Mister Fixit

  His shoulders sag. “Come on, Jana, you don’t really believe that.”

  “Go away, Robinson. I’m done talking to you.”

  He takes a step forward. “Can’t I just come in for a minute?”

  I reach an arm out and push on his chest. “No. Not even for a second.” I start to close the door, but he puts his hand on it and stops me.

  “Wait!”

  I stand there, glaring at him, fighting the tears that will give my hurt feelings away. I want him to think I’m just mad, seething with pure anger. I don’t want him to see how deeply he hurt me by standing against me in this thing with Cassie.

  “I have to go,” I say through closed teeth.

  “You can take one minute to listen to what I have to say.”

  “I could, but I won’t.” I try to shut the door, but he’s stronger than me.

  “Come on, Jana, stop being so bull-headed about this, would you?”

  The door across the hall cracks open just the slightest bit. That’s when I realize that I’m putting on a show for the neighbors. Grabbing him by the front of the shirt, I yank him toward me and pull him into the apartment.

  “That was a quick change of heart,” he says, talking past a new smile.

  I shut the door and respond in an angry whisper. “Don’t get excited, I was just keeping my problems from becoming the next building soap opera. Thanks for banging on my door and alerting everyone who lives on the block that I have issues.”

  “Sorry,” he says, shrugging, “but I called several times. I rang the bell. You can’t avoid me forever, you know.”

  I raise my eyebrows at him and laugh. “Oh yeah? Says who?”

  “Says me.” He seems just as shocked at I am. “We’re family.”

  I shake my head. “I have news for you, Robinson. You’re wrong; we’re not family. You’re my brother’s friend and the family attorney. But after that stunt you pulled, you can consider yourself fired from that job. You don’t represent my interests anymore. I’m done.” I open the door and gesture with my free hand. “Please leave.”

  “You don’t mean that.”

  His serious expression makes him look very old. Why did I never notice that about him before? Why had his youth and good looks remained frozen in time for me? Now I can see him for what he really is: old, mean, heartless, and stupid. I can do so much better. I’ve wasted enough of my life on this turd.

  “I meant every word. Now get out, or I’m calling the police.”

  He steps over the threshold and turns halfway to deliver his parting shot.

  “I’m not going to give up that easily.”

  I laugh as I slam the door in his face, yelling so he’ll hear me through the thick wood. “Give up! It’s over!”

  The sound of footsteps going down the hall leaves me breathing easier. Good. That’s done. Now I’m free to live my life how I want to live it, without some jerk telling me what’s best for me and the people I love.

  Taking my purse and keys from the table, I leave the apartment for my appointment with Dicky, my heart much heavier than I want it to be. Today is the first day of the rest of my life, and I’ve already jettisoned some dead weight. Things are looking up. I just need to keep telling myself that until it really feels that way.

  Chapter Five

  IT’S AMAZING HOW FAST CASH talks in Manhattan. Three weeks after seeing the house for the first time, Dicky hands me the keys to the front door. “Congratulations. You are now the proud owner of a bona fide fixer upper.” His grin slips, and I know why. He advised me against taking on such a big project for my first attempt. I ignored him, of course, because he doesn’t know me or the power of my determination.

  “Thank you, Dicky. For everything. You work fast.”

  He shrugs. “Money talks, BS walks. You got them out of a financial bind, and they should be grateful.”

  “I doubt very highly that ‘grateful’ is the word they’re using right now.” Dicky bargained them down about twenty percent from what they were asking, but it’s not like we dragged them over any hot coals to get there. When I did my first walk-through and saw the insults spray-painted on the walls, the holes in the plaster, and the torn up floors, I knew they were dreaming with the price tag they’d put on it. Divorces are not pretty, but divorces that include property in Manhattan? Downright ugly sometimes.

  “Their loss, your gain, right? And I have no doubt that you’ll turn that place around.”

