So I took the next step that made sense. I called my previous contractor—no more local referrals, thank you—to ask about resuming the work, starting with the oven. I got his voicemail and left a message.
Then I washed my face in the bathroom, a final step in reclaiming my sanity for the day. I returned to the kitchen and saw that I’d missed his call, presumably due to the sound of me running water in the sink.
“Miss Hicks, this is Jerry with Southern Sons Remodeling. I got your message about the oven installation Friday. I’m afraid that won’t be possible to resume unless you’ve had someone else take care of the numerous items I shared in my last report. I’m headedout to an event with my family tonight. You can reach me in the morning. Take care, now.”
So much for today’s sanity.
Chapter 17
When I’d first gotten notice from Southern Sons via email that they couldn’t complete the full reconstruction in time, sure, I opened the attachment. I’d scrolled to the last page and saw the amount needed to continue the work, which might as well have been the same as the national debt because, either way, I didn’t have the money to proceed.
With that, I had closed the document and finished packing the last of my bags at my home in Austin while Eric seethed in his man cave. His man cave had its own bar, along with a theater. It was the perfect hideaway for someone who loved to be alone as much as he did.
But that day, as I rolled and stuffed several pairs of black slacks into a lightweight suitcase, he left the cave door open, filling the bottom floor with sounds of gunfire, cussing, and the sharp sound effects of a violent action movie. Though Eric had never hit me, he had a way of agitating me all his own. He’d play music so loud that I couldn’t think straight, or burn several sticks of incense, knowing I couldn’t stand the smell or the feel of thick, smoky air.
For the record, I could be petty as well. I’ve been known to make up one side of the bed for weeks at a time. There’s an art to it.
Anyway, when I got the email about the newly discovered problems and the estimate for what it would cost to fix them, I put the matter out of my mind, choosing to worry about one thing at a time. Packing and getting to Robin Creek took priority. And when I’d arrived at Grandma Jewel’s place and looked around, I liked what I saw. Beautiful exterior and interior paint. White, shiny baseboards. Working lights. Whatever the Southern Sons still needed to do didn’t seem dire.
When your car still gets you from point A to point B with no problems, it’s easy to ignore a check-engine light. Especially when you don’t have extra money.
Now that I had reopened the email and paid attention to the problems, it all made sense. Gabriella wasn’t to blame for the oven disaster because that side of the house with the kitchen and laundry room needed rewiring. The plumbing system needed significant upgrades to support increased demand once an additional laundry room was added.
My heart sank at these first two revelations. It was only a matter of time before things fell apart if I installed Celestia, let alone finished the duplex separation.
Additionally, the heating system needed an upgrade with new insulation; otherwise, the upcoming winter months might make the house unlivable, depending on how Mother Nature rolled in. No matter what, I had to make changes. Time mattered now.
Gabriella had come in late the night before, so we didn’t get to talk about whatever had happened with her and Lorenzo. Their issue was no longer a priority for me, given the message from Jerry and my scan of the documents he gave me months ago. In a way, I was glad I hadn’t scoured the estimate. I might not have left Austin when I did.
Elijah and I were up and out before Gabriella woke up. He and I parted ways at the recreation center, him heading to the camp and me to the offices. The flowers from Richard were holding up nicely, and my framed picture of Elijah scuba diving—a gift from Terri—made me smile despite everything.
No sooner had I logged into our system than Jerry followed up with me again.
“Ms. Hicks, hello again. How are you?”
“Hello, Jerry. I’m fine. Thanks so much for your message. How are you?”
“Oh, I can’t complain. Just wanted to follow up with you about the duplex. Did you get the other work done by someone else?”
I managed a laugh. “No. I haven’t done anything except mess up my oven.”
“Yikes! Sorry to hear that,” he said in a wincing voice. “Yeah, that wiring can’t be overloaded. According to my records, that oven was the oldest appliance in the kitchen. The new stuff will turn off before it overheats like that, so I wouldn’t say you’re in danger at this point. You just need to make the changes before you can move ahead, and definitely before winter with the heating situation.”
“I gathered that,” I told him. “The problem is, I don’t have the money to do all those things. Not until I’ve been on my job a while longer. I’m wondering if we can prioritize, maybe. Do things in stages.”
“Certainly, I’m willing to do that,” he agreed. “Um…I don’t want to insult you, but have you by chance checked in with SLAP?”
“No. I don’t know who Slap is, and I’m not interested in another off-the-record contractor,” I said frankly.
Jerry laughed. “No. I’m talking about the Senior Living Advocacy Program. S-L-A-P. In Lubbock. They can sometimeshelp with upgrades, installing ramps and rails, things to help people stay at home as they age. They might be able to help you, though your circumstance is different.”
“No, I haven’t called SLAP.” I laughed at myself. “But I can. I’ll let you know what happens. Thank you.”
I got a number and made an appointment to visit SLAP that afternoon. I got hold of Gabriella by text, and she said she’d pick up Elijah if I was running late.
An hour after I got off work, I found myself signing in for my appointment at SLAP’s West Texas regional office. The office was a bustling hub of information and assistance, its walls papered with an array of large-print notices and flyers, all aimed at supporting the senior community. There were comprehensive guides on healthcare rights, notices about upcoming workshops on financial planning for retirement, tips for navigating Social Security benefits, and QR codes to scan for more information.
Aside from joining the AARP and getting a few Tuesday discounts, I really hadn’t considered myself an outright senior citizen. Yet there I was, with silver hairs streaking through my pulled-back, puffy ponytail. All I needed now was long compression socks and nursing shoes, which, coincidentally, sounded like heaven. Every time I hauled myself up from the chair at work, I felt a pulsing in my legs. It wouldn’t be long before I joined the long-socks club.
