Page 46 of This Is How It Started
I take up where Brooke left off with the vacuum, running it through the entire first floor. Growing up, Ester, our housekeeper, came once a week to clean. That didn’t mean the Gold kids were off the hook. Hannah and I were responsible for making sure all six bathrooms were spic and span. Adam was in charge of cleaning the cat boxes for our three beloved kitties. Mom wouldn’t let us have a dog but at one point allowed us to keep a bunny in the garage (also Adam’s job to clean up after). On top of that, we were responsible for dusting, doing the dishes, and keeping our rooms tidy. If our beds weren’t made, there was hell to pay, and everyone had to do their own laundry. Mommie Dearest ran the house like a naval ship, and we were her little swabbies.
To show Brooke that I can earn my keep, I give the downstairs powder room and the kitchen a good scrubbing. While Ester retired and moved to the Napa Valley a long time ago (we threw her a bon voyage in the backyard), Brooke has someone come in once a week. I plan to start contributing to that fund as well as stocking the fridge and pantry.
I put away all the cleaning supplies when my phone goes off. “Tubular Bells,” otherwise known as the theme song toThe Exorcist,the ringtone I chose for my in-laws the second year into Josh’s and my marriage. Needless to say, Josh was not amused. In retaliation, he chose “Mother in Law” for Shana. One time, she butt-called him while they were in the same room together. She either pretended to not get the joke or she really had no clue the song was meant for her.
I find my phone at the bottom of my purse. “Hi,” I say, sounding breathless to my own ears.
“Rachel, darling, how are you?” my mother-in-law asks like we haven’t talked in years when in fact it’s only been two days.
“Good,” I say. “I was just cleaning and raced for the phone.”
“Cleaning what, dear?”
I have to keep from snorting aloud. Unlike mine, Josh’s parents are not the descendants of fine Russian peasant stock. According to Pauline Ackermann, she’s related to Sephardic royalty, though I have my doubts. And so did Josh. But she’s a good mother-in-law in spite of her delusions of grandeur.
“How are you?” I say to move the conversation along.
“Oh, you know, getting by,” she says with a great sigh. “I wanted to talk to you aboutyahrtzeit.” Yahrtzeit is the one-year anniversary of Josh’s death. “We’d like you to come to Chicago. Can I have Saul book you a flight?”
But that’s more than five months away,I think. “In August, right?”
“Of course in August,” she says impatiently, like she thinks I’m sketchy on the month of my husband’s death.
The date will forever be engrained on my soul. What I’m sketchy on is Jewish mourning traditions.
“I can book it, Pauline. You just tell me when you want me to come.”
“It’ll have to be in accordance with the Hebrew calendar. I think Saul said it was sundown on August 15th. Let me check with him. But you’ll come?”
“Of course. I think it’ll be wonderful for us to be together, to light a candle together.” And I do because Josh would’ve wanted it that way. He loved his parents, and I love him.
“We miss you, Rachel. Josh loved you so much.”
It comes to me in that moment that I could ask her about Beth. Did Pauline know her? Had Josh ever talked about her. Did he ever bring her home to meet his family?
I don’t, of course. Because it’s silly, and I’m making way too much out of a couple of text messages. People fall in love a half dozen times or more in college or grad school. It’s easy when you’re young and your body hasn’t yet experienced the ravages of gravity. Everything is new and the sex is exciting. Then you move on, and those once-shiny new relationships quickly fade to distant memories, like the trip you took to the Grand Canyon or the summer you spent as a foreign exchange student in Italy. The pictures and journal entries are eventually relegated to a dusty drawer or attic where the mementos yellow and tear and disintegrate.
Or in Josh’s case, transferred from his phone to his email to a folder to a safe place on his computer where they can live forever, preserved, and just within reach.
Chapter 18
Go Big
The first thing I notice Monday morning is the silence. No power tools, no hammering, no curse words, no nothing. The pool house is as quiet as a library. I glance at my bedside clock (I really have to get something more mature). It’s 8:35 in the morning.Okay, Kyle and the boys are probably just a bit late,I tell myself. But by the time I’m out of the shower and dressed, there’s still nothing.
Just to make sure, I check the driveway for their fleet of work trucks, then hike across the lawn to the pool house.Nada, nichts, nichto.The worst part is they’ve opened up the roof, and rain is in the forecast.
I go back in the house and scroll through my phone for Kyle’s number. The call goes directly to voicemail.
“Hey, Kyle, this is Rachel Ackermann. You know, the pool house on Vallejo. Where are you guys? You left the roof wide open, and it’s about to pour. Please call me. Or just show up.”
I put up a pot of coffee and search the fridge for a breakfast option. I’m halfway through my cereal when my phone rings. Thank God. Kyle.
“Where are you guys?” I say by way of a greeting.
“Sorry. My boss sent us to another project across town. I guess he’s shorthanded. A lot of folks out with the flu. I’ll send someone over to throw a tarp over the roof. It should be fine.”
I hope so.Otherwise, you’re paying for the damage, bucko.“When will you be back to finish the job? Brooke says you left early on Friday to deal with an emergency. Are we still on track to finish in five weeks?”
