The Color of Us

by Jessica Park

  Before I can even fully open the door, I hear a rote voice announce, “I am called Alex, and I am looking for a winter hat, preferably one with a pom-pom on top. Red. I’d also like to have an omelet. Danny says they are good, and Danny is my friend, so it’s okay that I’m here.”

  The tall, lean, dark-haired figure in front of me is probably a few years older than I am, maybe in his late twenties, and he’s busy, looking off to the side.

  “Hi. I am called Callie. And … wait, what?” My eyes are probably bleeding booze and misery. A fabulous look.

  “I am called Alex, and I am looking for a winter hat, preferably one with a pom-pom on top. Red. I’d also like to have an omelet. Danny says they are good, and Danny is my friend, so it’s okay that I’m here,” Alex repeats himself word for word but with a bit more force and agitation.

  “Okay, okay.” It doesn’t feel likely that a hat-and-omelet-seeking person will kill me, so I wave him in and point to the dining room table. “Okay … I don’t know … grab a seat, One Who Is Called Alex.”

  He pushes past me and plonks down, sitting upright in one of the wooden chairs. “Danny had a ham and cheese omelet. I would like that as well.”

  I don’t even know what’s happening right now, but I shuffle to the kitchen, open the fridge, and pull out what I need. Apparently, I’m some sort of resident omelet expert, my skills known across the land. “Would you like anything else in your omelet? Tomatoes?”

  “No. I would not.”

  Okay then. It’s a full glass of iced orange juice before I beat up eggs.

  “Would you like a coffee? Because I need about five.”

  “Five cups of coffee is not a smart idea. Do not do that,” he calls out. “But I will take one, please and thank you,” he says. “Also, the hat. Don’t forget about the hat.”

  “It’d be impossible to forget about the hat.”

  “One with a pom-pom. That’s important.”

  “Yep. Okay. So important,” I mumble.

  After I have a pot of Sumatra brewing, I heat up a pan. When the butter is hot enough, I dump in beaten eggs and sprinkle cheese and diced ham down the middle, letting it all set before I begin shaking the pan, as though I’d been doing this for a million years. This feels to be the one lone skill I’ve acquired in my twenty-plus years of life, but here I am.

  Soon, I’m slouched against the table and sipping my coffee while Alex eats.

  “This is very good. Danny was right in his evaluation.”

  “Didn’t realize I was being evaluated, but great.”

  The doorbell rings.

  There is not enough caffeine for me to deal with this.

  But I half-open the door anyway and scream, “Now what?”

  “Hello, Callie.”

  The soft voice throws me, and I’m not prepared for feeling as though I was brutally slammed in the chest. It takes me more than a few seconds to start breathing again.

  Paul, my dad’s best friend and the man who has kept this house from falling to the ground, stands before me. And I cannot think of one thing to say. Obviously, he’s older than the last time I saw him, but he’s still such a handsome man. Salt-and-pepper hair now, the same bright blue eyes, the same kind, true, most genuine smile. And I am taken back to my childhood yet again. He instantaneously reminds me so much of my father that it physically hurts. My body is telling me to grab on to him, to scream, to break into a million pieces. But instead, I let out a ragged breath and try to smile.

  “Paul. It’s good to see you again.” My voice sounds colder and weirder than I’d like, and the hug I give him feels perfunctory, which I feel awful about. But I’m panicky and uncomfortable. “Danny said you’d be coming by.”

  “Of course. I was hoping to take a better look at the roof—”

  But Alex’s yell stops us. “This bathroom is dangerous! It’s not okay! Broken!”

  Fuck! I forgot about last night’s … renovations.

  “Sorry! Sorry!” I fake a smile as though everything were fine, and I dart off into the bathroom that’s two steps away.

  Tile shards are everywhere. It’s a categorical disaster zone.

  “You’re right, Alex. This is so, so not okay. Head upstairs. There’s a not-destroyed bathroom at the top, on your right.”

  “I hope it’s safer. This one was treacherous and wrong.” My new friend stomps to the intact facility on the second floor.

