Page 46

Emily Bond

Sort of Seeing Someone

My mom spent the night with me in my Airbnb.

I can’t say it was a move for comfort, as she probably would have had just the same amount of space on her bus as the cramped studio I rented.

But for what it’s worth, I am utterly warmed knowing she chose me after playing ““keep away” from me forthe last several years. I have an understanding now as to why, as well as empathy for how hard it must be to just jump back into mother-daughter mode. Still, we had a good time channel surfing, sharing a bowl of popcorn, and setting up an online dating profile—for her.But best of all, there was talk of the future. I’ll be joining her on a vortex hunt next month.

With a full heart, I saw my mom off on her commune’s RV before it peeled out of OB en route to Sedona early this morning after a little bit of yoga in the sand. I still don’t claim to fully understand the visit to her past life she’s making, but I hope—for her sake—the guy isn’t a total quack.

Back at the Airbnb, I spot a yellowed envelope with a neon pink Post-it on it sitting on the kitchen counter. In my mom’s handwriting, it says on the note: I knew I could never send this to you. So glad I held on to it long enough to just…give it to you. -XO Mom

I slide my finger under the seal that has all but given up its sticking power over the years. The letter inside is also in my mom’s handwriting, which has not changed in—according to the date in the upper right corner—the last 26 years.

I read the letter three times and feel the power multiply in every single word. I’m both confused and clearheaded at the same time. I fold up the relic, put it in my purse, and resolve that coffee is—yet again—the answer.

I comb through each kitchen cabinet until I find precisely what I’m looking for: a French press next to a bag of coffee grounds with a little note from the Airbnb host saying, “Help yourself!” If ever there was a time for my favorite ritual, it’s now.

The only thing missing is Gerda’s patio (and some banter with Walter the parrot).

Pouring my fresh-made coffee into a to-go mug, I deem now is finally the time to go for a certain walk.

It’s the first time since being back in this neighborhood that I’ve been able to physically bring myself to visit the property.

Of course I had a natural curiosity to see what the modern monstrosity was going to look like in the flesh, and I could have walked by it at least ten times by now, but I wasn’t ready.

The memory of the only place I ever felt athome is still too fresh in my mind to accept that it just doesn’t exist anymore. That really no part of it does.

The house is the second from the corner once you make the turn onto Narragansett.

In its former state, you couldn’t see it from the sidewalk, as it was set so far back from the street.

The luscious green yard and the fig tree were all that would come into frame as you got closer.

But now, a new sight greets me with each step I take.

It’s tall, modular design sticks out among the row of semi-dilapidated beach shacks.

The siding is a tan-colored stucco accented with dark wood paneling and blocks of cement throughout.

Big, angled windows with bold, black framing between panes line each level.

The maintenance-free landscaping is a mix of small gray pebbles, stepping stones, and succulents.

A waist-high glass fence surrounds the property. It is undeniably nice.

As I stand in front of the property, two guys with clipboards are there surveying the grounds. They have tape measures out and are discussing adding a water feature.

“It’s a drought here, you know. It’s a bad look to install a fountain. I’m telling you, the locals will hate it and we do not want this stucco getting egged, Phil,” I hear one of the men say.

Phil… Santos , I wonder? I remember his name from the paperwork Betty sent me.

“Can we help you?” Phil says after noticing me standing there eavesdropping.

“Are you Phil Santos by chance?” I ask.

“Depends who’s asking,” he replies.

“Don’t tell me she’s the City Inspector,” I can hear his counterpart whisper to him.

“I’m Moonie Miller. Gerda Germain was my former landlord.”

Phil’s arm that’s holding the tape measuredrops to his side as he takes some slow steps toward me.

He looks me up and down before saying, “Well, welcome home, Moonie Miller.”

Phil steps aside and gestures toward the palace behind us. We go on to take a tour. The penthouse is of course a show stopper and I learn it is already sold to a Hollywood producer who wanted “a vacation home” in San Diego.

Unit 2, in the middle, has two offers on it, he tells me.

