If You Were Here

him out has had selfrestraint not to leave a permanent reminder of his or her presence. The plot is small and unremarkable, tucked under the evergreens in a particularly quiet corner of the cemetery, away from the showy mausoleums and ornately carved headstones closer to the water. You’d never find it unless you knew where to look. No guides shuffle carts of tourists past, and no one’s selling maps to get there. There’s something profound and sacred about his final resting spot, and I find myself lingering longer and longer now.

I started talking to him on my third visit. The minute I finally allowed myself to say something more than, “Thank you,” the words started spilling out. I couldn’t help it. I told him all about how he inspired me, and how, if I could provide teenagers with an iota of the kind of solace he gave Jess and me growing up, I’d consider myself a success.

I talked about how I wouldn’t have a career without him. Then I apologized if I sounded like I was sucking up, but I truly felt like he had just as much cultural influence as Jim Morrison did, and how I was really glad none of Hughes’s fans left him Mardi Gras beads or cheesy stuffed animals.

Anyway, perhaps it’s a product of my overactive imagination, but I swear I feel his spirit when I’m there, because I’m always buoyed and inspired after I leave. I bet it’s not coincidental that I do my best writing after a visit.

Or maybe it’s just that I’m so prone to keeping everything bottled up that I feel better once I let it all out.

When I saw Sixteen Candles for the first time, I wasn’t even a teenager yet. I wonder how I’d have felt knowing that movie would have such an influence on my life and career almost thirty years later?

“Mia?”

I snap back to attention. “Oh, sorry. Zoned out for a second.”

Mac gives me a glass and takes my hand to help me over the rubble. “Are you ready to see your Fabulous! New! Master! Suite!” he says in his best HGTV-host imitation.

“Yay! Yes!” The big reveal’s always my favorite part.

You know why I love HGTV? It’s not just that I get a peek into other people’s lives. It’s that everyone’s always thrilled with the end result, whether they’re redecorating an unfortunate room, selling a house, or cleaning up another contractor’s mess. I live for a happy ending, and HGTV is perpetually upbeat and optimistic. The shows are all about problem solving, not drama creating.

I used to be a huge Trading Spaces fan in the early days, and I was always so upset when the homeowners weren’t happy. Sometimes their disappointment was justified — like the time Doug painted a newly refinished hardwood floor white,¹⁰⁹ or Hildi stapled something like ten thousand silk flowers to a bathroom wall. Seriously, can you imagine what a disaster that must have been to live with, let alone try to remove? The staples probably began to oxidize after the first shower, and I’m loath to picture how much dust and moisture those flowers trapped.

What infuriated me was when the homeowners would throw a fit over perfectly lovely rooms. I hated how, even though their friends and the designers and carpenters spent two days slaving away in their house, they couldn’t get past how they “hate brown!” or “that’s not where we keep the coffee table!” Sometimes they’d get all pissed off about the show’s using lower-priced materials, even though the whole point of Trading Spaces was to demonstrate how to make improvements on a budget. Mac always knew what I was watching when he’d hear me shout stuff like, “If you want Brazilian cherry and not MDF,¹¹⁰ pay for it yourself!”

Anyway, it’s reveal time here, and I am, in fact, ready to see my Fabulous! New! Master! Suite! “Did you want me to wear a blindfold?” I ask Mac.

“No, and if I did, I’d make sure we were up the stairs first.” Oh. Good point. The dogs dart in and out between us, and we have to step over Mac’s cache of paint and stain cans and around the wall o’ tools to get to the doorway on the second floor. “Ready?”

“Ready!” I clamp my eyes shut while Mac swings open the door.

When I open I almost can’t believe what I’m seeing. I mean, I’ve been here for every step of the process and I know the room intimately. Trust me: I’ve shed DNA in this space. That’s the spot on the floor where the rusty nail punched right through my shoe and into my foot when I was sanding.¹¹¹ That’s the wall where I lost most of my knuckle skin wrestling off cherub-covered wallpaper that had been affixed with what was clearly the kind of glue used to hold airplanes together. That’s the closet door that claimed most of my pinkie nail, and over there’s the window that could easily do double duty as a guillotine.

But now? I’m transported to a place that’s got the same kind of glow and luminosity as the inside of a seashell. The pickled floors are a cool, clean contrast to the multihued cornflower blue rug with its bold golden flowers and milk glass green swirls. The bed looks all fresh and inviting and squashy with the down-filled duvet, and the canopy curtains around it are white and billowy. This room is nestled next to a leafy old maple, and the view makes me feel like I’m in a tree house for grown-ups.

Unbeknownst to me, Mac refinished my rummage sale antique dresser with the dry sink and he shined up the copper lining. There are scores of creamy white roses in reclaimed glass jars all over the room and tons of our black-and-white wedding photos.

Instead of linen, Mac suggested we go with lighter drapes for the coming summer, and the fabric he chose is unstructured and ethereal. Mac strategically placed candles that smell like honeysuckle and orange blossom around the room, too. On the hope chest at the foot of the bed, he’s placed a woven tray laden with my favorite cheeses, candied nuts, and succulent grapes.¹¹²

The bathroom is equally inviting, with sparkly tiles and paint that’s all Zen and the same pearly blue as the horizon at sunset.

“What do you think?” he asks.

I’m so enamored that it takes me a moment to find the proper words. “Oh, honey — I’m blown away. We did it! I can’t believe we did it. I’m not going to lie to you: It was touch-and-go there for a hot minute, but this? This is spectacular! This is magic! This could be in a magazine! Babcia’s going to love staying in here, and then we’re going to spend many long, happy years in here.”

Mac is beaming. “This room is tangible proof that we can do it ourselves.”

I throw myself around him and kiss him with all my might before flitting off to inspect each corner of the room. “I should have never doubted you. I’m so sorry I’ve been a pill. I should have listened to you and trusted your instincts. Forgive me?”

“Maybe, if you come back over here.” Mac’s sitting on the bed and motioning toward me, and I quickly comply.

“I’m all over it, Mr. MacNamara.” We both lie back in each other’s arms and I start to kiss his neck.

“Aw, shit, there’s one small flaw,” Mac says, gazing up at a small paint imperfection in the ceiling.

“It can wait,” I insist.

“No, it’ll make me crazy. Lemme just get this right here. . ” Mac stands on the bed and pokes at the small outcropping, which is like a bubble or a balloon.

Years from now when we retell this story — and we will be retelling this story — I’m sure our recollection will go the way of any fish tale. The amount of water dispersed will likely swell from buckets to barrels, and the velocity at which it gushes down on me is prone to be exaggerated, sped up from a languid pour to a rushing river. And the ants that are washed down within that stagnant, brackish liquid will magically morph from carpenter size to Australian bulldog variety, maybe even with pincers and large enough to cast a shadow.

But right here, right now, and before my hands can inevitably grow farther and farther apart as I demonstrate that legendary fish’s length, I can tell you one thing: I hop out of every ant-covered, sopping-wet piece of clothing faster than ORNESTEGA could imagine.

“Hi, this is Mia MacNamara, and I got your number off of Angie’s List. . I understand you have twenty-four- hour service?. . Super. . Yeah, we need you right now. . Uh-huh. . Bring a lot of poison. Buckets. Barrels. Whatever you’ve got. The address is 1407. .”

“Hey, it’s Mia. Guess what, smarty-pants? You were wrong. We don’t have Formosan subterranean termites. We have Eastern subterranean termites. Drywood, too.