If You Were Here

“Fine. But you really are Amish now.” She laughs.

I nod. “You wouldn’t be the first person to say so.”

“How’s the rehab going?”

I glance at my surroundings and sigh. “I’m not sure how to describe it,” I say. “I guess it’s going well? Vlad told me living here would feel worse before it felt better. We’re definitely in the ‘worse’ part right now. Everything has been ripped out, and I mean everything. Last week they demoed the kitchen and they took it all away — the nasty old cabinets, the Formica counters, the twentyyear-old appliances. All we have left is our wine fridge and a toaster oven, and we brought those with us.” Unless Mac brings home carryout, I’ve been subsisting on grilled cheese toasties and wine coolers.

I can’t describe how depressing it feels to be here. When everything was ugly, that was one thing, but at least I could mentally redecorate, swapping out Formica for granite and a banged-up enamel sectional sink for something deep and wide of the farmhouse variety.

I hated the window treatments in the dining room, but when I looked at them, I was briefly reminded of the end of Sixteen Candles and remembered why we wanted this place. Plus I enjoyed painting over the living room’s chintz wallpaper in my head, but now that the walls are down to studs in here, I’m having trouble picturing anything.

Vlad suggested we move out while they work, but where are we supposed to go? All our money’s tied up in this project. We can’t afford a rental, because we had to pay for almost everything up front, since Vlad doesn’t have lines of credit anywhere. I suppose we could move into the tiny apartment over the detached garage, but no one’s touched it since the sixties. I went up there once to scope it out and practically threw myself out the window when I tangled with a bat.¹³³

I lean against one of the few standing lath-and-plaster walls. “The basement’s a wreck because most of our stuff is in storage down there. The upstairs here isn’t so bad, except every single bath fixture has been ripped out.”

“Toilets and everything?”

“Yep. We’ve got a Porta Potti stationed outside of the back door, and oh, boy, are the neighbors excited about that! Like this was intentional, as clearly my dream has always been to poop outdoors. Yesterday I was using the hose to wash my hands afterward and Lululemon came over to bitch about something. The thing is, she kind of snuck up on me, so when I spun around, I blasted her with the hose.” Pow. Right in the kisser. It was both awesome and awful.

Kara giggles, which is a good sign she’s starting to unclench. “Classic! What’d she do?”

“What does everyone do around me? Swore revenge and stomped off.” I have to admit to laughing while she stormed away trailing water, but I’m not looking forward to how she might retaliate.

“Wait. Where are you showering?”

“At the gym. That’s kind of a pain, but I figure it’s all temporary. Vlad said he’s going to start on a bathroom today, now that he’s shored up the floor underneath it. Speaking of Vlad, I wonder where he is? It’s almost ten a.m., and they’re always here by now.”

“I’m sure they’re just at the lumberyard or something. Now, how’s the book going?”

I try to shake off the vague feeling of uneasiness stemming from the crew’s absence. I shouldn’t worry, because so far, everything’s run smoothly on the project. Plus, I feel comfortable around Vlad, because his no- nonsense approach reminds me of my grandmother. He doesn’t believe in idle chitchat, and he works with dogged, albeit brusque, efficiency. He’s been plowing through this place like a machine, and his one nod to being human and not, like, a robot or something is the occasional brief, curt cell phone call. Would I want to have him over for dinner? Not really. But I’ll be able to prepare dinner only because of his efforts, so I’m okay with that.

Vlad’s team has done excellent work so far, too. I expected them to be a little more. . I don’t know, fast and loose. Ribald and raucous or something. I mean, you always hear stories about construction workers ogling ladies and joking around over their lunch pails, but that’s not the case here. These guys move with the steady, focused purpose of men in battle. They don’t even listen to the radio while they work. Once we had a shower repaired in a rental house, and the guys our landlord hired did nothing but horse around and listen to daytime talk shows on their mini TV.

Naturally, Mac is suspicious of all the crew, because they seem to hail from the former Soviet republic of Somewhere-istan. Again, I suspect this is less because of the work they’re doing and more because of Red Dawn. Mac came home from work early one day last week and I swore I heard him shouting, “Wolverines!” in the driveway, but he says he didn’t. But who else could it have been? Citizen Cane? Elbow Patches? Doubtful.

Mac should lighten up, because the crew has done nothing but prove to have an innate understanding of all that needs to happen here. I’m wowed by their efficiency, and Vlad’s already placed orders for every single item we’re going to need, from tiles to appliances to fixtures to pipe fittings. He even made it easy to decide what drawer pulls I wanted. He brought over ten different styles and colors and told me to choose among them. Done and done!

So I should be all happy and relaxed, but still… why aren’t they here?

“Mia? You listening?”

“Sorry. I was distracted for a second. You were saying?”

“I asked how the writing is coming.”

“Better. I’m working in what was Jake Ryan’s bedroom, because it’s the farthest away from the noise. I’m not in love with a lot of what I’ve written, but at least I’m closing in on getting done. I’ve got about six chapters to go.”

“Then you get paid?”

“Pfft, I wish it were that easy. Then I turn in the manuscript, my editor requests rewrites, I turn those in, then I get paid. If I get this done next week when it’s due, I’m looking at at least six to eight weeks before I see any money. That’s about when Vlad and Co. anticipate being finished with the house.”

“Cool. Bet you can’t wait. Anyway, it’s after ten, so I should probably come out of the closet and get to work.”

“You going to be okay?” I ask.

“As long as you come with me on Friday, I’m golden. Thank you for talking me down.”

“Bye, Kara.”

“Go write! Be brilliant! See you in a few!”

I’m glad I was able to calm Kara, but as I head up the stairs to my office, I can’t help but feel a twinge of something stress related.

Where are they already?

Twelve o’clock and they’re not here. Not panicking.

I come downstairs for an apple juice at one thirty. I kind of hoped the guys had simply been working quietly and I just didn’t know they were here. My eyes immediately dart to the bucket of Monday Munchkins I set out this morning.

They’re completely untouched.

Trying really hard not to panic.

At two, I call Vlad and get his voice mail.

At three, I text him, and keep doing so at ten-minute intervals throughout the afternoon.

At five p.m., I receive a text back from Vlad.

It contains one word:

Revolution

With my heart in my throat, I drag the television out from under its tarp and turn it on, flipping to the first news channel I can find. After Anderson Cooper finishes his think piece on Miley Cyrus, he mentions a violent flare-