18. CHLOE
18
CHLOE
My phone is aggressively going off in my fanny pack, continuous vibrations against my back. Groaning, I slip the bag to the front of my body and pull out my cell to silence it.
EDITH (4A): There’s something going on in your house
I dial her number, thankful she picks up immediately. Edith lives in the apartment directly above me. She’s a quiet, older lady with the sweetest cats and makes unreal lemon poppy seed muffins. When I moved in, every day that following week, fresh muffins were outside my door. She’s lived in the building since it was built I’m afraid.
“Hello, Edith, it’s Chloe.”
“Chloe, sweetie. I used the bread pan you bought me. Left a loaf of pumpkin bread outside your door.”
“Thank you.” She rambles on, and I stop her. “Edith, your text said something was happening in my unit?”
Surprisingly, for her age she’s quite savvy on her phone.
“Oh, yes. Yes. When I dropped off the bread, I heard a loud crack. I assumed you were home. I knocked several times, but when you didn’t answer, I went back upstairs to call you.”
“I’m on a walk with Tucker.”
“Oh, sweetie, isn’t it going to rain? ”
“I have a jacket,” I reassure her. Edith never married or had kids, and part of me believes she views me as a daughter. Thus, the concern. “We are heading back right now. Thank you for letting me know.”
“Call me later?”
“I will.”
The call ends as the blue skies vanish, chased away by cloud-filled gray skies. It only took minutes for the entire city to start weeping, the epitome of an autumn day gone.
Chicago isn’t a winter wonderland by November. Fall and the occasional summer day fight to maintain their position. Days like today are fleeting. I love the snow, but I’ll miss autumn. I always do. Mornings that need a thicker, more practical coat that ends in filled patios with your favorite jean jacket. Chilly enough for soup but warm enough that you can still feel the sun’s kiss on your skin.
Glancing up at the sky, rain sprinkling my face, I don’t know where one cloud starts and the other ends.
“Come on, Tuck. Do your business quickly,” I beg my prima donna dog, who, if he gets his paw near wet grass or a droplet on him, recoils. “Please.”
Tucker loves snow, hates the rain.
Out of nowhere, lightning cracks across the sky, thunder rolling behind us.
I throw the hood of my sweatshirt-jean jacket over my head, the fabric sopping wet.
Tucker shudders, looking up at me.
“I know, buddy. Let’s go.”
We take off running, our feet hitting the pavement in tune with the rain. As we cross the street to our block, a car drives too close to the sidewalk, hitting a puddle, soaking whatever dry spots are on my body. Tucker lets out a growl.
“We’re almost back,” I remind the both of us.
He shakes his body, only to remain as wet .
We make it back to our building, an older red brick structure with four floors. There are eight units total, all occupied. I’m the youngest who lives here. Most of my neighbors, like Edith, have lived here for years, two of them for a few decades. Each unit is identical. Two closet-sized bedrooms, a living room that backs into the kitchen, and one bathroom. Original hardwood floors, cabinets, and appliances. The front side of the apartment has massive windows allowing sunlight to pour through in the morning, draping the entire place in this golden haze. I think that’s why I like living there. I know it’s why I live here.
My favorite part? The potentially dangerous metal landing outside the windows. One of them opens outwards, with enough space between the frames for Tucker and me to squeeze through. I’m unsure if it can legally be called a patio or if I should even be out there, but I’ve never gotten hurt or in trouble yet.
I keep a small garden box out there. It only fits enough to have a few herbs and plants, but someday, when I have a house or a bigger apartment, I’ll have an entire garden. Till then, I’ll figure out how to keep the vase of daisies in my kitchen alive.
My kitchen. That has me zipping through the front doors.
I drop Tucker’s leash once we enter the confined and dry lobby. He sprints up the stairs to the third floor with me trailing behind him.
When we reach the set that connects floors two and three, each step progressively becomes softer and squishier.
Watching my right foot as I step onto the landing of my floor, I notice the water seeping out of the carpet around my shoe. The same thing happens when my left foot meets the right. Each step to my door brings up water.
Tuck stands by the door, wagging his tail, eager to be inside, dry, and curled up for the remainder of the now dreary day. He pushes past me, hitting me with his damp tail, heavy with water, which actually kind of hurts.
