The empty bottle goes back into the cabinet and I shut the door firmly. I avoid looking into the mirror again, but I feel lighter and more buoyant already. Like I’ve taken one step closer to The Way Things Were Before. Before the hospital, before the incident in Denver, before Zoe. Back when I knew who and what I was.
March arrives. Springtime. I’ve forgotten the date. I spend the days walking, reading, and cooking complicated meals that require a lot of chopping. Without the meds my precision has improved. More carrot and less finger. Bonus. Today, when I look through the window, morning sun is gleaming on the wide blueness of the Columbia River. The fog has burned off, and a big red and white freighter with a long extended bow skirts the line of buoys that mark the main channel. Closer in, a few cars move down on Marine Drive, and further up the hill a ginger cat suns itself on the macadam of Alameda Street.
I haven’t been to Astoria in years. The last time, my mother and my twenty-something self stayed with Aunt Sandy for a week in this very house. Mother dragged me around a walking tour of the neighborhoods while she identified all the historic architectural styles and took what must have been thousands of pictures of houses with closeups of fascia trim and railing details. I remember thinking: ye gods, do we have to, as Mother insisted on ‘just one more block,’ and me wondering why couldn’t she have been a cop like my father, instead of an architect?
I turn from the view and survey my immediate surroundings. Spring sunlight brightens the great room, illuminating the fine layer of dust which fuzzes the windowsills. The canvas camp chair and card table are set up near the windows that overlook the river; a book lies open on the tabletop. Watching the motes that swirl in the sunbeam, it’s easy to slip into a daydream of warmth and serenity.
The heavy tramp of boots sounds on the basement stairs. I glance down at my hand and see my gun. I don’t remember grabbing it, and fear needles through my earlier complacency. The door creaks open on painted-over hinges as the furnace roars to life, gusting warm air through the wrought iron wall vents. I stuff the weapon down the back of my pants under my shirttail before he sees it.
The building inspector — because of course, that’s who it is, since I let him in earlier — strides into the main room. Here by appointment; it’s the normal thing to have someone check the condition of the house. He begins to write notes on his clipboard, talking.
“Okay Ms. Lake, here’s what I’ve discovered. You’ve probably noticed that the building has a low corner.”
I nod, still trying to get my head around my unpremeditated gun-grab. Try to take in what he’s saying. A low point. Yes. Greatest in the kitchen, where I often lose my balance bending over the thirty-inch counters, built at a time when people were shorter.
He continues. “That’s because the foundation is cracked, and so is the basement slab. You’ve probably had some ground recession — I see an old stump right next to the house. Being on a hill doesn’t help.” He licks his pencil. “But you’d be hard put to find a house in Astoria that isn’t on a hillside, or that doesn’t have foundation problems.”
“How bad is it?” I ask.
“I’ve seen worse. I’m guessing six inches of sag. Bad enough that you should get it fixed, or at least stabilized. Not necessarily today, but soon.”
“What else?”
“Some of the siding is rotten. Stands to reason, the house is over 100 years old, and even old cedar heartwood can only stand so much rain. You’ll need to replace it, and check to make sure the underlying structure isn’t also rotten.”
My inheritance is apparently not without problems. Sigh.
“The asphalt roof shingles are starting to curl. I don’t see any signs of water intrusion, but you’ll want to re-roof.”
I tune out the additional issues with the roof and porch. What I thought was going to be a safe haven is suddenly a money pit. I just want a safe place to live without issues to deal with. Is that too much to ask?
“Make sure the contractor uses some waterproofing. It rains occasionally here.” The inspector chortles, and assures me he’ll send a complete report with items of concern listed.
Waterproofing. When this house was built, back in 1917, such things probably hadn’t been invented.
I heard something funny the other day, while shopping at the grocery store. Two people were talking in the checkout line, and one was complaining about the weather. The other said, “Stop exaggerating. You know it only rains a couple of times a year. The first time for four months, and the second time for six months.”
On my drive home from the store, I noticed the moss growing on the shoulder of the asphalt; the mildew on the shady side of a weatherbeaten Colonial Revival. So, I’m a little worried about rot. I have visions of the place collapsing like a house of cards while I sleep. But. I just can’t deal with it now. There’s too many other broken things to get my head around.
It’s easier to cope with the inspector than I feared. He doen’t seem to expect friendliness or warmth, just an email address for his report and a credit card to swipe on his phone. The bare minimum of exchange. I wonder what he concludes about the emptiness, the few pieces of temporary furniture, the scattering of dishes on the open shelves of the kitchen. But perhaps he doesn’t think of it. His job is to glean and process information about things, not about people, and he walks away without a backward glance.
When I was working undercover, constant evaluation
