Someday Home (3 page)

Dr. Eleanor pulled another pamphlet out of another drawer and handed it across the desk. “A friend of mine back east decided to check into shared housing after her husband died.”

“Shared housing?”

“Makes a lot of sense when you think about it. Two or three people sharing a house, each with a private bath and possibly a sitting room or some such. Not family members, which is a good example, but the people are related, so something different. There are even nonprofits springing up to assist people who are interested to find each other. Women in their late forties, early fifties, who have a career, are the largest group taking part in this. It can be not only financially beneficial but emotionally as well.”

Lynn took the pamphlet and barely glanced at it before sticking it in her purse. “Well, it's not like I don't have family nearby.” She pushed herself up with her arms, getting that instant flush that could make her sweat in a snowstorm. “Good thing I have AC in the van.”

“We'll see if we can get on top of that. If you could keep a journal of what happens when, that might be helpful.” She stood. “I'm here if you need to talk. There's no crime in either talking with a counselor and/or trying some antidepressants for a bit. If you have a headache, you take something and it helps. Same principle.”

“Thanks, my friend. See you in church on Sunday?”

“Choir is singing, I'll be there for sure.”

Out in the van, Lynn slumped in the seat, staring at nothing.
Lord, why do I feel that my whole world is coming crashing down on me. You promised you never leave. Then why do I feel so very terribly alone?

R
ead the book, go online, then we'll make a decision. Why can't she just tell me what is best and I'll do it? If it doesn't work, we'll try something else.
The argument hammered in Lynn's head all the way home.

Phillip met her at the car. “We have a mighty unhappy customer; I'm on my way over there now to see what we can do.”

“Is it our fault?” Now why did she ask that before she even knew what the situation was? “The name doesn't ring a bell.”

“That's because they are new here; the inspector said everything in that old dump passed inspection, and now their hot-water tank blew up and there's a leak under the kitchen sink, and she says her husband sat down on the toilet and it nearly fell through the floor. They found a work order that we had done some plumbing on that house.”

“That was years ago, so theoretically they are not
our
customers.” Even as she said it, she realized her son—so much like his father in so many ways with this sense of taking care of the world's plumbing—would automatically assume responsibility. Or at least do all within his power to make the lady happy. Or at least content. They were going to have to have a serious discussion about this sometime. Although she seriously doubted that conversation would make any real difference.

“I know, I looked it up. Could you call and see if you can talk her into a more rational frame of mind? It'll take me half an hour to get there, and I have another call I'd like to do on the way; you know that first cabin north of the Bradbury turnoff right on the lake?”

“Bradbury turnoff. I remember. Sure, oh, what is her name? She's always so apologetic when she calls. She's back for the season already?”

“Yes, and she can't get the water valve to turn on. Shouldn't take but a minute.”

“You drained all the pipes and winterized that place, didn't you?” How she hated not being able to pull a name up right away. She used to. “Well, tell her welcome home from me, and I'll get on this other one.” She headed for her house rather than the office. Since the computers and phones were synced, she'd be able to pull up the phone number.

She stepped up on the deck and the realization of no happy hound to greet her made her want to sink down on the step and howl. Or go throw rocks in the water. Or herself in the water. That thought followed on the now familiar heat wave. The lake water would probably turn to steam. She shucked her sweater off and went to stand at the edge of the deck where the breeze off the lake could hopefully blow her cool or at least comfortable. Stripping down even further was a distinct possibility.

Right. And she who would much rather bite the woman's head off was supposed to make nice. Appease the woman, something she used to do quite well. How could she possibly be sweating? It was not hot out, barely even warm, though after the winter they'd had, anything above forty felt like summer. Not sure if she was mopping sweat or tears, she dried her face and turned back to the house.

She made
the
phone call, assured the woman that the water heater was indeed twenty years old by their records, and yes, they had done some work on that place but not in the last seven years. No, it was not the plumber's fault if there was rot around the toilet. The inspector should have caught that. Yes, they could install a new toilet as soon as the floor was repaired. She'd given the woman a phone number for one of the members of their church who took on small jobs like this and always did better-than-expected work. George had the same philosophy they did. Go the extra mile. Always give more service than the owner expected.

