14. Lana
CHAPTER 14
LANA
I went into my interview nervous as a cat in a room full of rocking chairs. I came out absolutely floating on air. Brad had come with me to Boston and was now waiting for me at a nearby café, and when he saw me coming he broke into a grin.
“I see it went well!”
“I think so. I don’t know. I’ve never done this before, so I can’t say for sure.” I sat down across from him, shivering from my adrenaline comedown. “If they’re nodding a lot, that’s good, right? And not just nodding, but adding things on? Like, I said I might put a café in the back, and one of them said her favorite bookshop has that. And this guy who hadn’t said much chimed in as well. Said it sounded cozy. Coffee and a book.” I was rattling on like a toddler, on a tide of excitement. Brad slid a tall cup across to me.
“Mint tea,” he said. “And, yeah, that’s a great sign. Sounds like you really had them engaged.”
I took a long sip of my tea and tried to calm down. But my heart was still racing from the high of success. “Shona — the director — she said she loved my ideas. She said I might hear back as soon as today. Oh, God, if I get this…” I clasped my hands together. “I don’t think I can take it, waiting to hear.”
“Then, let’s do something to distract you.” Brad took my hand. “Let’s go somewhere and celebrate. Have you seen the?—”
My phone chirped, then rang. I gasped. Inhaled tea. Spluttering furiously, I grabbed for my phone.
“Wait, they’ll call back! Are you okay?” Brad was hovering over me, offering napkins. I waved him off with one hand, covered my mouth with the other. Wished for a third hand to pick up my phone.
“I’ve got to— Ugh! Can you see who that is?”
Brad checked my phone. “Your contractor, I think.”
I calmed down a smidge: so, not the grant yet. Which, of course it wasn’t. I’d been out five minutes. I cleared my throat, caught my breath, and picked up the phone. And sat and listened as my happy dream crumbled.
“We need access to the upstairs suite,” Gareth was saying. “That’s where the leak is, and it’s pretty bad.”
I couldn’t breathe. “How bad? Is it— Are my things?—”
“We can’t estimate the damage till we can inspect it. Do you have a hide-a-key? Or can we drill out the lock?”
“Under the flowerpot,” I said, feeling numb. “Not the one with the plant in it, but— oh, you got it.”
Gareth hung up, and I sat staring, slack-jawed. Brad was saying something, but I couldn’t tell what. My pulse was thundering hard in my ears.
“I have to get back,” I said, when I could breathe. “We stored all those books up there. Our photos. Mom’s things.”
“They could be fine,” said Brad. “I had a leak once, at my place in college. The rooms underneath mine got totally drenched, but my place was fine. It could be like that.”
“Or it could not be. I have to get back.” Not that I could do much. I wasn’t a plumber. Nightmare images circled on loop in my head, boxes of books soaked and burst open. Spills of wet photos floating away. The floor caving in, because why not? Why not?
“It’s okay,” said Brad. He was rubbing my back. “Let’s get you home, and we’ll go from there.”
It was two hours back from Boston, and it felt like twenty. I stayed glued to my phone, checking for updates. Checking my signal when no updates came. Then, when one did come, it wasn’t enough. Got the leak stopped. What did that mean? How big a leak? How had they stopped it? Was it properly fixed, or just plugged for now? Brad reached over and squeezed my arm.
“Almost there.”
I couldn’t respond past the lump in my throat. All I could do was cling to my phone. The ferry took forever, and by the time we pulled up my street I was a tangle of nerves. I’d flung my door open before Brad even stopped, and jumped out of his truck, and I bounded upstairs. The door was standing open, a damp smell drifting out. I dove headlong for the storeroom that had once been our laundry room, and screamed so loud I hurt my own ears.
“We stopped it,” said Gareth, somewhere behind me.
I lunged for the boxes, all soaked and sagging. The water had crept up three boxes high. I tore into one and the books were all swollen. They’d dry out all puffy, all crispy. Unsellable. And even if they didn’t, they’d still have that smell.
“Whoever did the plumbing, before we came in, they made a pig’s ear of it. Ignored all the codes. We hooked up a hose to flush out some debris, and?—”
Gareth’s words washed over me, a stream of nonsense. My attention was fixed on the narrow back closet, where once we’d kept laundry soap and extra sheets. Since the washer quit working, I’d been storing Mom’s clothes there, and our old photo albums, and Mom’s craft supplies. I didn’t want to look, but I made myself do it. Made myself step up and pull the door open. A thin wash of water swept over my feet.
“Sorry,” said Gareth. “We didn’t check there.”
I dropped to my knees. It was worse than I’d thought. Worse than anything I could’ve imagined. Mom’s last quilt, half-finished, was soaked through with filth. Black, dirty water. Great spreading stains. Her yarn was ruined, her cloth squares, her basket. And our photo albums, bulging with wet! When I opened the top one, photos slid out, our trip to Disney when I was five. Except now, Mickey Mouse was all washed out and smeary. Mom’s face was a white smudge. Mine was gone. I flipped the pages in panic and more memories fell out, wet scraps of paper. Blurred-out moments.
“This is my fault,” I whispered.
“It’s not,” said Brad. At some point, he’d taken Gareth’s place by my side. His hand was on my shoulder, kneading gently.