  We walk out of the title agent’s office together and down the elevator into the parking garage. “You sure you’re not worried?” I tease. “You looked a little doubtful there when I said I was going to be the GC.”

  He shrugs. “What do I know? Maybe you’ll be a natural. But remember,” he waits for me to exit the elevator ahead of him, “there’s no shame in admitting you’re in over your head and calling in a professional.”

  His lack of confidence stings, but I don’t let it show. “Thanks for the advice. See you around?”

  He shakes my hand where we’ve stopped at the back of my car. “With pleasure. You know where to find me if you need me.” He walks off and shouts over his shoulder. “When you’re ready for your next project, give me a call!”

  “Sure thing!” I get into my car and sit there for a few minutes staring out the front windshield. I am officially the proud owner of a new home with a tiny front and back yard in an area of Brooklyn that’s not too far from some of my favorite places. I smile in satisfaction. Now it’s time to get to work.

  I’ve been looking forward to this distraction for three weeks now. Having to put Leah, James, and Jeremy off every time they’ve called has been difficult, but now I have a real excuse. I try a few new ones in my head for practice:

  Sorry, can’t come to family dinner because I have some drywall to repair.

  Sorry, can’t come shopping with you because I have new flooring going in.

  Sorry, no, I don’t have time for visitors today; I have to go buy ten gallons of paint.

  The release from the pressure of all the lies I’ve had to make up will be very welcome. I can only have so many hair appointments, friends with birthdays, and contagious chest colds before people start getting pushy with me. As it is, they were pretty much at that point. Just today, Jeremy left me a voicemail telling me they expected me on Sunday for family spaghetti night, and they weren’t going to take no for an answer.

  “Sorry,” I say out into the car’s interior as I reverse out of my parking space, “I’m busy moving into my new place. I’ll catch you next month, maybe. And oh, by the way, if Robinson’s going to be there, I won’t be.” I know it’ll cause a stink to throw in that little caveat, but that’s too bad. If they want me there, they’re going to have to choose: me or him. And if they choose him, fine. It might be easier that way. I have a lot of work to get done on my new house. I could dwell on how painful it is for me to see Cassie now, but I won’t go there. Those are floodgates I just can’t open right now.

  My first stop after signing for the title to the house is the home improvement store. I spend an hour in there, interrogating a poor salesman about how to do drywall repair. I also purchase a set of work overalls, shoe covers, a gas mask, and a painter’s hat. I don’t want to get my clothes dirty, do I? Also in my cart go the materials recommended for my drywall repair, a new door lock, and some tools. Several men in the aisles were happy to give me advice about what I’d need. One even pointed out a shiny, red toolbox he said he wished he could buy for himself. He put it in my cart for me since it was kind of heavy.

  My car sinks down in the back with the weight of everything I bought. I frown at it and look over at the other vehicles in the lot. It makes me wonder if a GC should be driving a truck and not a Volvo. I’ll have to think on that while I’m covering up all the holes in my walls and installing a new front door lock with my brand new tools. I’m so excited, I practically skip over to the driver’s side door and get in. So far, this general contractor stuff has turned out t
o be a cakewalk. At least I know I’m good at the shopping part.

  My second stop after getting my keys and construction materials is the grocery store. I can’t very well get started on a long workday without something to eat or drink, now can I? I stock up on the basics and grab a cheap coffee maker while I’m at it. I have one back at my apartment, but I plan to rent the place out furnished, so I need to leave almost everything there. I’ll get the rest of what I need later.

  Two hours after signing the papers, I pull into the space in front of the house and smile at my new home. It’s all mine, bought and paid for with cash. I can already see what the exterior will look like; I’ll bring out all the Craftsman details and get rid of the changes that were made to it by people who didn’t know what they were doing. I’ll start by demolishing that sagging porch and putting it back to the way it should be. I’ve got several photos on my Pinterest boards with inspiration for the whole project.