Christ's admonitions made good business sense, too. Paul had organized a small group of like-minded businessmen at church several years before he died. They met once a month to encourage one another and study more on letting God be the CEO of their businesses. She was praying Phillip would join the group and Tom, too, but so far they kept saying they were just too busy.

Phillip's white panel truck, with
PAUL'S PLUMBING
lettered in bright blue, pulled in beside the house two hours later.

“Thanks, Mom, Mrs. Henderson was sweet as could be when I got there. I don't know what you did or told her, but if you could pass on the skill, possibly by injection, I'd be happy.” Phillip poured himself a cup of coffee. “Any cookies?”

“I think the jar has already been raided.” She raised a finger. “But…” She went to the side-by-side refrigerator and pulled a bag of cookies out of the freezer side. “Put these in the microwave for thirty seconds or so.”

Since she'd quit drinking anything with caffeine after four, she filled the hot pot and fixed herself a cup of tea.

“What are you doing for supper?”

She stared at her elder son. “It will soon be that time, won't it?”

Phillip gave her a strange look. “Mom, you always have meals planned in advance. What did you learn at the doctor's?”

She blew on her orange spice herb tea and sipped, both of them leaning against the counter. “After a comprehensive Q and A, blood work, et al, Dr. Alstrop determined that I am in full-blown menopause.”

“So-o?”

She tried to stop the sigh but it wouldn't stop. “So, these abominable hot flashes, the frequent and disgusting tears, and even the forgetfulness are all symptoms of the big M.”

“So what will you do?”

“My assignment is to read, research, and see her in a week. After I have learned both sides of the hormone or not hormone debate, we will decide what I am going to do.”

“Oh.” His arched eyebrows admitted to his confusion. “Well, at least it is not life threatening.”

“Not to me, but possibly someone else when I lose my temper, which is another symptom. I guess different women react differently to this thing. I thought the tears were still left over from grief, and well, they might be, but it could be this as well.”

His phone sounded like a duck call, making her shake her head while he answered. “I'll be right there.” He snapped it closed and set his cup in the sink. “You want to come for mac and cheese with ham? Maggie has supper ready. She said for you to come, whether you feel like it or not. Besides, she wants to know what the doctor said, too.”

The thought of going out again, even across the field, almost buckled her knees.
No
was a seldom-used word, especially with her family. She pushed her hair back off her sweaty forehead. “Tell her I'll call her tomorrow. But right now all I want is a bowl of soup, some leftover corn bread, and I am going to curl up with a good book.
The Truth About Menopause.
A real page-turner. I might even go online and do the suggested research, and you know how much I like doing that.”

“You're sure, even if it is going to cost me a valuable arm or something?”

She waved him off. “I'll be fine. Miss Minerva has moved upstairs. She slept on the bed last night.”

“Really? You want me to send Rowdy over?” Rowdy was a rambunctious year-old Lab who had a knack for chewing on all things wooden—table legs, chairs, sticks he brought in. He well lived up to his name. His saving grace was he could fetch a duck or goose from anywhere in the lake, having been taught by master Orson, in spite of his age.

“Thanks, but no thanks. When and if I get another dog, it will not be a hunting dog. Just warning you.”

“All I ask is no yapping ankle biter.”

“I promise.” She locked the door behind him, something else she'd started doing only recently, when Orson was losing his hearing and couldn't be depended on to announce either two-legged or wildlife visitors.

After taking a bag of frozen soup out of the freezer, she heated it, warmed the corn bread, and took her supper into the family room to watch the news, something Paul used to do all the time and she now did sporadically. Tonight was not a good night to watch the news, neither national nor local. The old camp song came to mind, “dadeeda in Africa, rioting in Spain…hurricanes in Florida, and Texas needs rain.” Those were all the words she could remember, but the tune kept playing and replaying in her head. The phone rang, she answered with “hello” instead of the business name, but when no one responded, she did not wait for the sales pitch, instead slamming the phone back in the stand. She really missed the days when slamming a receiver could give some measure of satisfaction. Why did she never check for phone numbers? They had that service.

Miss Minerva leaped up into her lap and circling, along with claw digging, made herself comfortable. Since usually Orson was at her feet, this was another new behavior.

Lynn stroked the cat and relaxed to the purring engine that took over. She picked up her book and started to read: “Chapter One—Dispelling the Myths of Menopause.” Sometime later she woke with a start, stabbed the off button on the remote, and turning out the lights, she headed upstairs, cat at her heels. She should have gone to Phillip's house. Quiet did not inhabit that house. Instead, all of it congregated over here.

