Chapter 20
We’re going to Foxy’s.” I burst into Gramps’s room. He doesn’t even startle, just looks up from his physics book in mild surprise.
“Good morning,” he says. “Don’t you want to have breakfast first?”
I’m a little insulted by this, given that it’s past nine in the morning. Has he not noticed that I’ve been waking up early for the past week?
“I already had breakfast downstairs.”
“What do you need at the market?” he asks.
“I need to teach you how to grocery shop.”
He slowly marks his page with a bookmark, places the book on his cluttered secretary desk, and says, “May I ask where this idea came from?”
“It came from the fact that you need to be able to take care of yourself. Starting with driving to Foxy’s and buying your own groceries. And ending with driving yourself to your therapy appointments.”
He cocks his head and stares at me like a dog trying to understand human language.
“Ah,” he says finally. “You want to go home.”
“No, I—” I glance around the room, taking in the photos of Lottie and Gramps and their children and grandchildren. “I am going to go home, and I need to make sure you can take care of yourself before I go.”
“I see.” Gramps picks up a fountain pen and examines the end of it as though it might tell him something. “And when is your flight?”
“I don’t have a flight booked yet.” It occurs to me that it’s been a full week since I canceled my original flight home. A full week, and I’m not even close to finished with the things I need to do.
“No?” Gramps looks up at me, suddenly cheerful. “Well, you should probably get on that.” He heaves himself to his feet and sighs. “Lead the way to Foxy’s.”
“You’re driving,” I remind him, handing him his keys.
At the store, I confidently steer a shopping cart through the automatic doors.
I wave hello to the owner, in her usual spot by the first register. “Morning, Foxy!” She waves back, slightly bemused; clearly, she still hasn’t forgiven me for not letting her help me that one day.
“Now, let’s think about your staples,” I say to Gramps.
“Staples?”
“The things you buy regularly. Grape-Nuts, milk, orange juice.”
He looks around the small grocery store appreciatively. “I suppose some others might be apples, bread, tomatoes, and turkey.”
“Great! You’re getting it already.” I turn the cart toward the produce section and point at the signs above the aisles.
“See, each aisle has a sign above it telling you what you’ll find there.
That’s how you find what you’re looking for.
And if you still need help, you can ask someone who works here.
” I pause, not sure how much detail to include. “They’re the ones wearing green vests.”
“Hmm.” Gramps nods seriously. “And how do I address them?”
I stop short next to the bananas. “What do you mean?”
“Should I refer to them all as Foxy? Or perhaps Mr. Foxy or Miss Foxy?”
“What? No. Are you—” I peer up at him, wondering if he could truly be this confused. But then I see the twinkle in his eye. “Very funny.”
“After all, you called Elaine Foxy. When we came in.”
“Huh?”
“Elaine. The manager. You called her Foxy.”
“But…” Heat rushes to my cheeks. “Isn’t her name Foxy? I thought she was the owner.”
Gramps grits his teeth together, biting down on a laugh that nonetheless escapes through his nose.
“Stop laughing!” I hiss. “Is her name not Foxy?”
“Her name is Elaine,” he whispers. “She’s the manager.”
“Then who is Foxy? And how do you know this?”
“Lottie knew everyone in this town. She would always greet them by name and ask after various family members and medical ailments. Elaine’s was shoulder bursitis.”
“Of course Lottie would do that.” I touch my hand to my cheek, willing it to cool down. “I’ve been calling her Foxy every time I come in here.”
“Well, perhaps she took it as a compliment.” Gramps commandeers the cart and tosses in a bag of apples.
Because it’s Sunday, I don’t have to be chained to my computer all day. The pool is calling my name, but I resist; I need to make some progress on the house. After a quick lunch with Gramps from our Foxy’s haul—I can never show my face there again—I borrow his car and drive to Pebble Cottage.
I let myself in, the slightly musty smell of the empty house somehow comforting.
The AC hums gently—I’ve been keeping it set to seventy-nine degrees to prevent mildew growth, based on the advice I found on the Florida Power and Light website.
It feels comfortable in my shorts and tank top.
I feel an unfamiliar sense of ownership here, like I can do whatever I want, with even more freedom than I have in my rented apartment: I can set the thermostat to the perfect temperature; paint the walls whatever color my heart desires; plant flowers and tomatoes and spicy peppers in the yard if I feel like it.
For now, though, it’s the floors that I have to focus on.
Remembering what Daniel said last night, I look skeptically at my phone.
He’d said we could set up a date for him to help me.
Not that he could drop everything and come over right away.
But I don’t have time to spare. Maybe I should just not ask him.
He was probably just being polite, anyway, offering to help.
But… there is a lot of work to be done, and I don’t know where to begin. That and the fact that I would be lying if I said I wasn’t excited to see him again. He just makes things more fun.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I text him.
Hey! I know this is last minute, but I’m planning to work on the house today. Feel free to join me if your offer still stands!
Heart thumping uncomfortably, I wait for a moment, but no typing bubbles appear.
I’m full of regret. And embarrassment. I shouldn’t have texted him, but whatever. I can’t undo it. I try to ignore the humiliated knot in my stomach and focus on the house.
In the middle of the living room, I stare around at the carpet.
It looks very… permanent. I walk to one corner, crouch down, and tug experimentally at the brown fibers.
The carpet doesn’t budge. I should have watched more HGTV to prepare me for this moment.
My confidence deflated, I go out to the sunroom, where I sit at the Scrabble table and look up videos of people ripping up carpet.
My first thought is: I need tools. I didn’t think I would need any tools. My second thought is: I can’t do this.
Sure, actually ripping up the carpet seems doable, if I’m even strong enough.
