Open House

by Jane Christmas

  The next house is the one I thought might save my marriage, which is why I bought it one morning on my way home from grocery shopping. It sounds like something my mother would do.

  My cell phone had rung while I was steering my trolley through the supermarket aisles, wondering if there was a meal I could cook that would change my husband’s heart toward me. The person calling me was a friend who happened to be a real estate agent.

  “I’ve found the perfect home for you. It’s a Victorian cottage!” she said excitedly. I could almost see her jumping up and down. “Just what you wanted.”

  I had not told her about my marital troubles, though in hindsight it was likely all over the neighbourhood by then. The house sounded intriguing; I said I would call her the next day.

  “No, you have to see it right now. It’s not going to last the day,” she said.

  Fifteen minutes later, my car was turning into its driveway. Whereas the Hyde Park home sat high and proud, the house on Stanley Avenue cowered like a cornered animal. It was a small house whose brick exterior had been painted rusty red; nonetheless, it was definitely a Victorian workers’ cottage, and it was most definitely the home that had always surfaced in my dreams, though I had never driven past it before. It had few rooms, but they were generous ones. On the ground floor were two bedrooms, a kitchen, a bathroom, and a spacious living room/dining room. A ramshackle addition off the kitchen opened to a roomy side yard, which in turn led to a large backyard overgrown with tall grass. Upstairs were two attic-type bedrooms with low, sloping ceilings, and a large, unfinished attic space behind one of the bedrooms. The basement was too dark and scary to merit closer inspection, but it looked to be high and dry.

  To say the house needed work was an understatement. It was as close to being condemned by the city as a house could get. But it was cheap, and even after renovating it there would be more than enough money left over to retire our debts, which might help my husband feel less burdened.

  I made a lowball offer and left it at that. If it was not meant to be, then it was not meant to be.

  When I returned home with the groceries, my husband was in the kitchen. He had resumed speaking to me but only on an as-needed basis.

  “Is there more?” He was asking if there were other bags to bring in from the car.

  “Not in the car. But I did buy something else.” I braced myself. “I bought a house.”

  “You did what!”

  I told him about our mutual friend’s phone call in the grocery store.

  “It needs work, but it is cute and sound. Huge backyard. But don’t worry. I made a lowball offer. There is no way it will be accepted.”

  Relief blew out of his tight-set lips.

  And then the phone rang.

  “You got it!” the agent squealed down the line. “Can you believe it?”

  My husband liked the new house and shared my vision for it. He enjoyed gardening and drew exciting plans for the backyard. But the house could not save our marriage. A few weeks later it was over, and our Hyde Park home went up for sale. It sold (we lost money on it, the first and only home of mine that has), and we went our separate ways.

  I do not blame my husband for leaving; we all do what we need to do to get the life we are destined to have. Relieved of our collective and individual aspirations within a marriage, we become the people we are meant to become rather than the people we perhaps wanted to become.

  STANLEY AVENUE WAS ONLY FOUR BLOCKS from Hyde Park, which meant that my children did not have to change schools or sever friendships. What did change was that they were now conscripted into helping with the renovation. When I was younger, I had wanted to get as far from my parents’ penchant for moving and renovating, but here I was, back at it, and dragging my kids into it.

  It proved a good home. If Virginia Woolf pined for a room of one’s own, one now had, once again, a home of one’s own. Although I was inconsolable about the demise of my marriage, the house erected a kind of force field around my grief. It also became a refuge for teary friends who showed up on my doorstep, having been ditched by their husbands. This divorce thing was racing through the neighbourhood like influenza. We medicated with wine.

  There was something spiritual and calming about the Stanley Avenue house. It seemed to understand and absorb sadness, as if overseen by a non-judgmental, compassionate caretaker who slipped in quietly to mop up the tears. In the evenings, when the children were in bed, and dark and silence descended, I lit candles, put on a CD of Gregorian chant, and knelt before a blazing fireplace, praying for strength and for the continued safety and health of my children and parents. It was also during this time that my prayers gave me the strength to make the tentative steps toward confronting the trauma of my rape, which had happened fifteen years earlier. Around me the walls pulsated with the orange reflection from the fire, like beating angel wings. I knew nothing of the previous owner aside from the fact that he had been a churchgoer, and that his pastor had been his executor, but those small details felt like a kind of blessing bestowed upon the house of which I was the grateful beneficiary.

  I am not sure whether people sit down and consider how much sacrifice and labour go into making a home, especially one with children. The physical plant—heating, running water, electricity, ventilation—is definitely vital, but there are the additional comforts that are chosen to ensure the home’s inhabitants feel safe and snuggled: the arrangement of furniture, the placement of art on the walls and knick-knacks and books on the shelves. These all tell the story of the family’s history, roots, and become daily visual reminders of that history: acorns scattered on the windowsill tell of a recent walk to the park; a shell conjures up a trip to the beach; a blanket at the end of a bed or draped over a chair evokes a memory of being read a story while you cupped a mug of hot chocolate; a painting on the wall triggers emotions and distinct memories of where it came from, a grandparent’s anecdote about it, the way it alters in different kinds of light; a simple photograph on a bedside table that you see the moment you open your eyes in the morning can bring a moment of joy, heartbreak, or wistfulness. There is the gathering of appropriate furniture—desks on which to do homework; closets and chests of drawers to protect clothes; bins and baskets in which to store playthings. A cherished stuffed toy placed against the bed pillow can convey messages of love, order, and security that register mightily in a child’s psyche and imagination.

