Page 70 of The Fix-Up

—ANA E., AGE 7

From the sticky note correspondence of Gilbert Dalton and Ellie Sterns:

Gil—

You are hereby formally invited to Easter dinner next month.

It will be at Chris’s house. You should come.

—Ellie

P.S. I should probably mention my entire family will be there. So, I understand if you’d rather do pretty much anything other than come to dinner. In fact, can I come with you instead?

Eleanor—

What time is the blessed event?

—Gilbert

P.S. Just admit it. You don’t want me to meet your family because then I’ll find out you come from a family of traveling circus performers.

Gil—

Around 3 p.m.

—Ellie

P.S. You aren’t that far off.

The living room has been put back together. It was the first thing I noticed when Oliver and I got home that night one warm evening at the end of March. It had been a mess when I’d left this morning after I’d torn it apart looking for my car keys.

Spoiler: they were in the bottom of my purse.

But now, all the couch cushions had been straightened. The throw pillows neatly lined up across the back of the couch. The basket of mail I’d overturned in my haste had been righted. Even our shoes had been neatly lined up against the wall by the door.

This whole neatness thing had been happening a lot. Part of me struggled with the embarrassment of knowing that Gil was cleaning up after me; another part of me was just grateful there was someone else around who helped with this stuff.

Messiness seemed to be a way of life for me. Not dirty. I didn’t like dirt. But piles? Piles were my jam. I always knew what was in each pile, too. Maybe Gil knew that on some level because while the piles were straightened, they were never sorted through or moved. I’d never lived with someone who noticed little things like that about me.

“Do you want a bath or a shower tonight?” I asked Oliver.

“Do I have to?”

“Yes, you have to. You gotta get the funk off you before bed.”

“A shower, then.” He bowed his head and slowly, slowly shuffled across the kitchen and down the hall.

“Trust me, when you’re older, you’ll thank me for instilling the importance of good hygiene,” I said as I walked over to the chores board.

I turned to the SOON section and shook my head. Someone, obviously Gil, had decided to organize my sticky notes into categories—household chores, errands, etc. Not only that, but I was positive the number of notes had been slowly and surely dwindling. This coincided with things getting done around the house.

Gil never said a word. For that matter, I hadn’t either. I wasn’t sure what to make of it exactly. Sure, some things were for the house—like mowing the lawn or replacing the air conditioner filter. With every item that was fixed around the house, it gave me a tiny bit of hope that maybe he was starting to think about the possibility of not selling, a subject I was avoiding as much as possible. Why would he spend time fixing up a house he’d said needed to be bulldozed if he wasn’t considering keeping it?

But other things had nothing to do with the house—like buying the book of stamps I’d been meaning to get. I’d found them on the kitchen counter along with a sticky note that justhad my name on it. Or the little rack for the keys he’d hung next to the door. It was confusing. Because I liked it. I liked it a lot.

“Mom,” Oliver yelled, startling me. “Come here.”

“Coming.” I hustled down the hallway. “Where are you?”

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