  Infidelity.

  Alcoholism.

  Family conflict.

  Children.

  Illness.

  Dishonesty.

  Financial issues.

  Yet I’m convinced nothing puts more strain on marital communication than trying to haul a whirlpool tub up a flight of stairs, which we’re currently in the process of doing. I’m at the front of the tub, attempting to navigate, while Mac and his idiot friend Luke hoist up the rear. To say it’s not going well would be like saying the Hindenburg ran into a bit of turbulence.

  The problem isn’t the tub’s weight, per se. At the most this thing weighs a hundred pounds. Spa tubs really get heavy only once they’re filled with water (and bodies), and if Vlad hadn’t reinforced the floor upstairs before he ran off to start an uprising,135 this would have been a nonissue because we couldn’t have used it.

  The problem is the size of the tub. We couldn’t fit it in the front door, so we had to go all the way around the back and try to get it in through the sliding glass doors. After much sweating and swearing, we couldn’t fit it in that way either, and both Mac and Luke started to make elaborate plans to pull the windows out of their casings in an effort to establish a wide enough entry when it occurred to me that maybe we should just take the damn thing out of the box.

  Did I mention both Mac and Luke are engineers by trade? Granted, Mac designed telecom networks before he got promoted to management, but Luke’s a full-on civil engineer. He’s responsible for designing bridges and buildings and roads, which means he’s supposed to have a basic working knowledge of geometry. When they were debating Operation Window, I should have left them both to their devices, but no, I wanted to help, so that’s what I did.

  We began to maneuv
er our way through the sliding glass doors, me in front and Luke and Mac in the back. Our kitten Agent Jack Bauer—who at nine months old is almost twenty pounds—waited until we were all positioned halfway through the door before making a break for it through our legs and into the woods behind the house.

  When I attempted to chase after him, Mac screamed at me not to drop the tub, and I was stuck. I’m sure the cat will be fine, as he’s escaped a couple of times before and there’s very little traffic on this street. My concern is for any woodland creature that crosses his path. Agent Jack Bauer is precisely as deadly as his namesake, only our Jack Bauer is more likely to kill chipmunks, not terrorists. Actually, all of our kittens are ass kickers, hence their names: General Patton,136 Charles Bronson,137 and Sun Tzu.138

  So, through the house we went, and now we’re at the turn in the stairwell and we’re thoroughly and profoundly stuck.

  “Guys, we need to angle it up and to the left to get it over the newel,” I instruct.

  “No, I think we have to wedge it more this way,” Luke disagrees, turning and shoving the lip of the tub until it’s firmly lodged between two wide wood balusters.

  “Wrong!” Mac chimes in. “We’ve got to go even more to the right.” And then Mac bashes the corner into the riser.

  “You guys, please! I’ve got the better vantage point. Up and to the left!” I plead.

  “How about if I try this?” Mac asks, shoving his section of the tub into the stringer, which leaves an enormous gash and makes me wince. The stairs, up until five minutes ago, were the one undamaged portion of this whole house.

  “Or what about this?” Luke throws his weight into the side of the tub and hits something, causing it to splinter.

  “That didn’t sound right,” Mac says, and Luke agrees.

  The fiberglass begins to get slippery. “I’m starting to lose my hold on this thing. Can you just do what I ask and go up and to the left?”