  The first thing I notice when I enter is a terrible odor. My nose crinkles in response. Why didn’t I smell that before? Is it new? I haven’t been here since my inspection walk-through two weeks ago. The stench is a cross between old cheese and rotten garbage. I tiptoe over some random trash strewn across the living room floor and enter the kitchen. There, in the middle of the linoleum, is a dead rat.

  “Oh my god!”

  I scream, running back to the front door and out onto the front porch. Standing on what might someday be a lawn, huffing and puffing, I wonder what I should do next and how I got in this situation in the first place. Why is there a rat there? Did the former owners come in and put it there, or is my new kitchen the place where vermin come to die? The thought makes me shudder.

  Five minutes later, I’m freezing my ass off and no closer to a solution. The only thing I do finally figure out is that I can’t let this stop me. The sub-zero temperature may be contributing to this thought process, but I’m going to go with it. I’m the GC, so what would a real GC do in a situation like this? He’d call someone, that’s what. I pull my phone from my purse and call my cleaning lady.

  “Estelle? Hi, this is Jana.”

  She says a bunch of things in Spanish, and when she stops, I speak again. “Are you free? Because I bought that house I told you about, and there’s a dead rat in here on the floor, and I need someone to come clean this place up.”

  The tone of her voice goes decidedly rude and then she hangs up.

  I’ve told her a thousand times I don’t speak Spanish, but does she listen? No. But for the past six months, that hasn’t interfered in our ability to communicate. At least not until now. Maybe I shouldn’t have told her about the rat until she got here.

  I chew my lip, wondering what to do next. Since I don’t have wifi yet and my computer’s at my apartment, I have no way of looking up a business that deals with this sort of thing. What would I use as my search terms? Rats-B-Gone? It wouldn’t be an exterminator because the rat already exterminated itself. Is there such a thing as rat removal services? I’ll probably never know, because the longer I wait out here, the longer it’ll be before I’m fixing all those holes in the wall, and I promised myself I’m going to move into this place by the weekend. That gives me five days to get things done.

  Just the idea of smooth walls gets me pumped up again. I walk into the front hall with a confident stride and my gaze falls on my shopping bags. A smile lights up my face as the solution comes to me — the solution that’s been staring at me this whole time. I tear into several packages and relieve them of their offerings.

  Now dressed in my worker overalls, thick rubber gloves, a painting gas mask with canisters attached, a painter’s hat covering every strand of my hair, and rubber workboots that go up to my knees, I am properly attired. Bring it, you nasty dead rat. The disgusting broom that I found in the pantry, its bristles permanently folded to the side and covered in old dirt, will be perfect for what I need to do.

  In the kitchen again, I prod the rat a couple times to be sure he’s really dead and not just taking a ratnap on my kitchen floor. His entire body moves with the stiffness of a corpse, so I’m no longer worried about him waking up and making a mad dash for my leg.

  I use the small kitchen broom like a big industrial push broom, moving him across the floors and out to the front hall. As I pass other garbage, I add it to my pile. Pretty soon I have what looks like an entire bag’s worth in front of me.

  Seeing the somewhat clean streak behind me inspires me to do more. Soon, I have half the trash from the living room pushed into the front hall, and it’s knee deep against the wall. I’m actually making progress. At this point, I’ll be able to move in by Friday!

  Taking a moment to relish the fruits of my labors, I lean on my broom in the middle of the living room, nodding. So far so good. I don’t know why everyone kept giving me that funny look when I said I was going to be the GC.

  It’s just at that moment when I’m patting myself on the back that Fate decides to remind me that I should always find some wood to knock on when I speak out loud about being in control of my life.

  Something, I have no idea what, lands on the top of my head, hits my shoulder, and then falls to the floor next to my leg.

  My first thought arrives with a flash of fear: Is the ceiling falling down around my ears now? That can’t be good.

  When I look down and see a mouse, stunned, but still very much alive lying on its side just next to my foot, I have a second thought: Is it raining mice in my house? In stunned horror, I lift my eyes to the ceiling, trying to figure out how a mouse managed to land on my head.