But then I have to cut it up and roll it and haul it out to the curb.
And there’s a part about prying up some narrow wood boards that I don’t even want to think about right now.
Oh, and I have to, apparently, peel up the padding underneath the carpet and scrape up a thousand tiny staples.
And then what do I do with little staples littering the floor-that’s-not-even-a-floor? I should get a broom.
I grumble to myself and start a shopping list on my Notes app.
Broom
Gloves
X-Acto knife
Duct tape
Hammer
Nails
Staple scraper thingy
I go back to the video and see that it’s actually called a pry bar.
I add pry bar and pliers to the list. Great.
Spectacular. I don’t think I’ve ever set foot in a hardware store in my life.
My dad bought me a basic tool kit in a zippered canvas bag when I moved into my first apartment, and yes, the bag was pink.
I picture it, sitting on a shelf above my washer and dryer back home.
I wish I had it now. But more than I want my pink tool kit, I want to collapse into a useless puddle. What was I thinking?
Resting my forehead on the glass tabletop, I seriously consider changing my mind.
But what would that mean, really? Swallowing my pride and asking Daniel to hire someone?
No. I can do this. So nothing in my skill set has done anything to prepare me for manual labor of any kind, let alone home renovations. I can at least try.
I’m full of dread as I force myself to get in the car and map out the route to the nearest hardware store.
Forty-five minutes later, I’m back in the house with a broom in one hand and a plastic bag full of supplies in the other.
The hardware store wasn’t too bad. Yes, I felt like an impostor, and yes, I expected someone to ask what I was buying all these things for and was slightly disappointed when no one did.
But I got what I needed and now comes the actual hard part.
I carefully set the broom and tools against one wall and extract the X-Acto knife from the bag. Now all I have to do is cut out a corner of the carpet and start pulling.
I can’t.
What if I do it wrong and mess it up? What if I literally, physically can’t?
My chest feels tight. I could fly home tomorrow. Email Daniel from the plane and tell him I changed my mind.
This idea feels both comforting and nauseating.
I pick up my phone—no texts from Daniel—and search for flights to Seattle. And then I’m immediately filled with a sense of self-disgust. Come on, Mallory.
“Argh!” I slide my phone across the carpet, and it skitters into the kitchen. “Fine!”
I use the knife to remove a neat square of carpet from the far corner of the room.
The knife cuts smoothly. I’m actually surprised it worked.
This tiny victory eggs me on. Tentatively, I work my fingers under the edge of the carpet and pull.
I have to pull harder than I thought, and then I hear it: a satisfying ripping sound as the carpet comes free from the pad underneath.
A surprised whoop of laughter escapes me, before another yank sends me sprawling flat on my back. Ow.
It takes me a minute to recover—I’m pretty sure I’ll have a huge bruise on my tailbone—but then I keep tugging, pouring all my frustration into the physical task, and before I know it I’ve pulled up the carpet from the entire side wall of the living room.
My heart pounds as I stop to survey my work. I can’t believe it. It looks like this room is under construction, and I did that.
The video I watched said to cut the carpet as you go to avoid having to roll up huge swaths of it. I cut a long line, grab the fresh roll of duct tape, and roll up my first piece of carpet.
Holy shit. I did it. Well, one-quarter of one room. And only the first step of many. But still.
I keep going, and it gets progressively harder as my muscles grow tired.
By the last stretch, it takes all my mental energy to keep tearing up the old brown carpet.
I think about Kat being up in my business, about losing Lottie, about Daniel not responding to my text, about Maeve being a fulfilled wife and mother while I’m alone down here in Florida sweating to the roots of my hair.
It works. The anger gives me strength. After a couple hours, I’m surrounded by four rolls of carpet, neatly duct-taped, standing on a weird beige carpet pad. If it weren’t for YouTube, I wouldn’t even know that I have to rip out the carpet pad next.
I decide that can wait until tomorrow.
One by one, I lug the carpet rolls out to the curb.
Trash day is a couple days from now, so I hope the neighbors don’t mind.
By the time I set the last roll down, my limbs are quivering with exhaustion.
I stand in my yard, hands on my hips, gazing at the carpet rolls like a proud mother gazing at her four children.
The evening air is mild and smells of salt water and grass.
Cicadas chirp from somewhere nearby. My body and mind both feel deliciously loose, like I’ve just gotten out of a hot yoga class.
I wonder if this is how Daniel feels after riding his bike around all day.
“Looking good, Rosen!”
I spin around.
Daniel’s hopping off his bike in the cul-de-sac. “You did all that yourself? Maybe you don’t even need me!”
“What are you doing here?”
“Didn’t you get my text?”
“No, I—well, I haven’t checked my phone in a couple hours.”
He wheels his bike over to me. “I would’ve come sooner, but I was helping out at a house showing.”
“That’s okay!” I’m glowing. Under the sheen of sweat, I feel like I’m literally glowing with delight that I couldn’t suppress if I tried. He didn’t ignore me! He came!
I try to morph my facial expression into something relatively neutral—and normal.
“I really appreciate you coming, but”—I gesture to the carpet rolls—“I think I’m done for the day. I need to rest and maybe, like, carbo-load or something.”
“Nah.” He waves my words away. “We could paint? Or have you done the carpet pads yet?”
“How do you always have so much energy? I swear I can barely lift the pliers at this point.”
He takes me by the shoulders and guides me, firmly yet gently, toward the front door. “We’ll order you a pizza, how ’bout that?”
“Pizza?” I perk up.
“I can start on the carpet pads while you carbo-load.”
I beam at him.
“See?” He laughs at the look on my face. “Are you glad you called me or what?”