I left a message with my attorney instead.
Then I started baking.
I changed my plans for the retirement party to avoid Kathy realizing her sister-in-law was serving the same bourbon-based desserts I’d mentioned. I found plenty of alternatives, and I enjoyed the added challenge of finding the perfect replacements.
I sampled a little bourbon as I worked, having forgotten how much I liked whiskey. Why was wine the more socially acceptable choice of drink for women? I added that to my list of things the patriarchy stole, then vowed to take it back.
Soon, with the last of my cakes in the oven, I turned my attention to the mess, wiping most of it into the sink.
The drain gurgled, and the sink chugged but didn’t empty. Instead of vanishing merrily into the pipes, the water backed up and accumulated.
My finger froze on the garbage disposal switch. “Do not break,” I warned. I needed a working sink to finish my orders, and I didn’t have any more money to spend on this house right now.
A bubble rose through the darkening water, and the sink’s contents turned brown.
“Shit.” I turned off the garbage disposal and searched for a mini plunger under the sink. I spotted a leak in the pipe and a small puddle already forming there. “Shit!”
I threw a dish towel on the puddle and shoved a plastic bowl under the leak. Then I grabbed the plunger and sank it into the murky water, aiming for the drain. “Please work,” I prayed. Eyes closed, I gave the handle a few hard pumps.
To my delight, the water began to recede.
“Ha!” I left the plunger in the sink and backed away for a victory dance. I put my hands up and shook my hips in ways I hadn’t in far too long. I laughed at the silliness, then doubled down and really let loose. “I am a confident, fast-thinking, independent woman,” I sang. “I can do hard things. Nothing’s going to stop me. Oh, yeah! Go, Soph—”
A sudden spray of sludge hit my calves through the open lower-cabinet doors.
I gasped, and the remaining water vanished from the sink. Before I could process what was happening, the leaking pipe burst, and filthy water rushed onto my floor.
“No!”
I lunged toward the mess, and my feet went up over my head. I landed on my backside with a thud, both feet sticking straight out before me. Grayish hunks of dough and bits of rotten food clung to the linoleum around me while my cute white shorts absorbed the putrid mess.
I slapped my hands against the ground in outrage and received a splash of the nasty water in return. Droplets stuck to my eyelashes and cheeks. My stomach churned, and I rose for a run to the restroom, arms pinwheeling as I went.
It was official. I hated this house.
The cleanup took significantly longer than expected, but I managed to get the desserts out of the oven on time and without another slip or fall. I dialed the plumber while the baked goods cooled on my newly disinfected countertop.
The receptionist answered with a bright and cheery greeting, but that all changed when I gave my name and address.
“Sorry,” she said. “Services to this address are on hold.”
“On hold? Why?” I asked. Nothing out of the ordinary happened when the technician repaired my shower and hot-water tank last month.
“Your payment didn’t clear,” she said. “We sent a letter to the address on file with the credit card, but we haven’t gotten a response. You’re on the do-not-service list until that changes.”
My shoulders inched upward, recalling the credit card debacle at the market. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know there was a problem.”
“We sent a notice to the address on file for the card,” she repeated.
I pressed a palm to my forehead. “Sorry, that goes to another person.” That other person was Robert. “If you send the notice to me, I can pay the bill,” I said.
I had no idea how I’d do it, but I did a lot of impossible things these days. What was one more?
“Are you a renter?” she asked.
“No. This is my house. The credit card is my husband’s, but I live here now.” I curled my hand into a fist on my head, willing myself not to say more. The woman on the call didn’t care about my situation. She just wanted to get paid. “I can write a check,” I offered. “There was just a mix-up with the card.”
“You have that check now?” she asked. “I can call the bank to confirm available funds, then get you on the schedule for your new issue. You can give the technician the check when he arrives.”