  There, where there should be a light fixture, is a hole in the ceiling and another tiny mouse face looking down at me. His whiskers twitch and then he leans out farther, his entire upper body straining downward. At my face.

  I run screaming from the living room, tripping over the giant pile of garbage in the foyer and landing on my knees, before crawling the rest of the way out of the house on all fours. My breath comes in ragged gasps as I try to get enough oxygen through the stupid canisters attached to my gas mask. Once I reach the porch, I get back on my feet and run, not stopping until I’m locked in my car with my phone in my hand. Ripping first my gloves off and then my gas mask, I start dialing. I don’t even realize who I’ve called until an operator comes on the line.

  “9-1-1, what’s your emergency?”

  Chapter Six

  GREAT. SO NOW I HAVE holes in the walls and ceiling, a dead rat, live mice having a party in the attic, and a $50 fine for calling 9-1-1 for a non-emergency. Thank you, Destiny. Thank you for screwing me over royally. What would you like to do to me next? Have someone steal my car while I’m sitting in it?

  I hiss out a sigh of annoyance and frustration. What. The. Hell. What am I supposed to do now? It’s already four in the afternoon, and I haven’t gotten a single thing accomplished, other than moving trash from one end of a room to another. And I’m afraid to go inside the house now, too. That’s going to make it kind of difficult to fix it up, I’m pretty sure. Even if I hire subcontractors to do all the work, I still have to inspect what they’ve done.

  I stare out the side window of my car at the front of the house with its ridiculous sagging front porch. And I thought I was going to live inside there by this weekend? Ha. That’s a hell of a joke I played on myself. I’m my own worst enemy. What was I thinking buying this rat trap?

  All my plans fizzle out like air from a dying, squealing balloon. I’ve never felt so defeated in my entire life. This project was supposed to get me back on my feet, give me something to occupy my mind and broken heart, but it’s turning out to be just one more thing bringing me down. I think the universe is trying to tell me something, and it’s not good, whatever it is.

  My phone rings and Robinson’s name comes up on the screen. All my contacts from my old phone have transferred over, even the ones I didn’t want. I press the red key, sending him away. I can’t think of anyone I want to talk to less than him right now.


  My text alert beeps, telling me someone just left me a message. I click over and look at the screen, knowing full well it’s going to be him again. Jerk. Baby-stealing, heart-breaking jerk.

  Where are you right now? Robinson’s text asks.

  I consider not answering, but I’m cranky. Being angry at him feels like a great way to express myself and cleanse the bad emotions from my body. It’s like therapy in a way.

  None of your damn business.

  My evil heart sings with happiness. There! That’ll show him. He’s not a part of my life and he never will be.

  I hear you bought a fixer upper.

  I stare at my phone, confused and doubly frustrated. How in the hell…? I didn’t tell anyone what I was doing. How would he know about the house? This text exchange is supposed to be my mean-girl therapy, not the Robinson-one-upping-me therapy.

  Who told you that? I ask. I need to know who I should yell at next.

  I glare at my phone, waiting for his answer. Someone’s going to get an earful from me about sharing my private business with people like him — baby-stealing snake in the grass.

  Your neighbor Rose. Nice lady.

  “Dammit, Rose.” I never thought to tell her to keep the news to herself. I guess because I never figured Robinson would stoop to spying on me. I’m going to be super-pissed if he slyly interrogated her about me while she innocently served him Earl Grey in her pretty pink teacups. That’s practically elder abuse.

  My fingers hammer out a new message. Stop spying on me.

  I’m not spying. Just worried. Can I help?

  I laugh out loud in my car. Robinson? Worried about me? Yeah, right. More like worried I’m going to tell James to stop sending him business. And help me? The guy never steps out of his front door not in a suit or dressed to kill. If a mouse had landed on his head, he’d run screaming into the next county. At least I stopped at my car.