I rub my thigh .
My jaw drops as I open my door fully.
You’ve got to be kidding me.
“No. No, no, no, no,” I groan. Closing my eyes, my shoulders drop in minor defeat.
My entire living room and kitchen are flooded with standing water.
I cover my face with my hands. Taking a deep breath, I remove them, hoping that this is a dream and when I open my eyes there will be no water.
I count to three in my head. One . . . two . . . three . . .
There’s still water.
My apartment is still flooded.
Tucker looks as confused as I feel.
Where is this coming from?
What am I supposed to do?
Where am I supposed to go?
My furniture. Is everything ruined?
What if my landlord doesn’t do anything about this?
Does my renter’s insurance cover this? I know nothing about renter’s insurance except that I have it.
Digging into the pockets of my coat, I pull out my phone and quickly call the person who will know what to do.
“Dad.”
“Hi, freckles.”
“Are you busy?” My lips wobble.
“Not busy enough for you. What’s up?”
“How does renter’s insurance work? Who do I call about a flood? How do I get water out of my carpet?” I ramble off every single question that is flooding my brain. Quickly and so hastily that he probably didn’t catch a single one.
“Slow down, Chloe,” he says in a calming voice. “Take a deep breath.” I do, deeply, holding my inhale a few seconds before releasing it. “Where are you? ”
I close my eyes, grounding myself—into the puddle at my feet—with another inhale and deep exhale.
“My apartment. I just got back to my apartment, a-a-and it’s flooded. There is standing water in the living room and kitchen.”
“When did you leave your apartment?”
“After work.” I check the time. “I took Tucker on a walk an hour ago?”
“No, that wouldn’t have changed anything.” He reassures me, and it feels like a part of the weight has been lifted off my chest. “There could be a leak in your or your neighbor’s apartment causing the flood. Do you see anything coming from the ceilings or walls?”
“Um.” I look up, not seeing anything on the ceiling. “I haven’t moved past the kitchen.”
“Chloe, you need to go look around your apartment.”
I walk around the place, but I don’t necessarily see anything. “I can’t tell. Maybe—” I open the bathroom door. “Oh.”
It isn’t the rain, but the problem I’ve been battling with my landlord to fix for months permanently.
“Freckles?”
“You know how my shower decides when it wants to work? It decided to work.” There’s water coming from the ceiling, a hole that is big enough to see the underside of my upstairs neighbor’s floor.
“That would be it. Take pictures and videos of everything and call your landlord. I wouldn’t stay in your room because it might worsen. Is your guest bedroom available?”
“No. Water is everywhere.” I panic.
“Take a breath, freckles.” I do. “Another.” I listen. “You’ll need to find a place to stay for the night.”
“Okay. What about my stuff?”
“Take pictures,” he says again. “If anything is near the ground, I’d put it on the counters or tables. Not any big pieces of furniture— ”
“But what if it gets ruined?” Out of the bathroom, I’m staring at my brother’s piano. Honey wood now a caramel color at the bottom.
“Freckles, some of it probably already is. This is why you have insurance.” He chuckles; it’s deep and warm, familiar and safe. I miss him.
“Okay. Move anything else that I can. Anything else?”
“Breathe. It’s okay. This happens.”
“I’m trying,” I tell him.
“Go take the pictures and call your landlord. Keep me updated.”
“I will. Thanks, Dad.”
“It’s what I’m here for. I love you.”
“I love you too.”
We get off the phone, and I start following his instructions. I snap pictures of dark spots on the wall, the hole in my ceiling, and the floor in each other area. I also take videos and photos of the bottom of my furniture, where it’s in sitting water.
I call my landlord. The line rings and rings, but he doesn’t answer.
“The voicemail box of the person you are trying to reach is full. Goodbye.”
I scoff. “So happy I have a useless landlord,” I say, staring at my phone screen. I attach the photos and videos to an email and send them over, marking the email as urgent. “Let’s update the security but not the piping.”
Crossing off one step, I begin picking up and moving miscellaneous items in my apartment on the floor: Tucker’s toy bin, my plants, and my bar cart.
I enter my bedroom next. Tossing in a change of clothes and sleepwear into a weekender bag before I head to. . .head to where?
My grip tightens on the straps of my duffle.
Where am I supposed to go?