  The sound of Paul’s footsteps as he enters the house makes me cringe, and I keep my back to him.

  “Well, this bathroom looks different from the last time I stopped by.” Paul is generously nonjudgmental. “Do you feel better now?”

  I grab a dustpan and brush and furiously start trying to clean the mess. “Nope. Not much …”

  His footsteps recede, and he’s thoughtful enough to give me more than a few minutes before handing over a trash bag that he retrieved from the kitchen. When he leans down to help, I shake my head.

  We are both silent, even as I take the bag and do a sloppy job of scraping tile and dust into it. When I have cleared most of the debris, I sit up and rest my hands on my knees, coughing on the gross air I’ve created and forced myself to breathe in. It’s a good way to hide my tears.

  “I’m angry too,” Paul says. “And I miss him too. Mike was like a brother to me. He was my brother, blood or not.” Paul doesn’t pretend to hide behind the dust. He is okay with raw emotion and pain. There’s a long stretch of quiet before he says anything else. “Your father, he loved this wacky house, so let’s take this on, okay?”

  It takes putting four more scoops of tile shards into a trash bag before I agree. “Okay.”

  I brush myself off and stand. “This bathroom is all wrong. Not, you know, only because I busted it up. We can go into details later.”

  Paul now has a clipboard and paper and pen in hand, and I immediately feel better. Something about this non-technological approach makes me trust him even more. So, I begin the house renovation tour.

  “Danny gave you a list, right?” I continue with more confidence than I thought possible. “The stairs are awful.” My heart is pounding, and I wish I could look at Paul like a normal human. But I’m so fucking broken, and I’m so fucking full of trauma. “We could at least knock out the current railing and replace it with a cool railing, right?” I march ahead from the bathroom and into the open main living room. “Kind of rustic farmhouse without being too trendy because everyone is doing that shit. And I was thinking about how much light there’d be if we smashed out the wall at the bottom of the stairs here and did a slick iron sliding door. It’d be so nice to walk out onto the back deck and see the creek. Also, the living room needs way more light. What if we added in at least three more windows in the same style? Nice black frames? And let’s paint these wood walls and the ceiling white. We’ll still see the beautiful horizontal panels, but it’d be less damn depressing in here. Danny said to keep the floor.”

  Paul grins as he makes his notes. “Danny is right. And your mom is not going to love the cost of this shit.” Then, he looks at me. “But I’m on board.”

  My stomach twists into knots. I almost forgot about my mom’s rather major role here. “Um, let’s hold off on telling her about everything right now. Maybe share the basics. We can kind of ease her into renovations. I watch a lot of HGTV. These are probably dumb ideas. I don’t know what I’m talking about.”

  “Yes, you do. You’re doing great. Don’t stop. I’ll break this list up into must-haves and wants. We’ll go from there. So, what about the roof? That has to be done as soon as possible. Summer rain could cause leaks and damage. Not to mention that the exterior of this house needs to be scraped and painted.”

  It’s funny how easy it is for me to make decisions. “So, scrape and paint. Let’s keep the color scheme as is. Black roof, white house, black shutters. It’s timeless. Oh, but how about a tin roof? Wouldn’t that be awesome? Great for resale. And it would be intoxicating when it rains. But the door has to b
e a fun color. I’ll think on it.”

  He nods. “And possibly the fireplace might need a bit of work? Just a thought.”

  I plop down on one of the ancient couches in the living room and eye the second mess that I created. “Eh, I don’t know. I mean, I did like the idea of a rustic-farmhouse design, so we could leave it as is.”

  “Very funny.” Paul sits on the other sofa. “We’ll see. This is more broken farmhouse. Listen, I know we have more to talk about—” he starts.

  “I can’t even deal with the weirdo kitchen right now. But that has to be gutted.”

  “Agreed.” He shifts in his seat. “So, there’s the issue of the timeline. Your mom is acting as though this overhaul will only take a few weeks.” Paul sighs heavily. “Cyndi won’t listen to me. I’ve been telling her for years that this house needs major work and renovations if she wants to sell it. She’s agreed to some stuff, but not a ton of other stuff.”

