Rise--How a House Built a Family Read online

  “I hated that. I was mortified to be crawling around on the college campus picking up buckets of nuts. I was probably pretty mean to you about it.”

  “We laughed about it,” she said. “I wasn’t thrilled to be out there either. But we had nuts to eat.”

  “And to give for Christmas gifts to Grandma and Grandpa,” I said. “We made the best of it. We laughed a lot, didn’t we.”

  “Don’t worry so much about the details. You’re doing so very, very well, and I’m proud of you.”

  I went inside and found Jada and Roman playing Wii bowling. The game may have started fun, but it had dissolved into arguments and stomping. “Anyone in here want to go for a walk?” I asked.

  “In the dark?” Jada asked, wide-eyed.

  “Sure. When I was a kid we walked at night all the time. We’ll make wishes on the stars and say good morning to the night creatures.”

  “I’ll walk!” Roman said, running for the stairs.

  Hope and Drew stayed in their rooms, cherishing the quiet time alone. But Jada joined us, and so did Hershey. We imagined fairy creatures waking up in the tall grass and lazy opossums and armadillos rustling around in the forest.

  “I wish for a giant frog. Big as me!” Roman shouted to the stars.

  “Ewww,” Jada said. “Think how big the bugs would have to be to feed him! I wish I could be in the WNBA. Or maybe travel to Africa. Or India.”

  “Then I wish for Disney World,” Roman amended.

  “I wish I had four kids and a magical house called Inkwell Manor,” I said, taking my turn to shout to the Big Dipper.

  “Mommy! You already have that!” Roman said.

  “See? I told you wishes on stars always come true.”

  –18–

  Fall

  Hear the Words I Mean

  I knew it would be difficult to move Adam out and finalize a divorce, but I never imagined how often he would forget that these things had happened. Every night I double-checked the window and door locks, and every morning Hershey and I looked for anything bumped out of place. We walked our patrol with her shoulder pressed against my thigh, first through the interior and then along the outside perimeter. I wasn’t sure what we were looking for or what we would do if we found it, but with the illogical, unpredictable shadow of insanity ruling our world, going through these motions gave me the much-needed illusion of control.

  I was hyperaware, over-the-top vigilant. All while smiling peacefully enough that Hope and Drew could walk across the street to their elementary school without watching their backs, and toddler Jada wouldn’t cling too tight.

  It’s impossible to watch every step, to keep your guard up every second. So now and then I slipped. Most of the time everything was okay. Most of the time I could take out the trash without seeing a bogeyman. Most of the time slipups didn’t matter. Until the times they did.

  “You all right?” The voice was low, gentle, and close. Too close.

  It opened my throat like a key. “Akraham! Teckrip!” I said. And if I had a minute to think, I was sure, I could translate the ancient words into modern English. But I didn’t have a minute. All my minutes might have found an end exactly halfway up my long, dusty driveway. Adam stood a step away from the gravel, where his footsteps were silent. A thick patch of dandelions bent under his right shoe, suffocating. Jada’s favorite weed-flower.

  I looked past him at the house. Just on the other side of that door Karma was waiting, ready to defend me. But she hadn’t come with me tonight, and I couldn’t beat Adam in a footrace, not when his chin was lifted off his chest and the drool cleared away. Not when his feet were lifting high enough to stomp dandelions—not when he was off his meds.

  “Are you all right, Cara?” he repeated. It was the old Adam, the one I’d loved deeply before his mind slipped away. He had so much charisma that my knees felt weak from more than terror, and I was mad at him for still affecting me. There in the starlight, it was impossible to believe he was the same person who hurt me, who scared me.

  “I’m okay,” I said, careful not to sound too okay. Because he wouldn’t want me to feel like I really did—happy to be free of him and building a life of my own. We’d been divorced several years. He would want me to be tortured by the loss of him.

  “Are the kids okay? You look really beautiful. You have always been beautiful.”

  “The kids are good. Busy with end-of-school stuff.”

  “You shouldn’t be out without a bra.” His chest pushed forward, shoulders back, and I knew what was next, the finger poking at my sternum, shoving the point home.

