Last night, I couldn’t get the heating to work. Or the electricity.
I messaged the executor of Nanna’s estate, and he told me that he’d had all the utilities turned off, given no one was living in the property, which explained the damp and the leaks and possible cracked pipes.
But even that couldn’t defeat me.
Because I’m somewhere that’s mine. And I have plans to start making sense of the house and finding out if there’s any firewood in Nanna’s wood store to warm the place up while I solve the heating and electricity problems.
I pull on some socks, sneakers, and a thick hoodie, then pad down the hallway, past the peeling wallpaper with faded blue lilies. The kitchen isn’t much better, with its cracked floor tiles, chipped counter, and cabinet doors that hang wonkily on their hinges and don’t seem to close properly.
But there’s a little heat in the space from the brilliant sunlight pouring in through the large siding doors leading to the yard.
Yesterday evening, I went to Karlie’s and collected my stuff. I also stopped off at the grocery store, but I picked up the minimum given I have no electricity, which is kind of important for things like fridges and ovens. When I told Karlie, she offered to loan me her air fryer, until I pointed out that it needed electricity too.
We laughed, and I thanked her for being a good friend. One I’m slowly but surely going to have to leave behind. I saw her pulling on what I think of as her club clothes: a pleated miniskirt, and a white shirt tied in a knot beneath her breasts.
She looked amazing.
Always was one of the prettiest of us.
But I felt sick in my stomach. Like she’s making so much effort to look good for men who just don’t care. She doesn’t see how foolish she’s being, how she’s giving a piece of her soul away into the hands of people who don’t cherish it like they should.
I glance at my phone—thank God for the portable charger I already charged at Karlie’s—and look at the time. It’s eight in the morning, on the weekend. I’m not sure what the chances are of getting my power connected, but I’m pretty certain that no one is going to be talking to me before nine.
Grateful I thought to buy some bananas, I eat one and wash it down with the carton of orange juice I bought and put in the entrance hall, which seemed to be the coldest spot in the house.
Once done, I get dressed and check out the list I made last night as I walked through the house with my phone as a flashlight.
It’s long. Like, really long. And in the daylight, I should probably separate it out by budget and importance and things I can do by myself or need others for.
But first off, I head outside and find that Nanna has a substantial amount of firewood stacked.
“Yes!” The word is said to no one, but the firewood feels like a victory. It takes a few trips to bring some logs and kindling inside, but getting the fire going feels like a very positive first achievement. Even though I’m headed outside, I’m going to keep the fire going to warm the place up.
Once done, I head out front to tackle the falling-down fence that might do even more damage to my car than my uncle did yesterday.
The Colorado morning hits crisp and bright. Birds gossip in the pines behind the house. And the fence creaks and groans under its own weight. One solid windy day from taking out my car.
“Well,” I mutter, hands on my hips. “Not on my watch.”
I pull out my camera and take some photos and videos. I’m toying with the idea of setting up a social media account where I post about the renovation of the house. It will give me something to focus on, something to grow, and will keep me honest in making progress.
Glancing across the street, I see there are no signs of life from Jackal and Shade, so I start recording.
I flip my camera to video and hold it away from me. For a second, I glance at my reflection and wince. Not wearing a fullface of make-up every day is new to me. It used to take an hour and a litany of beauty products to make every flaw on my face disappear for life at the club.
An image flashes into my head, of checking the mirror after one very intense night with Grudge, and I looked like something out of a cartoon, with perfectly applied red lipstick smeared, and mascara tracks down my face. He’d told me I was a good girl and that he’d enjoyed what we’d done together.
I told him I’d enjoyed it too.
But I’d struggled to sleep that night because of the gaping hole I felt in the pit of my stomach left by the absence of any real aftercare.
Then, I remember what the last episode of the podcast series I’m listening to said. That perfection is the enemy of progress. And if I wait until I’m perfectly made up to do any DIY, this house will never get renovated.
“Embrace the new you, Isla,” I say to the camera, knowing I can edit it later. “Hi, let me introduce myself. I’m Isla, andthisis my new home. I know. It doesn’t look like much, but there’s potential in the structure and love in the bones of the place. It was my grandmother’s. And she passed several months ago, so there are pieces of her everywhere in this reno. Come along with me as I work through the house, and in some ways”—I swallow, realizing I hadn’t intended for things to be this raw—“work through the grief.”
I hit pause.
Is that what I’m meant to be doing?