  Paul waits while I rub my forehead, sigh, run my hands through my hair, and kick my feet against the unattractive coffee table, and finally, I toss my head back against the old sofa cushion.

  Then, I make a decision. “Don’t worry about my mom. I’ll take over, but let’s not tell her that.” I roll my head to face him. “I have money,” I say with reluctance. “My dad had all this old inheritance money himself, and he left a ton to both me and my sister. Mine has been sitting in an account for years, accumulating interest. I’ll spend it where my mom doesn’t want to. This house deserves to be as beautiful as it can be.”

  Paul scrawls some notes before looking at me. “So, you’re my new boss?”

  I can’t help but smile. “Apparently. Well, maybe only for the wish-list stuff. Try to avoid giving my mom too much information. She doesn’t want it anyway.”

  “Deal. There’s one other thing.” His hesitant tone is freaking me out.

  “Oh man, what else?” I shut my eyes and wait for the next blow.

  “I was going to ask if there’s any chance that I can get one of the omelets that everyone is talking about?” A sneaky smile emerges as he continues to write. “In exchange, I’ll set renovations in motion today.”

  Is everyone talking about my omelets?

  Before I can respond to this bribery, Alex returns.

  “That upstairs bathroom is very nice and not dangerous,” he proclaims. “There is original subway tile and a claw-foot tub. Do not replace those. Did you find the hat I asked about? No, I know you didn’t because I found it in the closet upstairs, so thank you. It will make me very happy, and I’ll return it when I’m done.” He pulls it over his bushy hair before sitting down to finish his breakfast.

  Ohmigod, what is happening today?

  But there’s no way to not find Alex charming. Exhausting but undeniably charming.

  “Knock yourself out with the hat.”

  “I will finish my omelet now.” The chair squeaks against the floor as he dives back in.

  “So, no work upstairs?”

  I shake my head.

  “I agree.” Paul squints at his notes and is clearly making adjustments. “Prepare for a lot of noise and dust and inconvenience.”

  I point at Paul. “Prepare for me to be irritated. But I’m still going to make you an omelet.”

  fourteen

  When I’m alone, I contemplate my new life. Or my new temporary life.

  Is making a good omelet my greatest achievement? Is destroying a bathroom and a fireplace my greatest low? What is even going on with my life?

  I take my iPad out to the creek side of the porch and sit and try to breathe. There has to be something else that I can do well. Something that I can take on. Some way to prove that I am not nothing.

  Then, an idea hits me. It seems so stupid, but I still spend two hours on YouTube. And I write lists and instructions and tips. And then I replay videos, measure things, and type out notes for myself.

  The fireplace and the bathroom tiles that I destroyed? I might be great at destruction, but maybe I can be as talented at rebuilding.

  After extensive research, I now have info about mortars and drills with various attachments, subfloors and backer board, rubber mallets and spacers. Grout, rubber gloves. How to cut and seal the tiles. I have to figure out what to do with all of this information. How to order it into something that makes some kind of sense.

  After a million more video watches and notes, I think I get it. I think I can do this.

  Tiling requires a solid amount of math, and while I might have flunked out of community college, I wasn’t awful at math in high school. I like calculations, numbers, angles, measurements, and all that.

  Maybe I can do this?

  No, I can do this.

  I roll up my pants and hop from the deck into the creek. The water is icy and wonderful, and bursts of sharp chill encourage me to hop from stone to stone. When I land on a few particularly solid rocks, with two feet unwavering, I raise my arms in the air.

  “Yes!” My scream is stupidly and unrealistically triumphant, but I unleash it nonetheless.

  I step down and enjoy how it feels to stand in this wonderfully cold creek. The water that moves beneath me is rhythmic and hypnotic. Reassuring.

  It’s just tile. I can do this.

  I inhale and exhale.

  Or maybe I can’t. Maybe I try, and I fail. It only matters that I try. That I take a damn risk.

  I hop more stones, moving the way of the creek until I reach the lake, and then I decidedly run in full force, diving well under the surface.

