But I duck my head, embarrassed and chastened as I put up my stuff and return to the house.
I’ve been doing so well. Fulfilling all my duties here on the farm well and even managing sex in a way he was happy with.
But he’s never going to let me do more to help him with morning chores after this, so it feels like I’ve really messed up.
Mason makes no show of unhappiness over breakfast, so I’m able to shake off the failure and move on. I don’t have any weekly household responsibilities on Saturdays—thebigger chores I’ve put on a daily rotation for earlier in the week—so I decide to reorganize the closets and built-in storage compartments so the stuff we use regularly is more easily accessible.
While Mason is working outside, I pull out everything stored in the cottage, making piles by use and condition. Some of the clothing is so old that it’s unusable, but I start a basket of rags, which often come in handy. I find more clothes that must have belonged to Mason’s parents and identify those with more use in them, moving them into his closet and mine.
I put the items we use regularly in the accessible compartments in the hall and stow stuff used only a few times a year in the bottom ones that are still reasonably easy to get to. Then I drag out piled boxes in the corner of my bedroom and move the useful stuff into the storage compartments as well.
There are two whole boxes of books that might be interesting to read. I’ll ask Mason if I can build some shelves in my big closet to put them on so they’re easier to get to. I don’t have enough good clothes to fill more than a third of the space in there.
I collect several piles of random items with no clear use at all—archaic pieces of small technology, unattractive trinkets, and books and manuals obviously written for a narrow purpose no longer relevant in the world after the Fall. No one will ever want to read them.
At lunch I ask Mason what we should do with them. Ireally think we can just throw them out, but Mason doesn’t want to. They belonged to his parents. But he says he’ll be happy to build the shelves for me tomorrow.
I would have been more than capable of doing them myself. I know how, and I prefer to be useful.
When he goes back outside for the afternoon, I finish the organizational project, doing so well that both our closets end up half empty and there are no longer visible boxes stacked anywhere.
By late afternoon, all that’s left is stowing the useless stuff in the very top compartments in the hallway. They’re up next to the ceiling, and there’s no way I can reach them without help.
Mason has a big ladder in the shed outside, but that’s far too big and ungainly to bring into the house. So I drag one of the dining chairs over to stand on. It’s sturdy and gets me to the right height.
It takes several ups and downs to stow everything. There are three different top compartments, so I have to reposition the chair to reach each one.
I’m tired and ready to be done with this job, so I probably rush too much. But everything goes fine until the very last box of junk that needs to be tucked away up there.
I’m holding the box in my hands as I take a big step up onto the seat of the chair like I have each time.
But my foot doesn’t get planted as firmly as it should. It lands too far to the side of the seat, throwing the chair off balance.
What happens next is unfortunate. The chair topples to the side, and so do I. The box gets thrown out of my hands. And all of it—me, the chair, the box, and everything inside it—falls onto the floor with a loud clatter.
I land on my butt with half the items from the box on top of me.
The impact jars me, but I don’t hit my head, and none of my limbs get bent the wrong way in the fall.
So I’m all right. I really am. Even as I catch my breath and orient myself, I know I’m all right. I might have bruised my ass, but there’s no other damage.
Mason must have been on his way inside or close to the cottage because he hears the tumble and comes running in. “Teresa, what the hell?” he bursts out, rushing over to me and kneeling down on the floor beside me.
“I… slipped.” I blinked, once again assessing my condition. “I’m okay.”
When I try to get up, he stops me. “Don’t jump up. You might’ve really hurt yourself.”
“I didn’t hurt myself.” I let him gently lift me to my feet. My unsteadiness is from being jarred so abruptly, not from being injured. But I’m forced to cling to him anyway. “I just fell. Give me a minute to get my balance again.”
“Go real slow,” he says when I take a few experimental steps. He’s got his arm at my waist to support me. “Sometimes we don’t know what’s hurt right away.”
“I really think I’m okay. Maybe a bruise or two butnothing else.” After a minute, I’m able to walk fine on my own, but Mason is still hovering. “Sorry for the hassle.”
“Hassle? You scared the shit out of me. Heard the big crash and then saw you on the floor. What the hell were you even trying to do with that chair?”
“I was just moving the extra stuff into the top compartments.”
“Standing on that chair?”