One of them is Betty’s god-son who currently lives near the mountains, but grew up in OB and wants to come back.

His offer isn’t the best, but Phil hints he’s leaning toward taking it for “good karma,” which is, in fact, a standard currency in this part of the world.

Eventually, we find ourselves at the final stop: Unit 1—the two-bedroom condo Gerda deeded to me.

Phil reminds me of things like…there are no stairs, it’s naturally cooler on the first floor during the hot summer months, and that the taxes are prepaid for thirty years as if I’m looking at the ground-floor dwelling as some sort of shitty consolation prize.

In honesty, it’s nicer than a five-star resort, more space than I’ve ever had, there’s proper central air conditioning installed throughout, and no one died in this particular unit…

to my knowledge.There truly is nothing to complain about—no worries, in OB speak.

“You may get the occasional cockroach down here,” Phil warns me.

Okay, so maybe one worry.

We find ourselves back outside amongthe sun and succulents and I tell him the whole place is stunning.

“I can see why you’ve made this your career. You’re very good at what you do, Mr. Santos.”

“The funny thing is,” Phil explains. “This isn’t even my full-time gig.

I have an architecture degree but I’m actually an accountant at an advertising agency.

I’m not like the turn-em-and-burn-em big developers.

I just go for the projects that really speak to me.

And this one really spoke to me. I just got this intense vision of what it could be.

So I pulled some records, located the owner, and sat down withGerda a week later.

I presented my plans, and for whatever reason, she said yes to me. ”

I think I know the reason. Gerda hated developers. But the more I talk with Phil, the more I realize that’s not what he is. He’s actually kind of like me: someone who gets a vision every now and then, with a fierce determination to back it up.

“At the end of the day, I was the only one willing to do a few funky things she demanded in order to seal the deal.”

“Like what?” I can’t help but ask.

“Well, for starters, to save that goddam fig tree. We replanted it in the courtyard if you didn’t notice.

She also wanted crossword-themed art installed in the common areas.

Do you know how long it took to source an artist to take that on?

She made me sign our contract in pencil, which I said was not a great idea legally speaking, but then threatened to kill the deal if I didn’t.

And that’s the story of how I purchased a pack of Ticonderoga-Dixon pencils for the first time since childhood. ”

I can’t help but smile. To have known Gerda Germainis to have a story of buying pencils as an adult, I explain.

“And then obviously there was reserving this unit for you. Not a weird request in and of itself, but she did instruct me not to reach out to you, and told me that eventually you’d just show up one day.

Crazy, because that’s exactly how it happened.

My mind is kind of blown that you did in fact… just show up.”

“By chance, do you remember when she told you that I’d ‘just show up’?”

“Yes, I remember it exactly. It was when we were ‘closing the deal’ so to speak. We were shaking hands—the act of which she drew out much longer than normal. Quite a grip for an old lady, if I say so myself.”

Finally, it makes sense. Gerda had Exexveei.

“Speaking of closing the deal, here’s the fob to your new home.”

My body freezes up as I try to process that the official handover is happening.

“That is, assuming you want the unit?”

I continue to say and do nothing.

“Look, if this is about the second bathroom not having a tub, we can certainly add one,” he assures me.

“No, the unit is perfect as is. It’s just…quite the gift. This used to be nothing more than a string-lit little beach shack in which someone died. Now it’s…it’s a work of art. It’s really well done, Phil.Gerda would be so proud. You should really quit the ad agency gig and pursue this full time.”

Not the defunct witch giving out business advice...

A humble smile washes across his lips as his eyes gaze down to the ground. Once again, he reaches out with the fob. This time, I don’t hesitate in taking it.

When I arrive to the panel discussion, Sam and Kathy are there to greet me with a mimosa.

I decline as I hold up my coffee. They instead offer me a heart-shaped croissant, which I happily take as I spotYas wearing another bright orange athleisure ensemble sitting in a clear acrylic chair facing a projector screen.

She moves her purse off the one next to her and taps the seat to summon me over.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, girl.”

“You too,” I say, giving her a hug.