  The water is damn freezing, but I love how it’s harsh and biting against my skin and love even more how it feels to break the lake’s surface. How I can breathe again. How my body is both frozen and ignited.

  It’s less than a minute until I am back on my porch, panting and celebrating all at once. I strip off most of my clothing, still laughing as I lurch inside and locate towels and dry clothes.

  By early evening, when I’m not lake-soaked and I’m in sweatpants and a T-shirt, I realize that I’m starving. And I decide to cook dinner for myself.

  Our old oven takes its sweet time heating up, but that’s okay because I need that time to locate something resembling a roasting pan, which I finally do. After reading and rereading the recipe, I manage to stuff an herb-and-oil mixture and tons of butter under the skin of my stupidly talked-about spatchcock chicken. Garlic cloves and red onion go into the pan, and after I set this into the oven, all I can do is sit back and hope this isn’t awful. And stare at the meat thermometer until it hits the right temperature.

  It’s so dumb that I’m making this huge meal for myself, but still, I make a salad. My dad used to make an awesome one, a salad I haven’t had in years. So, I mince green and kalamata olives with parsley, hearts of palm, artichoke hearts, and toss that up with chopped plum tomatoes and Boston lettuce. The dressing, as I remember, is glugs of olive oil, Dijon mustard, chopped garlic, lemon juice, and salt and pepper. My dad knew when he had the right amounts by the smell, so I take a whiff.

  “More salt and pepper?” I ask myself. “Yes. A bit more.”

  When my meat thermometer beeps, I take out the chicken and follow instructions for making gravy.

  Nobody cries over chicken and salad, which is weird. And yet I do. Because when I plate my food and sit down, I don’t expect much.

  But I made a real dinner, for myself. A delicious dinner.

  It’s a small feat for most people, but it’s a big damn feat for me. And as embarrassed as I am by how silly this is, I’m going to be happy about it, so I text Marlena a picture. She replies with a thousand emojis and words of enthusiastic support.

  I text my mom the same picture and tell her that I made this dinner on my own.

  She replies, but I wish she hadn’t.

  Looks good. How was the walk-through? What work needs to be done on the house? I’m hoping this will be a quick process/sale?

  After five deleted potential replies, and after I’ve almost thrown my
phone across the room. I cannot think of what to say.

  Finally, I send a message.

  It’s all going smoothly. I’ll call you soon.

  Then, I text Danny.

  Any chance you and Shallots and your truck could take me out tomorrow?

  He writes back.

  I’m intrigued. And of course, Callie. Whatever you need.

  I’m in bed and snuggling myself up in to a tight sheet when I get another reply text.

  We grew up together. That means I’d do anything for you.

  fifteen

  “Absolutely not.” Danny’s words echo throughout the store.

  “Why not?” I grumble.

  “You’re not doing bullshit white subway tile in that bathroom. You already have original in the upstairs bathroom.”

  Well, crap. He’s right.

  But the array of tile in front of me is damn overwhelming. Shapes, colors, patterns? Tragically more complicated than the paint-chip life I used to lead.

  “I don’t know what to do,” I say with a frustrated groan. “This was a stupid idea. There’s no way that I can tile the bathroom. Not to mention, the fireplace fiasco.”

  Danny moves behind me and solidly sets his hands down on my shoulders. “Yes, you can. I’ll help you. Paul will help you. Let’s figure out this bathroom first. Shut your eyes.”

  “What?”

  “Shut your eyes and pretend you’re looking at the floor of that downstairs bathroom.”

  “Ugh. Fine.”

  Despite my doubts, I do what he suggested. Until I peek about two seconds later. How am I not supposed to look at all of this crazy tile in front of me?

  “Okay, cheater, let me help.” His hands gently cover my eyes, and his voice in my ear is haunting and so awesome. He walks me to my far left. “Try again. Close and then open.” He lifts his touch. “What do you see?”

  “I dunno. Reds and pinks.”

  “True. But look closer. Maybe you see more. Lemonade. Salmon. Rouge. Rosewood.”