Chapter Twelve
Hi, Mom,” I say.
“Oh, wow. To what do I owe the pleasure? I feel like we just spoke. Normally we have to wait at least a month to hear from you again. Actually, it’s usually more like three or four months—”
I interrupt her. “You’ve posted a naked photo of me on the internet.”
“What?” she says. “No I didn’t. What a ridiculous accusation. I would never—”
“You did. It was an accident. It’s okay. Please delete the photo you posted of my bathtub. It was about two weeks ago. There’s a purple bath bomb in it.”
She’s flustered. “I-I don’t know what you’re talking about. I didn’t do anything wrong. I just—”
“Are you logged on to your Facebook right now?”
“Yes. I’m at the laptop. How do I delete a post?”
“You just click the three little dots in the upper right-hand corner of the post. Do you see that? Then there’s an option that says move to trash. It has a little garbage icon. Do you see it?”
“Yes,” she says. “Got it.”
“Perfect.” I exhale. “Thank you.”
She huffs. “Why did you share that picture of yourself to begin with if it was going to be an issue? It’s not like I—”
I close my eyes. “It was an accident. But yes, you’re right, Mom. It was my fault. Don’t worry about it. I’m not upset. It’s fine. How are you? How’s Dad doing?”
She exhales. “Oh, Dad’s all right. We just had a pot roast for dinner. I made an apple cake. Now he’s in his chair, watching the game.”
“Is our team winning?”
She shouts at my dad. “Are we winning, Larry? Are we? Okay, he says yes. We are.”
“That’s good.” I inhale. “So anyway, I was thinking of visiting you in a couple weeks. On a Saturday, maybe? Would that work for you? Do you guys have any plans I should work around?”
“In a couple weeks? Oh. No, not really. Um. There’s a community yard sale on the sixteenth we were planning to go to, but you could join us if you come that day. It’s for the whole neighborhood. There’s a bake sale, and a book sale too. Do you like yard sales still?”
“I love yard sales, yeah. That sounds fun. Okay. I’ll come up on the sixteenth, then. And while I’m there, I’m going to adjust your privacy settings on Facebook, okay? Right now, your profile is way too open. Strangers can see what you post.”
She gasps. “They can?”
“Yeah, don’t worry about it, though. I’ll fix it. I have to let you go now, though, okay? I have to pick Joy up at the train station.”
“Okay. Tell Joy she should come visit too,” she says.
“I will,” I say.
She says, “Bye, honey.”
“Bye, Mom.”
I watch the automatic doors open and close for strangers exiting the train station.
I crane my neck, anxious to spot Joy. I feel weirdly nervous.
When I haven’t seen her in a while, I feel the residue of the nerves I felt when we first started dating.
I look at myself in the mirror. I check if there’s anything in my teeth.
Her train arrived ten minutes ago. The tracks are several minutes away from the pickup spot, so she has to walk a bit. A lot of people are leaving the station. She should be here any minute—
I spot her. She’s rushing through the doors. I smile and wave her down.
She sprints toward the car, rolling her luggage behind her. I have the trunk already open for her bag.
“Hi, stranger.” She grins at me.
“Hi.” I extend my arms open. She rushes to hug me. Her hair smells like roses and a newborn baby. After we let each other go, I pick her bag up and put it in the car for her.
While we drive home, I put my hand on her leg. I’m smiling. It’s after dusk. The sun has set, and we’ve rolled our windows down. Cool night air is blowing into the car. Our hair is whipping in the wind. I’m playing a song I know she likes, and she’s belting along to the words.
One of the lyrics says, “Will you still love me if it turns out I’m insane?” She sings that part turned to me, touching my chin, like she’s asking me the question.
I nod while she sings the next line, which is, “I know what you’ll say.”
I carry her bag inside for her, and we kiss after shutting the door.
“I’m so happy to be home.” She smiles while our mouths are still touching. “And the house smells so nice.”
“Mhm,” I say. “I told the cats you were coming, so they got to work. They were mopping. Doing laundry. Lighting incense.”
She snorts. “Oh, did they do all that? I should thank them. Where are they?”
They’ve both entered the room. Lou is meow-screaming. Toulouse is rushing toward us. She’s also meowing, but because she’s running, she sounds like a vibrating duck.
“I have to warn you, the living room is a mess,” I say, ashamed. “I’m sorry. I decided to organize the books, and it totally got away from me. It’s a disaster.”
