I bit back my groan and steeled myself for a tough day. I headed to the bathroom, turning the radio on and picking up my toothbrush and paste while I listened to the radio blasting a hit number from my favorite band, The Butchers.
“I tried to change, but I couldn’t—” the male lead singer crooned from the radio as I began to brush.
The lights went out.
The radio fell silent, and I could hear only the whooshing sound of water in my now-dark bathroom. I rinsed my mouth out and walked out of the windowless bathroom into my living space. Sunlight streamed in through the two windows, lighting up the tiny mattress onthe floor, the desk and plastic chair by the coat closet. A narrow kitchen stove occupied the counter by the far wall and a two-in-one washer and dryer stood in the space underneath the counter. I poked my head out the window and looked around. The building across from us had lights on. When I ran to the window by the paltry stove, I could even see lights in the building next to mine.
Sigh.
Every morning, Mrs. Wilson, who lived right downstairs in this creaky, old, multifamily Victorian building—which still had the original wiring that had come with the house—ran a high-powered hair dryer on her dog. It fluffed up his fur and got rid of his ticks, she insisted when I’d asked her about it once. The high-powered hair dryer also frequently tripped the breaker and made us lose power every other morning.
I ran out of my studio in my house slippers and down the stairs to her door and knocked.
“Mrs. Wilson,” I said, realizing too late that a bit of toothpaste was on my chin. “The lights have gone out.”
Please have a fix, I pleaded, not knowing what else was stuck to my face. I needed to wash up. Preferably in a lit bathroom.
She opened the door and leaned on her cane as she looked back at me. To her credit, she didn’t mention the toothpaste stuck to my face even though her eyes darted to it. The only look on her serene, chubby face was that of confusion.
“My dear, I promise you, it wasn’t the hair dryer. I haven’t used it all morning.”
She hobbled closer to the door on her cane, her hair in tight, bouncy curls. I stared at her hair for a second longer, gears clicking into place in my mind.
“Did you get a brand-new curling iron, Mrs. Wilson?” I asked, putting two and two together.
She beamed at me. “Yes, it’s fantastic. You should try it out sometime.”
She’s right that it wasn’t the hair dryer that tripped the breaker this time.
“Now, my dear,” she said, “I made a mean shrimp gumbo yesterday, and I remembered that it was a recipe I got from your mom at her restaurant. I saved some for you.”
Shrimp gumbo. I frowned. Mrs. Wilson knew that it was my favorite. Which meant she knew something about today that she was trying to make me feel better about.
“Mrs. Wilson, do you know about the new investors taking over Mom’s restaurant today?” I asked, leaning against the doorframe as she walked back to her kitchen.
“The investors? Hmm … you might’ve mentioned it last night when we moved the couch in,” she called back, attempting and failing to sound casual as she pulled open cabinets.
Mrs. Wilson had known my mother until she died a year ago. She had been a frequent visitor at my mom’s restaurant up until her death.
She came back to the door with a blue Tupperware container, and all my defenses melted away.
“Aww, Mrs. Wilson, thank you. You shouldn’t have,” I said, feeling touched.
The used couch took up a large part of her living area, and going by the way her dog was blissfully curled up on it, it was worth the trouble.
“Nonsense,” she said briskly. “Your mother would’ve done the same for me if I had a daughter. Now, I’ll make a call to the electrician. Don’t you worry about it.”
Nothing can help the electric wiring in this house.
With a sigh, I took my shrimp gumbo and headed back to my apartment to change within the dark interior. I washed my face again and chose the first turtleneck sweater I could find and matched it with dark brown cargo pants. I picked up a heart-shaped locket that I regularly wore, one that I had skipped for the date with Harvey. Inside was a picture of Mom from ten years ago. From a time when she had been simpler and more honest with me. The kind of mom I wanted to remember her as.
I slipped it on with some hesitation and headed out the door. Some days, I felt like this locket was lucky. Other days, I wasn’t so sure.
“Stay warm, Mrs. Wilson,” I called out as I rushed past her door, deciding to get coffee at work.
I heard her call back a thank-you.
This morning, the temperature was in the forties, and I knew Mrs. Wilson relied on the heat to keep herself and her dog warm.
