Page 8 of Salvaged Heart

8

BECKHAM

T he low hum of a phone vibrating across the floorboards roused me from the deepest sleep I had been in since we arrived at Arbor Ct. a little over a week ago. The long days of manual labor were finally beginning to catch up with me, and my whole body ached in a way it hadn’t since spring training. It felt good being this tired after a day filled with productivity, working with my hands, and making a visible difference in the immediate world around me–no matter how small it was. My life was beginning to feel like it had purpose again.

The renovation was now fully underway. Each morning, me, Laurel, and, to her continued surprise, Anders, met downstairs at the crack of dawn to drink coffee and cook up a hearty breakfast of eggs, bacon, sometimes toast, and sometimes pancakes. We would crowd around the small table in the music room, which subbed as our kitchen table for the time being because it was one of the few areas in the house not in complete chaos.

Laurel and I chatted back and forth about plans for the day and news from home, while Anders sat in the third chair, listening intently. Some mornings, he was more talkative than others, interjecting his opinion on the day’s topic and engaging in mostly playful, but sometimes snappy, banter with his sister. Other mornings, he didn’t say a word, eyes turned down on his food, shuffling it around his plate like if he poked and prodded it enough, it would disappear without him needing to put any of it in his mouth. On days his spirits were high, I’d shuffle extra helpings onto his plate while he wasn’t looking, watching eagerly as he shoveled it into his mouth mid-sentence. On the days he was quiet, I would drag out conversations with Laurel just to keep us at the table until his plate was empty, knowing very well that the second we got up, his food would end up scraped into the trash.

Once dishes were cleared off and washed in the powder room, the only working sink on the ground floor, we would set about our various tasks for the day.

The first few had been mostly filled with cleaning. The house was filthy, every surface covered in multiple layers of dust and grime. Cobwebs hung in almost every corner. Lint stuck to the walls and floors. Little tumbleweeds of matted hair and God knows what else rolled around on phantom breezes throughout the house. I don’t think I’d ever scrubbed and swept so hard in my life, but getting a spotless foundation to work on was essential.

When the house was deemed sufficiently clean, I set about making the few repairs needed to the drywall in various rooms while Laurel and Anders began painting the living room. After lunch that day, Anders appeared beside me while I was working on a large hole of mysterious origins in the upstairs hallway. I wasn’t certain it had been there when I arrived, but from the guilty look on Anders’ face, perhaps its origin wasn’t so mysterious after all.

“Would you show me how to do that?” He asked, attention mostly fixed on the floor. That morning had been a quiet breakfast day, these words being the first I had heard him speak since the night before.

“Sure.”

Over the next few hours, I demonstrated how to patch holes of different sizes while he watched intently, asking few but thoughtful questions. He was a quick learner and soon worked alongside me instead of observing from the shadows.

The following day, I was inspecting the potential mold situation in the kitchen when, once again, Anders materialized in my periphery.

“Is it fucked?” He laughed. Today was a talkative day.

“It’s too early to tell.”

He watched me cut out the large patch of ruined ceiling and pull it away from the support beams above. Insulation and dust cascaded around me, and I covered my mouth and nose to avoid breathing any of it in. Once it had settled, Anders popped up behind me on the ladder, trying to get a good look inside the now gaping hole in the ceiling. The act caused his entire front to be plastered to my back, arms caged around my body, pressing me into the ladder.

“What are we looking for?” He asked, trying to wrestle me out of the way to gain further access to the opening.

I clambered up the ladder out of his embrace and passed him an extra flashlight while turning on the one attached to my head. “Any discoloration but specifically a dark green tar-looking substance, because that would be black mold.”

“And black mold would be no bueno , huh?”

I nodded and shone the light further into the opening, raking it slowly over each of the beams and floorboards above. “Any mold would be bad, but black mold would be a nightmare.” I didn’t smell anything that screamed apparent mold damage, but that didn't mean it wasn’t there. “Get down and steady the ladder for me, will you?”

He hurried down, anchoring it so I could stand on the highest point, right on top of the sticker advising me not to do so. I ran my fingers over each piece of wood, testing for weak or wet spots, and pushed the insulation around for better access. A few areas were slightly damp, but nothing concerning, and, most importantly, there was no mold.