  “I was just taking the trash out. And it’s dark. The kids didn’t get the can up. You know how they are with chores. Scattered as always.” I crossed my arms across my chest. The sleep shirt I had put on after my shower was thin, not something I would normally wear outside. I don’t have to explain anything. I’m not your business. Not anymore. You aren’t welcome here. Go!

  Instead of driving his point home, he pinched his fingers across his eyes and held the bridge of his nose. “You heard what Dr. Christe said? Schizophrenia?” His voice choked in a genuine sob. “I’m sorry, Cara. I didn’t know. I’m sorry.”

  Just that quick I wanted to tell him it was okay, that I was sorry, too. He looked so weak, so vulnerable and lost that I wanted to hug him. I didn’t want him back, though, not even then. I was sorry—not stupid. It was a cruel twist of fate. A goddamned shame. But I still didn’t want him back. “I’m sorry, too,” I whispered. “Dr. Christe says there’s medicine, things that—”

  “That’s why they did this.” His voice was low and the words were almost too fast to process. “They did this thing to my brain. An implant or a beam or however the hell they do it. They did this because they wanted me to take those pills that kill everything. Do you hear me? They kill everything inside. They know how important my ideas are, and they want them without the threat of having to pay me. They know my ideas could change everything. Everything. I just have to write them down. And when I take their damn pills I can’t write a damn thing. Too shaky. Too dead. I’m going to write it, though. I’m going to make enough to take care of you and the kids. I can support my wife. You know that, right? You know I can.”

  In the early days I had traveled right along with him on his path to madness, believed the little tales that built into something so fantastical that I realized it was impossible. Even then I’d been generous when I tried to sort fact from fiction, giving him the benefit of the doubt when a story had reasonable evidence. The day after his diagnosis of schizophrenia I’d even wondered briefly if it was all a trick, if he was fooling them somehow in order to save us from real bad guys who wanted the things in his brilliant mind. I wanted to believe that because it would be so much nicer than the ugliness of what had really happened, so much happier than the sad truth of schizophrenia. Watching him now, I had no doubts. He had rarely talked to me like this; he’d been a little paranoid sometimes, but usually believable, sane enough to pass muster. A wave of pity hit my stomach with such force that I dropped both hands there and gagged. I took a step forward, toward the house. I needed a glass of water, something to settle my stomach and drown my guilt. Maybe he knew that and wanted to stop me, or maybe he thought I was taking a step closer to him.

  He took three steps, scissoring sideways to cut in front of me. The dandelions he’d stood on leapt up. They can breathe. They can finally breathe. But I couldn’t. I froze. His breath puffed across my face, hot on my eyes. Even though he wasn’t touching me, I could feel his heat. His eyes were clear with the intensity that used to melt hearts but had mine building heat and speed.

  “The kids are done with school? I’m going to kill you.” He was as matter-of-fact as if he were telling me what he had for dinner. “I know they did well. They’re smart.”

  He may have said more, but my ears were washed over with heat, and my heartbeat, and a scream that sounded real in my head without ever passing my throat. I looked at my fee
t, expecting to find the perfect rock, one that would fit in my palm and against the side of his head. Cave it in. End this.

  “What’s wrong? I’m going to take care of you. I can take care of my wife.” He stepped back, hands up by his shoulders as if to say, I got this.

  “You’re scaring me,” I yelled, but it came out as a tear-coated whisper.

  His jaw dropped, reminding me for a split second of what he looked like in the hospital room when his feet were too heavy to lift off the tile. He was not only surprised, but hurt, so unaware of what he had said that I looked away, evaluating if there was some way I had misheard him. I hadn’t.

  “I’m going to kill you.”

  Clear as day. Sharp as night.

  “I’m going in. The kids—I’ve been out too long.” I swallowed hard, hating the familiar tiptoeing around, weighing each word before handing it over like a peace offering.

  “I don’t mean to scare you. I’m sorry about—all of this. You know which words I mean.”