“It is,” I said, shrugging away. Another photo slid out, my graduation. Mom’s beaming face. A great, ugly water stain had blacked out her teeth. “The plumber asked if I wanted him to check up here too. In case there were problems like with downstairs. I’d never seen any so— so I said?—”
“You couldn’t have known.”
“I was trying to save money.” A harsh laugh burst out of me, raw in my throat. “Those books are all ruined.”
“Your insurance?—”
“So what?” I surged to my feet, photos scattering wild. “Insurance won’t cover my memories. A lifetime of pictures, and look at Mom’s clothes!” I jerked my head at the boxes, sagging with damp. “And her last quilt I promised I’d finish…” I lifted it up and shook it open. The water had spread dirt in wavery rings, like the world’s worst tie-dye across her artwork. “This was going to be beautiful, and now it’s ruined.”
“It might not be,” said Brad. “You won’t know till you wash it. And the dirt hasn’t had much time to sink in.”
“And what about my photos? Can I wash those out too?” I was snapping at Brad, who was trying to help me, but I couldn’t stop myself. Something in me had burst like the pipe in my wall, and it was spilling out all sorts of poison, all the sadness and anger I’d been holding back. Mom had been young still. She should’ve had years. She should’ve had decades still stretching ahead, and all that was gone now, and so was her past. Our past together, all washed away.
“You can hang them to dry,” said Brad, getting down on his knees. “Or lay them out flat. Then I know a guy, he does restorations. He can scan them in, fix them, and they’ll be good as new. Better , even. He can brighten them up.”
“I don’t want them brightened. I want— I want— I want them like they always were. Like they’re meant to be!”
“Then that’s what we’ll tell him. I’m sure he can do that.”
My vision flashed red. I spun to face Brad. “ I don’t want some stranger digging through my memories! ”
Brad jerked back like I’d slapped him. I clapped my hands over my mouth. Sour shame rushed in to replace my anger. I couldn’t look at Brad, so I turned away. I stood staring down at our ruined trip to Disney, and tears blurred my eyes. My mouth had gone dry.
“Sorry,” said Brad. “I was being pushy. When I see a problem, my instinct is to solve it. But this isn’t my problem. I’ll give you your space.”
“Don’t go,” I croaked. “ I’m sorry. You’re right.”
Brad came up behind me and slid his arms around me, his chin on my shoulder, his chest to my back. I turned, hugged him back, and he held me and rocked me. After a while, I pulled away. I set up the clotheshorse and draped Mom’s quilt over it, then set to work rescuing the photos. Brad helped with that, spreading them over every surface, the counters, the ironing board, around the sink. Some of them weren’t damaged too badly at all. Others were ruined, just scraps of stained paper. I was going through the last album when my phone chirped. A text.
“I’m afraid to look,” I said. “What if it’s more bad news?”
Brad took my phone from me. “Do you want me to look?”
I did and I didn’t. My stomach was churning. If I had the grant, I was saved. I’d survive this. If I didn’t, it was over for me and my shop. My home as well, maybe. This place was a wreck. I’d have to move in with Alice and her roommate. And Brad would be out of luck. He’d have to move on.
“Check it,” I said. “But don’t tell me if it’s bad news.”
Brad tapped on the screen, and I knew. I just knew. His expression barely changed, just the slightest tightening, but I could see the grimace he was trying to suppress.
“Give me the phone.” I held out my hand.
“Maybe you should wait a while. Till you’re feeling better.”
I snatched the phone back from him and there it was. Unfortunately, we are unable to offer you a grant at this time. Blah-blah-blah, strong contender. Great presentation. But in today’s online market…
“They’re saying I can’t compete. No one buys books.”
We do offer another grant, the message went on. It helps new businesses get off the ground. We think you’d be an ideal candidate with your drive and passion. If you come up with a new business plan, we’d urge you to apply.
“They’re saying I should give up and try something else.”
“They’re not saying that,” said Brad.
“Yeah, they are.” I put my phone down on the counter with the photos, all of my memories laid out in rows. “And they’re right. I don’t know what I’m doing. Everything I think is right ends up being wrong. I could’ve had the plumber come up here, but I thought I knew better. I order books no one buys and ignore the bestsellers. If Mom could see this…”
“She’d still be proud.”
I flinched at Brad’s words. I’d been stupid, na?ve. I’d wanted so badly to be just like Mom, when Brad said he’d help me, of course I’d believed. But what did he know about running a business? What did he know of Haverford, or even books? I’d never seen him read one. What did he know?
I felt my thoughts turning mean and bit my lip hard. “You should go,” I said.
“Please let me help.”
“There’s nothing to do.” If he stuck around, I’d say something petty. Blame him for this mess when it was all mine. I could feel it building, the need to lash out.
“Are you sure? I have spare towels. We could?—”
“Please go.”
Brad inhaled harshly, and then he stepped back. “I’ll have my phone,” he said. “In case you need me.”
His footsteps receded, then the door opened and closed. The back steps creaked softly, and then he was gone. I wanted to text him and summon him back. Maybe he’d hug me, like when we played interview. Hold me and rock me and make this okay. A bitter laugh burst from me: this was my problem. I didn’t know what I wanted, or what was right. Did I want Brad to hug me or go away? Did I want to save money or let the plumbers upstairs? Which books would sell and which would be doorstops?
I didn’t know anything. I just didn’t know .