“I think we’re good,” I said, climbing back down the ladder. “But let’s get one of those fans blowing up here to ensure it’s all dried out before we seal it back up.”

“Sure thing, boss,” He answered with a mock salute. “One blow job coming right up.”

I immediately choked on my tongue, then tried to cover it up as a cough.

He patted me exaggeratedly on the back. “Mind out the gutter, Beckham.” Before wandering off to locate the box fan.

Most days, we worked through lunch, one of us taking a short break to prepare a mountain of sandwiches and pass them out between us. It kept starvation at bay until the early evening when we would finally call it a day, bodies aching with exhaustion. Laurel and I took turns venturing to town for takeout, while Anders busied himself washing paintbrushes and tidying away tools.

The night after Margery left and I had promised myself to force-feed him whenever possible, Anders pulled a disappearing act that lined up suspiciously with the arrival of dinner. I’d found him wandering in the library looking through books older than us combined and practically dragged him out, kicking and screaming, declaring it a new house rule that he ate dinner with us every night. The following evening, I’d been prepared for a similar fight, but to my surprise, he’d stayed, shoving food into his mouth at a breakneck speed before finally escaping.

We still hadn’t talked about the incident at the restaurant or really anything of substance, but I could sense I was slowly chipping away at the fortified walls Anders had built around himself.

Last night, we mutually agreed we deserved a day off renovations, to celebrate completing seven days straight. There would still be at least two months of work ahead of us, but burning ourselves out would be counterproductive. Laurel and I planned a sleep-in, followed by a drive into Charlotte to do some sightseeing. There was a lighting store near the place she'd selected for lunch, and I was hoping she would allow an exception to our no-work rule for a quick visit.

A phone buzzed loudly again, and I glanced at mine, plugged into the outlet next to the bed. The screen was black. I rolled over and gave Laurel a soft nudge, “Babe, your phone won’t stop ringing.”

She grunted something along the lines of, “You get it if it’s bothering you.” So I crawled across her, pressing her down into the mattress as I went and grabbed the still buzzing phone off the floor.

“Babe, it’s Myers Veterinary Clinic.”

Laurel bolted upright like she had been electrocuted, knocking me off her–which was a feat in itself due to the considerable size difference between us. She snatched the phone from my hand and raised it to her ear, greeting the person on the other end with a “This is Laurel Mitchell.” She listened intently, humming and nodding before adding, “When would I…Monday?… Yes, that shouldn’t be a problem…Thank you, I will see you then.”

The call hung up, and she stared into space for a moment before finally meeting my eyes. “The summer internship I got waitlisted for had a last-minute dropout. My name was next on the list.”

“Babe, that’s incredible!”

She frowned.

“Why do you look so down? This is what you’ve been working towards all semester.”

“No, I’m over the moon, obviously. But Beck, what about the house? I have to be back in Knoxville by Monday. Two days from now. Margery will kill me when I tell her we are leaving early.”

That wasn’t a problem. I had already mentally committed myself to spend the entire summer in Lake Norman, and working on the renovation had been the most fun I’d had since playing baseball. I was determined to see it through to the end.

“Well, that’s fine. You head back to Knoxville, and I’ll stay here to finish the reno with Anders.”

“I don’t know, Beck. That’s a lot to ask.”

“Nothing I haven’t already agreed to. I was already doing the heavy work, and Anders has been a surprisingly quick study. It will extend our timeline a little, but we both know I have nothing better to do.”

“Beck…” A glint of sadness flashed across her eyes.

“You know what I mean.” I moved in front of her, squeezing her hands tightly in my own. “Go back to Knoxville and provide for our future by chasing your dreams there. I’ll stay and provide for our future by seeing this project through. Come Fall, I’ll join you back in Tennessee as planned.” I placed a delicate peck on her forehead in reassurance.

“You sure?”

“I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life. Well, maybe with the exception of you.” I flicked her nose to distract myself from the guilty feeling bubbling in my chest the second those words left my lips. I'd genuinely meant them, but why did they taste like a lie as they rolled off my tongue?

She nodded somberly, “Shit, I have so much to do. I need to make some calls.”

“Take care of what you need to do. Just let me know how I can help.”

She answered with another nod and whispered, “Thank you.” Then, pulling on a loose sweater, she disappeared from the room, furiously typing what was sure to be a to-do list into her phone.