  I had started walking and couldn’t stop even though I knew I should stay and say more, that I should smooth this over. Walking away was just the sort of thing to set him off. I waved over my head, flapping my hand like I’d been attacked by a plague of gnats. But I didn’t look back; I couldn’t turn, even though I was half convinced that he was following, stomping up the driveway, crushing dandelions along the way.

  Hershey appeared next to me, a shadow materializing like a phantom. I wondered where she had been while I stood under the manic shower of Adam’s words. I didn’t blame her for disappearing; it was the smartest move when he came around. Maybe she would have jumped up to defend me if he had lifted his hands around my throat, or maybe even that wouldn’t have penetrated her own post-traumatic reaction to the scent of him. “Good girl,” I breathed. “Stay close. I won’t let him hurt you.” I tapped my thigh and made a soft click with my tongue.

  The garage door had never taken so long to close. I imagined him rolling under it like Indiana Jones, crooked smile and all, grabbing an imaginary fedora.

  When I walked into the dining room, I expected the kids to be pressed against the windows, terrified of all the things that might have happened. The downstairs was empty, and I could hear thunder over my head in Jada’s room, which meant she was jumping from her bed onto her furry purple beanbag chair. Tiny white balls would be puffing out the zipper like snow.

  I ran to my closet, Hershey sticking close. My .38 Special—plain- Jane instead of plastic pink—was on the top shelf. I had to climb my sweater shelves like a ladder to reach her and then had to reach behind a dusty pair of five-inch heels for the bullets. My fingers were steady when I slipped the shells into the chambers and swung the barrel closed.

  Locked and loaded. A phrase from one of my dad’s stories from the Honor Guard in DC. I hefted the gun, remembering his lessons on aiming and shooting so many years ago.

  My hands started shaking then, jostling Karma like popcorn in a popper. Not cool. Not cool at all when I had hard decisions to make and no room for nerves. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. The gun was cold and heavy. I had bought it thinking I could shoot anyone threatening my kids. Even him.

  Adam wasn’t just anyone, though, and the reasons he had for being there were understandable even if I didn’t like them. It wasn’t hard to imagine shooting the person leaving knives in my bed, or torturing my dog, but he wasn’t that person all the time. In some moments he was still the yesterday Adam. The one who had sat with me, dreaming of our future at beaches and mountain cabins, of growing old together.

  How could I ever reconcile him with the person who had looked me straight in the eye and said he was going to kill me?

  I put Karma back on the top shelf without unloading her. Rest up, girl.

  The kids hadn’t noticed I was gone. We did our bedtime routine and everyone was asleep before I identified what bothered me most about the night encounter.

  It wasn’t the person or the words as much as it was who I became because of them. The kids never suspected I even went outside. But I knew that and a whole lot more. I knew great big scary things. I was planning ways I might have to kill someone if they came too close even one more time. I was telling tall tales, about how safe and happy we were, and sealing them with a false smile. I was pretending I was strong when no one had ever felt as small and weak as I did.

  Of course I was doing it to protect them, both from thinking about the crazy man and from the fear the truth would bring. Then again, if they weren’t afraid of him, they might let him get too close. The balance was lost somewhere between feeling safe and being safe.

  I was beginning to think there was no such thing as safe anyhow. Nowhere we could hide.

  That was enough reason to be a liar, I told myself that night, with the shadows growing deep around my bed and the window frames locked tight around glass that was as laughably easy to break as my courage.

  –19–

  Rise

  I Am My Plumber

  On Friday after work, Roman and I went to the Plumbing Warehouse, where a lanky man in a Where’s Waldo? shirt and gauges large enough to shoot marbles through was unfortunate enough to be the one to ask, “May I help you?” He nodded at my clipboard in a patronizing way, squinted at my explanations and looked at something over my left shoulder, and finally suggested, “It would probably be easiest if you send your plumber in to make the order. Or he can even do it over the phone and you can do the pickup.” He smiled and actually patted my shoulder.

  I waved my plumbing permit, pointing to my signature on the dotted line. “I am my plumber.” Which I had already told him, but for reasons that were more than obvious—the least of which was Roman stringing Froot Loops onto a strand of my hair—he had missed that part.