  Making a home for my children at this wrenching time in their lives was stressful for all of us. They were on the cusp of their teen years, with their opinions and elastic boundaries; they compared their home life with the style and the material comforts of their friends’ two-parented homes. Status was a marker for their generation, and I did not want them to feel less worthy than their peers for the sake of a pair of the latest style of running shoes, so I took whatever freelance work I could get to supplement my income. I worked extremely hard to keep everything afloat.

  I was not always at my best—alcohol and cigarettes helped me cope with grief and lack of confidence—but when that period passed and I shook off my weepiness and addictive crutches, I stood tall and assured—assertive, even. Walking out the front door was like crossing a border into a new land. My well-being bounced back; my physical strength soared. When it came to outdoor maintenance, I was like a machine: lacing on steel-toed boots and lugging eight-foot railway sleepers to frame a vegetable patch. I did all the heavy lifting—physically, emotionally, and psychologically—as single mothers do—because there was no choice, no one to off-load the responsibility for even a moment.

  And yet I am humbled and privileged by this phase, of having single-handedly made a home for my family. It is only now, decades after they have left and have built nests of their own, that I see the enormous trust that was given to me, not just to make a home for them but to care, nurture, and of course love them. It is no secret that raising children is tough, especially if you are a single parent, and the regret is that you do not have time
to stop and marvel at your fortitude and courage while you are in the midst of it. Only after the major parenting has been done can you look back and exhale, wondering how you did it, and how well you did it.

  Stanley Avenue was home for five years until an opportunity, disguised as a near-fatal car accident, prompted me to move with my young daughter to Pelee Island during the winter of 2001. It was a deliberate escape from the caffeine-fuelled rat race in order to recalibrate myself and concentrate on my desire to write. For a time, it worked: the national newspaper I was working for as an editor commissioned me to write a series of columns about the experience, and my columns turned out to be a success. But once I returned, refreshed, to the frantic world of journalism, I got scheduled back into my old job—copy editing on the news desk at nights. Around this time, the newspaper offered to pay my moving expenses if I moved from Hamilton to Toronto. The car accident still fresh in my mind, I decided to accept the offer, and I sold my Stanley Avenue home.

  After Pelee Island, we lived with my mother for a few months while I searched for a new home in Toronto. In late August 2001, we moved into a house in the Beaches area of Toronto. Housing prices were much higher than Hamilton ones then, and I ended up with a huge mortgage that sat like a tumour in my chest.

  Two weeks later—not yet out of boxes—the catastrophic horror of 9/11 changed everyone’s world. The impact of the attack reverberated in me as intensely as if it had taken a member of my own family. I remember staring at the startling blueness of the sky and wondering whether it was the result of the power of collective communal shock among humanity and its ensuing outpouring of silent prayer, or (morbidly) whether the carbon released from all those who lost their lives in the attack that day had altered atmospheric conditions. Or whether it was a hopeful sign from God. As fear and chaos radiated around the globe, economies and businesses contracted; people were laid off work. The media business in which I was employed was not immune: a week after the attacks I found myself in a crowded room with colleagues and a stack of severance packages.

  There was no stability in the world; there was no stability in the workplace. Even our new home felt unreliable, unstable, as if it were teetering on precarious foundations. Whenever I went upstairs, bouts of vertigo assailed me.

  In the midst of devastation there are always miracles. Two months after being laid off I was offered my first book contract, from which blossomed my writing career. I also gained a new friend in the single mom next door: we shared a party wall and, as we discovered, the same birthday, and became forever friends.

  Despite the political, social, and emotional aftershocks of that period, the one thing that seemed unshakable was the Toronto housing market. Knowing I would not be able to afford the mortgage on my home without a steady job—and full-time employment then was pretty much non-existent—I put the house up for sale eight months after we had moved in. It sold within twenty-four hours, sight unseen, to an Australian couple. I even made money on it.

  Two months later, the kids and I were back in the familiar environs of Hamilton, where the offer of a full-time job materialized along with our next home.

  THE HOUSE ON HERKIMER STREET was an elegant detached Victorian with deep frontage. It had been divided into two rented flats, and I converted it back to a single-family home as soon as I became its new owner.

  By this time, I was adept at home renovation—or rather, adept at knowing who to call to do the work. I never paid more for a house than I could afford: not the amount the bank said I could afford, but the amount I worked out on paper myself, based on what my salary could handle while leaving enough to care for my children. There is nothing worse than the stress of owing money. I once borrowed money from my parents in the early 1980s, and it was an experience I never wanted to repeat. While far from being mortgage-free, I was grateful to my bank for having faith in me: single mothers did not always get approved for mortgages (thankfully that societal attitude has turned). I worked out the cost of necessary renovations and factored that into my mortgage application. After that, I set financial goals and timelines for the work on subsequent phases of renovation. I was no financial wizard—far from it—but I was fortunate to have decent-paying jobs and a quiet social life. I was not always sensible or practical—some things were paid on credit—but I knew my limit and never overreached it.

