Water Damage

When that midnight phone call came, during a sky-splitting thunderstorm, I should have ignored it. But it could have been something serious–Mom’s nerves or Dad’s heart. You never know.

“Bruni, you’ve gotta help me.” The hoarse voice on the other end sounded familiar but I was too sleepy to recognize the caller.

“Can I crash at your place?” said the low rasp. “I just—I just—”

Crash. Ah—that was the giveaway. “Where are you, Liuva? Are you okay?” I sputtered. What new emergency was this? My sister was contacting me four years after she’d sworn never to speak to me again.

I nudged the lump in bed beside me and said, “It’s Liuva.” Rod sat up, knuckle-rubbing his eyes like a little boy. I could still smell the sex between us.

“Yeah, I’m okay, I just need a place to crash,” said the frazzled voice on the phone. “Sofa will be fine. Even just a rug…”

“What do you mean, just a sofa or a rug? Where are the kids?” I asked. Lukas and Amaya were toddlers when she’d stormed out of our lives four years ago.

“Uh, well, okay, maybe three sofas, if you got ‘em.”

“Three sofas? What, you think I’ve opened a furniture store?”

No answer.

I heaved a great sigh, threw off the coverlet, and told her to come on by. I was already tallying sheets and pillows—the petty details of clean linen whenever company descends. Although, come to think of it, Liuva and her kids wouldn’t really know clean-clean stuff, would they? I could pull pillowcases from the dirty laundry hamper and they’d be none the wiser.

“Um, could I get a ride, too?” she asked.

“A ride!” I grabbed a pen, and asked for her street address, like some emergency dispatcher. Welcome to Life with Liuva.

“Greyhound bus depot,” she said. “Right beside Cap’n Jack’s Restaurant.” I knew the place well, with its weathered sign over the bench: “Eat Fish Tonight … Just For The Halibut.”

Rod, bless his heart, was already dressed by the time Liuva rang off. “Let me do the honors,” he said, as he hugged me. He nuzzled my neck and whispered, “Just for the halibut.” He dashed into the rain-streaked darkness, jingling his keys.

So there I was, counting blankets, counting the number of times Liuva has breezed into my life, and rapidly escalated to hurricane-force winds, leaving rubble in her wake. Her charmed childhood, when she could do no wrong—in our parents’ eyes, anyway. The obnoxious adolescence, when she borrowed my clothes and boyfriends and dirtied up both. The terrible twenties when she ricocheted from one job to the next, getting fired by every boss who took her on. And then, suddenly, she had up and left on her twenty-fifth birthday. An unashamed relief for me. A predictable heartache for Mom and Dad, who had called the missing persons registry day after day.

“No news is good news,” I’d reminded Mom and Dad, but they are born worriers. We kept expecting to hear from her—if only to be asked for bail—but nothing surfaced for a year. Finally one of her exes—Amaya’s dad—tracked Liuva down, living on the west coast without telephone or indoor plumbing.

My sister had a lot of explaining to do—and I was in no mood for her lies. As I made up the guest room bed, I repeated my mantra: “Breathe… Giverny … breathe.”

Boof! Suddenly the door burst open, and the tempest blew in. Liuva was upon me. Kiss, kiss, hug, hug. “How are you?” and “it’s been too long!” she cried in happy delight. Belly laughter—“why don’t you ever drive out to see us? The kids miss you like crazy!” As if they even remember Auntie Bruni or Uncle Rod. Liuva’s face was pale and pinched, but she still managed to look like a starlet. A combination of good bones and Teflon conscience, I guess.

“Well…,” I said, grunting as I picked up the blankets I’d dropped in the midst of all these warm and friendly and totally fake salutations.

“Mind you, if I had a guy like this at home, I’d keep him secret, too,” Liuva said, giving a squeeze to Rod’s biceps. He turned away from her and made cross-eyes at me, as if the squeeze had been excruciating. It’s our thing, making funny faces, a secret commentary on whatever crazy stuff we’re dealing with. I tried hard not to smile.

