Chapter 24
24
For the second night in four days, Ginny sits alone in the dark in their living room.
What did they just do?
How did they let Elsie walk out that door?
They’d had to, though. Elsie wants to be friends. Elsie wants things to be how they used to be. Elsie wants to be on stable ground, since so much else in her life has changed.
But they’re not on the honeymoon anymore. Ginny can’t do everything Elsie wants.
When Rufus started barking that someone had arrived, Ginny both hoped it’d be Elsie and dreaded the idea. They didn’t know what to say to her.
Most of the arguments throughout their friendship have gotten resolved by ignoring them. But that’s because the fights never really mattered—stuff about getting invited to birthday parties in middle school or watching a show without the other one or some other meaningless disagreement. They’ve never talked to each other like they did the last day in Santa Lupita.
And still, Elsie tried to ignore it. Ginny could’ve gone along with it. Elsie was going to let everything go, to go back to being best friends again. Ginny could’ve. They still want to—or at least part of them does.
But most of them knows it was never really an option.
They can’t do sophomore year all over again, Elsie willing to push through, to carry on like nothing has changed. Back then, Ginny followed her lead. Back then, Ginny didn’t process their feelings so much as they ignored them. They fell more for Elsie as she forced their friendship to work out, but they pretended not to notice.
This time, they know better. They need time apart.
So here they are. No job. No road map. No Elsie. What do they want to do with their life?
Rufus whines from his crate. He, at least, is something Ginny knows exactly how to deal with. She lets him out, takes him straight to the backyard. How he still has anything left after excitedly peeing all over her living room, she’s not sure, but he gets a treat when he does his business outside anyway.
Wednesday morning, Ginny loads Rufus up in the kennel in their truck bed and drives across the river to St. PAUL. Their grandpa lives in the same house her dad was brought home to from the hospital when he was born. And he has a fenced-in backyard where Rufus can wear himself out.
Ginny has been trying to convince their grandpa to let them redo his bathroom for literal years. It’s tiny, maybe thirty square feet, the only full bath in a three-bedroom. She doesn’t understand how her grandparents shared it with her dad and uncles when they were young. Now that Ginny’s unemployed, they’re determined to make him relent and let her remodel.
“You gonna come inside or stay out there all day?” Ginny’s grandpa asks from the front porch after they’ve arrived.
“Gonna put him in back first,” they say, jutting their chin toward the dog.
The trip from the driveway to the backyard gate takes five whole minutes, Ginny stopping every time Rufus pulls on the leash. Ginny clicks the latch to the gate twice, years of it sticking having taught them how to finesse it. They should fix that while they’re here, too.
Their grandpa meets them at the back door. “Hey, kiddo.”
When Ginny was young, her grandpa used to call her girlie. She remembers being maybe six years old, stomping her foot, ready to throw a tantrum over the nickname.
“I don’t like it!” baby Ginny announced.
“Well, okay, kiddo,” their grandpa said. “I won’t call you it anymore, then.”
It’s been kiddo ever since.
Ginny really loves her grandpa.
“Okay,” they say, to release Rufus after unclipping the leash from his harness. He takes off at top speed to explore the backyard. Ginny turns to their grandpa. “Hey, Bapa.”
Sometimes looking at Bapa feels like looking fifty years into the future, minus the mustache. He’s short and round with a soft smile, just like her. It wouldn’t be so bad to turn into her grandpa, puttering around in retirement giving absolutely no fucks.
“An old man could use a hug from his favorite grandkid.”
Ginny complies, and he squeezes her tight.
“You know you’re not supposed to admit you have favorites,” they say as they follow him inside.
“You’re saying I should like those two who fled to the West Coast as much as the one who comes over for coffee?”
“No,” Ginny says around a smile, “but you’re not supposed to admit it. ”
Bapa waves a hand like he couldn’t care less. “How was the trip?”
“Good!”
Their voice is too chipper. They launch into a description of the bungalow, the glass floor, the fish and corals they saw while snorkeling—all the exciting things someone would expect them to talk about. They’re not thinking about how they let Elsie walk out of their house last night.
“And your job?” her grandpa asks when she runs out of steam.
They’re both seated at his kitchen table. A circle of oak beams, big enough for four, crammed into the breakfast nook. There are scratches in the varnish, cup rings old enough Ginny’s dad might’ve made them. She should make Bapa a new table, too. He’s not one for upgrades; the white coffee mug in Ginny’s hands is chipped, and the handle of her grandpa’s is long gone.
“Like I said in my text, my emergency fund is big enough that I’ve got a couple of months before I’d even have to dip into regular savings.” They have more than three months’ worth of pay in that account, and they only really spend money on dogs, woodworking, and Elsie. They swallow. “And I’ll probably get another job before then.”
“So you’re looking?”