  Herkimer Street was a large project. Inside and out the house needed attention. By now, I had come to expect that I was doomed to buy fixer-uppers. The terracotta brick had been painted a flat, rusty red; the window frames and fascia boards were coated in layer upon layer of dull green paint that was cracked and peeling. Shrubs, trees, and grass had grown wild and unkempt. It was the sort of house a kid would avoid on Halloween. Inside, the place had been architecturally cleansed. Stately double glass doors between the living room and dining room had been ripped out—frame and all—as had a walnut mantel. Glass transoms had been painted over and sealed shut with flat white paint. The pine and maple floors were covered throughout the house in beige carpet that smelled of cat pee. None of this concerned me: I had my trusty list of Hamilton tradesmen to call upon to remedy it all.

  My neighbours to one side had an identical house to mine, except they had fixed theirs up to a stunning degree. They were interior designers who were only too happy to offer decorating advice. They suggested paint colours for the exterior woodwork—mustard, dark green, and aubergine—the same colours they had used on their home. I was happy to comply: what looked great on their place would look great on mine.

  There was a little something inside my home, however, that no amount of interior design could change: a ghost.

  People are reluctant to talk about house ghosts for fear of being considered crazy, but ghosts exist; of that I am certain.

  The ghosts in the Henry Farm house were benign things, just pootling about looking for people to tease. Given the age of that house, you would be naive to think none existed. But ghosts linger in modern houses, too. In one suburban home I lived in, where my first marriage ended, the new owners ordered an exorcism to rid the house of that just-divorced smell. I thought it was a bit extreme: I can be a bitch, but I am no she-devil. And frankly, people would be lucky to have me as a ghost. I would be exceedingly respectful.

  The ghost in the Herkimer Street house was the real business, though: a cantankerous, miserable fellow, who made his presence known before I was halfway through the first can of pale-sage paint in the master bedroom. A whiff of pipe tobacco had curled into the room while I rolled the walls with paint. I paid it no mind, but when I heard heavy footsteps in the hall, I figured someone had come into the house.

  “Hello?”

  I peeked out the bedroom door. No one was there. I would later come to understand that the burning pipe tobacco and heavy footfall up and down the hall was the ghost’s calling card.

  That first night in the house, I was awakened at three in the morning by the scream of the smoke alarm. I fumbled for a flashlight and ran panicking through the house looking for fire until I arrived at the basement door. As soon as I descended the stairs, the door slammed shut behind me, and I heard footsteps in hasty retreat on the floorboards overhead.

  It did not take long for me to figure out that while this was a home crying out for TLC, it came with a ghost crying out for me not only to leave it all alone but to leave period.

  At first, the ghost used the usual bag of tricks: knocking pictures off the wall, slamming doors, and breathing close to my ear. The middle-of-the-night smoke alarm was a particular favourite. My children looked at me for an explanation to this paranormal mayhem, but I feigned ignorance.

  One day, as I dragged the cat-pee carpet out the back door, a grizzled, ponytailed fellow leaned over my back fence.

  “So, what do you think of the third floor in your house?” he chuckled.

  “You must be mistaken,” I replied, wrestling with the carpet. “There is no third floor.”

  “Oh yes there is,” he said. “The tra
p door in the ceiling of the closet in the small bedroom?”

  Gosh, he was awfully specific.

  “Poke your head through that. It was Karl’s favourite room.”

  Karl. So the ghost had a name. But a third floor? How come my neighbours knew more about my home’s layout than I did?

  I went back indoors and climbed the stairs to the second floor. I peered up at the small trap door in the ceiling of the little bedroom. Then I went back downstairs and decided to hold off further exploration until someone with more nerve showed up.

  A few days later, my ex-husband arrived to pick up our daughter. As he waited by the front door, casually admiring the house—we had both shared an interest in old homes—he asked whether I had come across anything interesting. I relayed my conversation with the ponytailed neighbour.

  The ex’s eyes widened.

  “And?”

  “Well, I wasn’t about to check it out. Not on my own.”

  “Can I?”

  “Help yourself.”

  “Kids! Grab a ladder!”

  Soon, the ex was storming up the stairs, trailed by three children and a stepladder. He disappeared into the loft, groped around for a light switch, and then—

  “Holy. Shit.”

  “What!” we all shrieked.

  His face appeared in the trap-door opening. “Get a camera.”

  By then we were all frantically climbing over one another to see inside the loft.

  And what we saw was eerie. A huge plywood board stood in the middle of the attic like the monolith from 2001: A Space Odyssey. Upon it was mounted all manner of switches, fuses, an old TV aerial, and a tangle of electrical wire, most of it dangerously frayed. Beside this master-control board was a little wooden bench upon which sat a conical-shaped hat made of tin foil. According to my ponytailed neighbour, Karl would climb to this attic perch each Friday to dial in Mars.

  A month later, an electrician came over to dismantle the contraption. He entered the loft, switched on the light, and then—