“Oh, I don’t mind a disaster.” Joy sits down on the floor. Both cats slink into her lap. They strain their necks to butt their heads against hers. Both are purring loudly.
She pets them and says, “I missed you, ladies. You look so beautiful. Have you done something different with your fur— Oh my god!” She looks up at me. “Where’s Kyle? Show me Kyle!”
“Oh no. He’s so cute.” She pouts at me.
She’s crouched beside him, petting him.
“I know,” I say.
He’s closed his eyes. She’s petting him under his chin.
“I wish he got along with the girls.” She frowns. “Should we try introducing them again?”
I look at Kyle. He’s a fluffy cat. He has big round eyes and a pink nose. Little tufts of fur grow around his cat-toes. He looks so tame and innocent. Unfortunately, he turns vicious at the sight of Lou and Toulouse. Though so do they. It’s not all Kyle’s fault.
“I don’t know,” I say. “I probably don’t have it in me tonight, honey. The last time I tried I got bit. My arm is still healing. I think we need to wear, like, falconry gloves when we try it again.”
Joy takes a quick shower to wash the train off while I turn down the house. I close the windows and switch off all the lights downstairs. I wipe down the counters, start the dishwasher, fill the cats’ water dishes, check the thermostat, and make sure all the doors are locked.
I climb upstairs and enter the steamy bathroom to brush my teeth while Joy showers. She’s singing behind the curtain. I put some toothpaste on her toothbrush for her for when she comes out.
I go into our bedroom and open the window above our bed. I can hear the frogs croaking by the lake. Owls are hooting. The air is still cold at night, but Joy and I both like to sleep in the cold.
She comes out of the bathroom while I toss an extra blanket on the bed.
We crawl under the covers together with no clothes on and curl into each other.
We fall asleep almost immediately. I wake up briefly, around two a.m., to Joy babbling “I love you” in her sleep.
Shortly after, she says gibberish. It sounds like she says, “Toads eating biscuits.”
I wake up before her in the morning. Both cats are lying on her chest. I climb out of bed quietly and amble down the stairs. I put on a pot of coffee and take two mugs out of the cupboard.
While the coffee maker percolates, I open all the curtains and windows on the main floor. I look outside at the lake. There are loons on the water. It’s six a.m., and the sky is orange.
I return to the kitchen and spoon brown sugar into Joy’s mug and take the cream out of the fridge. I hear the stairs creak while I pour coffee into our cups. When Joy reaches the kitchen, she takes her cup from me with both hands and smiles.
We walk barefoot outside together, down the stone path that leads to the lake. We sit on our dock and sip our coffee in silence.
If I were asked to picture my dream house when I was in my teens or early twenties, I would have envisioned a modern, ostentatious, new build in a sprawling suburban development.
It would have a two-car garage, floor-to-ceiling windows, a manicured lawn, and a chandelier in the foyer.
The house would look like the set of a family sitcom, or something you’d see in the background of a rich family on social media.
People like my parents would be impressed by it.
At that time, I dreamed about living somewhere that showed I’d arrived at what I thought to be success.
Joy and I don’t have a lawn. We have moss, creeping thyme, and wild strawberries.
There are spiders in our kitchen, the floor creaks, and the house is difficult to heat, but I wouldn’t move even if we won the lottery.
I like hearing the lake; it cracks and pops in the winter when it’s frozen, and laps against the shoreline when it’s not.
All our rooms are small and cramped, there are problems with the foundation, and the mortgage eats most of our money, but the sun hits the front windows in the morning, and I hear frogs croaking every day.
I’m happy here. I know I’m lucky to have a house at all—let alone one I feel relieved to pull up to at the end of the day.
I would hate to live in the house I thought I wanted when I was younger. I hope I die here.
“I’d like to call this meeting to order,” the chairperson says into the microphone.
Joy offers me a piece of gum while the board members do roll call and approve the agenda.
She and I are sitting near the back of the room.
I’m off the clock. We’re both here as community members.
We’re in a municipal building in a sizable hall.
There’s a platform at the front of the room where the board members are sitting on wooden chairs.
At the center of the hall, there’s a large screen that projects the words COMMUNITY CONSULTATION.
The room is packed. It’s a good turnout. I’ve spotted a few regular patrons as well as some of my coworkers in the audience. Patty. Ahmad. Brenda. I also notice the back of Declan’s blond head and some of the familiar faces from the protests. Mostly, though, the room is full of people I don’t know.
“Which one is Declan?” Joy whispers.