  “Wayne!” he yelled, waving at someone across the warehouse and stretching his eyes wide in a now-familiar, oh-god-you-have-to-save-me-from-this-crazy-lady expression.

  Wayne, it turned out, was a retired-teacher type who wasn’t even mildly impressed that I was building my own house. He corrected me when I used the wrong term: “No, hon, that’s a coupling, got it?” And scribbled all over my checklist. “This part here isn’t important. But you keep a damn close count on these here. Got it?” Finally, he took a deep breath and said, “Look, we aren’t allowed to give you a list of what you should buy, because everything is nonrefundable. You walk out the door with it, you own it. Got it?”

  I nodded, hoping that wasn’t the end of the lecture.

  “Tell you what I can do though. I can tell you what I would buy if this were my house, and you can nod if that’s what you want to do. Got it?”

  I nodded more vigorously, suppressing the urge to hug him.

  “You got two showers. I would want those PEX on the inside and stubbed out with copper. Don’t be nodding yet.” He shook a fat, dirty finger at me. “I ain’t finished. I would also want an adapter for each faucet. So here you have five faucets counting kitchen, bath, and garage, and two showers. And then you have three toilets. I would get copper for all them outside the wall, too, and get adapters for each. Is that what you would do?”

  I nodded.

  He laughed. “Yup. You got it!”

  “Oh, and what about exterior water faucets? To water your flowers and such. How many of those you got?”

  I chewed the inside of my cheek, trying to remember if we had ever discussed those and pretty sure we hadn’t. “Two,” I said. “I have two of those planned.”

  Wayne told me what he would use for those, and I nodded that it was exactly what I would use, too. What a coincidence.

  I loaded hula-hoop-size rolls of red and white flexible PEX pipe into the trunk. Red for hot water and white for cold. Then I added brown-paper sacks in three sizes filled with couplings, adapters, plugs, elbows, tees, hundreds of crimp rings, and two sizes of crimping tools, which looked like supersized pliers, and any number of things I no doubt would have to google before I could implement.


  That plan I had made with Drew, cold water goes up and hot water comes down, may have been even more ridiculously simplified than I had first imagined.

  Wayne clapped me on the back at the register. “You have any problems at all, you just call me. Got it?” He laughed heartily. “I’m just kidding. Good luck with all that. You’ll do fine if you just remember everything I told you.”

  I thanked him and walked quickly to the car, trying to call back every single thing he’d told me. Roman crawled around from front to back, playing space mission, or maybe it was face missing, while I made a full page of notes with a somewhat accurate representation of the “plumbing wisdom by Wayne” lecture. I should have recorded it.

  If my expression at the warehouse had been anything like Drew’s when I gave him a rundown of the tools, fittings, crimpers, pipe supports, and adapters, I couldn’t imagine how either Wayne or Waldo had kept a straight face.

  We started running pipe that weekend. And despite occasional moments of confusion over which part went where, and a few really tight spots where the crimping pliers were nearly impossible to fit in the joists between the floors, the entire plumbing project went surprisingly fast. It wasn’t all that difficult, and it really was just a matter of running white pipe past everything on the way up and red past it again on the way down—more or less. We crimped the copper fittings that extended out of the wall by squeezing them with an enormous pliers-like tool specially designed for pinching the fittings tight, and later when we installed the appliances we would either compression-fit or solder the final pieces together.

  Hope followed us with a hammer and a tool belt filled with gray plastic half circles that already had nails threaded through them. “They look a little like hoop earrings,” she said, holding a pair over her earlobes. With two hammer taps she positioned them to hold the pipe in nice straight lines that wouldn’t jerk around when we turned the water on and off. More important, the pipe wouldn’t sag against Sheetrock where a nail could puncture it. The PEX pipe was pretty tough, but not as nail-resistant as copper or even PVC might be. According to Wayne, I’d made a solid decision, though; all the plumbers were using PEX. And it was definitely easier for a beginning plumber, which he seemed to sense I was.