She pats my leg. “OK, you. I’m going to help Shar finish cooking dinner.”
I give her a thumbs-up, and she leaves, pulling the door closed with a quiet click behind her. I pick up my phone again, staring at the wallpaper I chose months ago: a photoof a waterfall, from a hike I did with Mom and Shar near the end of summer.
Even though I’m still angry at him, I miss Dad. Is he at a meeting right now? Is he lying in bed, thinking of me? Is he even sober? He texted me a few days ago, and I still haven’t read it.
I take a deep breath, and open our thread.
Hey, kiddo,he wrote, and the words make me tear up. I can hear them in his voice, warm and reassuring.I just wanted to let you know I’m thinking of you. I understand if you need some time, so no rush, but whenever you are ready to hang out, I’m here.
I squeeze my eyes shut, tears leaking out and trailing down my cheeks. I sniff, wiping them away, and curl up on my side, staring at his message. For a moment on the mountain with him at our last hike, so many things felt possible, like we could have an actual relationship, one where I could tell him things and he would listen and care. But what if he relapses again, and I just keep getting hurt?
I don’t know if I’m ready,I say.I’ll let you know.
His reply is instant, as if he’s been staring at his phone since he texted me, waiting for my reply.OK, sweetie. I’ll be here.
The tears well up again, and this time I let myself cry.
When I get home from studying with Jayden the next day, Shar is in the kitchen eating a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.
“Kiddo!” she says through a mouthful of bread.
“Hey,” I say, dropping my backpack on the floor by the door and kicking off my shoes.
“We haven’t been out in the shop for a while,” she says. “I’ve been saving the bookcase to finish with you.”
The bookcase. I haven’t thought about it in weeks, but I could really use some power tools right now. Hammering, drilling, and sawing sound like exactly what my body wants to do. And it’ll keep the mental movies quiet for the next couple of hours.
A few minutes later, we’re out in the shop, getting suited up in protective gear. The bookcase is right where we left it, but the stain has set in, and instead of the blond, raw wood, it’s a deep, rich shade of dark brown.
“I have to confess I did do the initial wood gluing of the pieces,” Shar says as she rummages around in her tool organizer. “However...” She turns around, holding up the drill with a big grin. “You remember how to use this?”
“Uhhhhh...”
“I’ll take that as a no.” She grins. “We’ll be putting in screws today, and then we’ll be just about done.”
She walks me through how to use the drill and has me practice on a piece of scrap lumber until she’s satisfied. Then she stands back, and it’s my turn.
I turn the drill on, feeling it whir to life in my hands. She’s predrilled shallow holes already, so all I have to do is fit the screw into place and drive it the rest of the way into the wood. Sawdust collects at each drill point in small piles as I move around the bookcase. It’s satisfying, seeing how it all fits together, how every step leads to the ending Shar planned for.
When I’m done, I turn off the drill and set it down. Shar high-fives me.
“This is looking really good,” she says, hands on hips, surveying our work. “Third time’s the charm.”
“What do you mean?” I push the goggles up on my head, massaging the bridge of my nose where they’ve already imprinted a groove.
“This is my third try making this bookcase,” she says, brushing the sawdust piles off the table. “The first attempt ...well, I didnotmeasure correctly, let’s just say that. The second time, I got it all built and there weren’t enough shelves. That one’s in our closet holding shoes now. So this is round three.”
I look at the bookcase. It’s beautiful, with five shelves, the wood smooth and perfectly stained. I never would have thought Shar had messed something like this up; building things is her whole job.
“Shit goes wrong sometimes,” she says, shrugging. “Shall we clean up and get this bad boy on its feet?”
I nod and join her in sweeping the sawdust into a small pile. She dumps it in the garbage while I tuck the drill back into its drawer. Then she releases the clamps on the bookcase, takes one end, and I take the other. We slide it off the table and set it upright. When we step back, it stays standing, a little taller than me. Shar laughs, clapping her hands together. “Nicole is going tolovethis.”
We each pick up the ends again and move toward the door, turning it on one long side to fit through the door frame, and walk it slowly toward the house. Shar reaches out one hand, the other gripping the top shelf with all her strength, and opens the back door. We move through, intothe kitchen, and around the corner, careful not to step on any cat tails as we go.
Where the old bookcase used to stand is an open space. For the past few months, the books it used to hold have been piled on top of the other bookshelf and stacked on the floor nearby. We set the new bookcase down and slide it backward. It fits perfectly.
“Yes!” Shar pumps her fist, and I can’t help smiling.