The next morning, she'd turned on the TV in the kitchen to watch one of the morning shows when the hostess announced, “Next on our lineup is three women with a story to tell about a new trend that is really an old trend all dressed up to fit today. It used to be that aging sisters or cousins would share a home, or an older woman invited a younger member of the family to come live with her, or the program that kept America laughing for many seasons, the slob and the neatnik sharing an apartment. But today there is a new twist, so let me introduce Susan, Alicia, and Denise, who are sharing a house in Baltimore, Maryland. We'll let them tell their story. Now, Denise, how would you like to start?”

Lynn poured herself another cup of coffee to go with her toast and sat down to watch. Amazing, first the article and now this. All three women had good-paying jobs, one had a dog and one a cat, and the picture of the house didn't look anything out of the ordinary. One of them traveled a lot for her job, one of them liked gardening, and one liked to cook, so they each did what they liked best, sharing the general living spaces and having their own room and bath.
Could this house work for something like that?

When the hostess asked if they had any advice for others who might be considering such a move, they all said, “Don't be in a hurry.”

And some of the individual comments resonated with Lynn.

“We agreed in the beginning that if someone had a gripe, they needed to get it out on the table for discussion and not let it fester,” said one. “That has been a wise decision.”

“So you've not always gotten along?” The hostess leaned forward, elbows on her knees, hands clasped.

“Be real. When you put three strong women together, who are all working out their own issues of being single and getting older, of course there have been touchy situations. But we figure we are all adults and grateful we have made this move. We needed to do the work to make it work for us,” said another.

“I've heard of others who have attempted shared housing and disbanded before a year was up.”

“Like in anything, there are horror stories. That's why deciding if you like each other is so important,” the first one added.

“And not hurrying. Give it a trial run,” said the third, who seemed more reticent than the others.

“Family approval, i.e., kids and friends, is helpful but not absolutely necessary.”

“Thank you, ladies. Our time is up, no matter how much I'd like to continue this fascinating topic.” The hostess looked toward the camera. “And now, after our break, we'll be…”

Lynn clicked the TV off and sat staring at the blank screen. Miss Minerva lay curled in a spot of sunshine. The geraniums blooming in the window needed to be moved out on the deck to harden off before being planted in their summer home outside. As usual, thoughts bombarded her from every direction. She should be working on the books, going online and searching for information on shared housing and on menopause, going for a walk, checking in with Annie. Strange, neither of her sons had called. Her thought patterns reminded her of some of the computer games the kids played with shapes appearing and disappearing all over the screen and one was supposed to knock them out, all of which yielded total frustration to her rather than any kind of fun.

The grands had realized that asking G'ma to play computer games was not going to happen. However, if they took out a board game or cards or dice for Farkle, she'd be right there. Most of them had learned their numbers playing games with G'ma.

One hour. I'll spend one hour on menopause research.
She booted up the computer, hit Google, and scrolled down looking for the best sites. Skimming through them. A phone call interrupted her after far more than her allotted hour.

“Mom, we're out on the Murphy job; we just ran out of thread sealing compound and we're only half done. If I call in the order, can you go pick it up?”

“Where?”

“The Plumber's Friend in Detroit Lakes. I'm sorry, I know I ordered extra just in case, but we still ran out. We can move to another part of the job, but then we are stymied until we have the compound.” At her silence, he added, “I'll owe you big-time; you must have something you can collect on.”

If she ever checked the list, the men in her family were so far in favor's debt it would take a year of full-time work to catch up. Not that she really had a list. “It'll take me half an hour to get ready. I didn't plan on going out today.” She said the latter rather explicitly.

“Sorry, but Annie can't. Maggie has to sleep since she's on nights again.”

“Need anything else while I am in town?”

“Not that I know of, but keep your phone handy.”

She snorted as she clicked off. As if her phone hadn't become a permanent appendage. While she dressed for town instead of staying home, she thought of Mary Rousch at the library. When they both had time, they could do lunch. If anyone knew of someone in their area who was also interested in shared housing, she would be the one to ask. A walking, talking encyclopedia known thusly to all was their librarian Mary. One who gathered information like a giant magnet.