They’re not ready for that. The idea of finding a new meaningless cubicle job on top of everything else going on—there’s only one other thing going on, but they’re trying to swerve their thoughts away from Elsie—looking for a new job is too much right now.
They avoid the truth when they answer. “I just got back this weekend.”
Bapa looks at her for a moment, and Ginny takes a sip of coffee, trying not to squirm under his scrutiny.
“You know what you’re doing?”
Yes is the right answer. It’s the answer that will get them out of this conversation, the answer that won’t get them lectured.
“No idea,” they find themself saying. “But I’m trying to figure it out.”
Bapa nods. “I know it’s not like it used to be,” he says. He worked at the same bank for thirty years, raised a family on a single income, retired at sixty. “If I can help, you’ll let me know?”
A relieved breath rushes out of Ginny. They’re not quite ready to defend their actions. If he’d questioned what they’d been thinking, there’s no guarantee they wouldn’t break down crying about Elsie. Their grandpa doesn’t need to see that.
“I will, Bapa,” they say. Ginny sits up straighter. “I was thinking—I could finally redo your bathroom. I’ve certainly got the time.”
Bapa laughs. “Is this why you wanted to come over? Ulterior motives!”
Ginny grins. “I can have more than one reason for wanting to see you.”
Finally, he agrees. On one condition: “I’m paying you.”
“Just for materials,” Ginny insists.
“Kiddo, I’ve only got a decade until I hit the average lifespan of an American man, and I can’t take money with me wherever I’m headed after that. I’m paying you.”
“Jesus.” How are they supposed to argue with I’m gonna die soon ? “Fine.”
She sips her coffee.
“You want to go look at it immediately, don’t you?” Bapa asks.
“Is it that obvious?”
After checking on Rufus in the backyard—he’s contentedly bounding through the snow, doing what is apparently his favorite activity: burying his head and coming up with a faceful of white—they head upstairs.
Ginny’s only done one bathroom before—their own, and they almost had a breakdown tiling the shower—but they can’t learn if they don’t push themself. Not to mention that it’s a great way to spend their time. A project dog and a carpentry project. Who needs anything else?
The first day of any job, they take pictures—both to understand the space and for before photos—and measurements. They don’t have a concrete plan yet, but they’re definitely taking out the built-in shower-bath unit, so old its fake porcelain is more yellow than white. Beyond replacing that, Ginny needs to spend some time thinking before they get to work.
She lets Rufus ride in the cab of the truck on the way home, thinking he tired himself out in the backyard, but no luck. It’s probably not safe, driving while constantly throwing treats into the crevices of the passenger seat for the dog to find, but she’s too stubborn to pull over and put him in the kennel.
A lot of woodworking is repetition. Measure twice, cut once. Screwing and sanding and staining. It’s patient work, similar from project to project. Ginny knows the plans for certain pieces the way some people know recipes; she doesn’t need to look at anything to build a puzzle table, her most popular piece. And it’s nice to feel comfortable, knowledgeable, but creating something new scratches an itch in Ginny’s brain. They love talking through things with a client, sketching and then sketching again, abandoned files on SolidWorks the digital equivalent of crumpled pieces of paper on the living room floor all around their armchair.
After more false starts than they’re willing to admit, they land on a design for the bathroom. It’s centered on two half-moon grab bars—one goes around the toilet paper holder and the other around the shower knob. Bapa refuses to believe he’s aging, so she doesn’t tell him they’re assistive devices, but she wants this place to be usable, for him and any company he may have, for years to come.
In place of the decrepit bathtub, Ginny’s going to put a walk-in shower with an inset shelf and a bench big enough to sit on. They learned lessons tiling their own shower, and this time around is going to be better. They’re certain of it.
Once the design is established, it’d probably be easier to build on-site. Ginny’s power tools are all portable. They’d need Sue’s help getting the equipment into and out of the truck, but at least they wouldn’t have to transport finished cabinets and the like. But there’s no work space available at her grandpa’s. His garage is home to his fully restored 1964 Buick Skylark. His firstborn, as he calls it, much to Ginny’s father’s dismay.
But Ginny makes do. Each morning, she wakes up and takes Rufus to the dog park immediately after breakfast. Sometimes the Husky who Bonnie befriended, Seavey, and his owner—Ginny doesn’t know their name, obviously the dog’s name is more important—are there, sometimes they aren’t. Rufus rides in the kennel in the truck bed on the way to the dog park, and in the cab on the way back. Each day it takes fewer and fewer treats to convince him not to climb into Ginny’s lap while they drive. Then he chews a bone on a dog bed in front of the space heater in the garage while Ginny works. She listens to country music and doesn’t take a break until Rufus regains enough energy to get up and get in her way.
It’s a good system. If Ginny works through lunch, they don’t have to think about how they should be eating it with Elsie.