“Well, for starters, we had no idea what beach you’d washed up on this time,” I said. “Ever thought of leaving a forwarding address?”

“Details!” she scoffed, waving elegantly. Her outstretched arm bore scars, but no fresh tracks. Not that I could see, anyway. Hope springs eternal, blah-blah.

“Have you eaten?” I asked.

“Mommy, where’s their dog? I’m tired,” Amaya whined, wrapping sinuous limbs around her mother. “How ‘bout the rainbow cookies you promised? Can the doggy sleep with me?”

“Baxter’s uh…” I started to say, then realized I didn’t want my first words to my newly reunited niece to be about euthanizing a blind, incontinent dog. “Hey! Did someone mention cookies?”

“It’s under control,” Rod said, emerging from the pantry, rattling an ancient box of Maple Creams, which were pried apart, sniffed, and devoured by the kids. They didn’t touch the milk that I poured for them.

Lukas loved climbing on armchairs and jumping off. His sneakers were muddy, quelle surprise, but I held my tongue. It was “honest mud” as Mom would say, easy to brush off when dry.

Looking amused by our bustle of activity for her children, Liuva sat there, half-lotus on a chair. I covertly studied her faded blonde highlights and her chipped fluorescent orange nails, trying to decide whether those D.I.Y. attempts at glamor were strictly for her own amusement or whether she was recently a “working girl.” My own nails are broken and sometimes dirty—I’m a gardener, not a princess.

“Last time I saw this hunk, you two were newlyweds,” Liuva said, her eyes lingering on Rod’s shoulders.

I imagined Rod collecting her and the kids from Cap’n Jack’s bench; no doubt she gave Rod a big, measuring hug then.

“Where’s your luggage?” I asked. “It’s too late for their baths—why don’t they just put on their PJs?”

She produced a garbage bag and rummaged pseudo-convincingly in it. “Um, sorry, guess I forgot the PJs. Oh, and the, uh, toothbrushes. Sorry, guys.…” She smiled and put her head to one side like Baxter used to do when I caught him gnawing Rod’s dress shoes.

“Ever brushed teeth with your fingers?” Rod said. The kids giggled as he demonstrated this boy scout technique and couldn’t wait to try it themselves.

I told Liuva she could freshen up in the guest bedroom. For the minty-mouthed kids, Rod and I made up the pull-out sofa bed. They co-operated surprisingly well. Maybe they thought this was some eccentric game.

Sure enough, within minutes, Lukas and Amaya were up again. They chased their half-undressed mother back to the living room, claiming they wanted to sleep in the guest room instead. Whatever. I was too tired to care.

“Anyway, this arrangement is better,” Liuva said, flopping down on the sofabed. I saw Rod’s eyes follow her. When it comes to clothes, Liuva believes “less is more.” Despite two babies, her figure is still va-va-voom and she knows it. I tossed her Rod’s old dressing gown and soon she looked like a sexy shepherd in a Christmas pageant.

Rod poured nightcaps and got the fireplace going. We felt snug against the fury of the storm.

“Cozy lil nest you’ve got here,” she said. Her Dorothy-in-Oz eyes were appraising everything, from the dim beads of the antique chandelier to the dusty leather-bound copies of Dickens and Tolkien. “Hey, did you paint these garden pictures yourself?” She pointed to a framed print of Monet’s best-known work—the elegant Japanese bridge, weeping willows, and waterlilies. I adore that painting. Sometimes I lose myself, studying the many daubs of seemingly random color that form the lily blossoms, a lush layering of flowers and their multiple reflections in the water.

But I knew exactly what she was doing: buttering me up. It works on nearly everyone. But not on me. Her outrageous compliments—my painting like Monet’s? My garden like the lavender beds of Giverny?

“Nah,” I said, “it’s just a print. Some random place in France.”

“Really? But it’s on your wall,” said Liuva, toying with the belt of her dressing gown.

Muffled thuds emanated from the guest room. “Are those kids tossing horseshoes?” Rod asked, making Liuva laugh. “Don’t they need a bedtime story or something?” From a bookshelf, he pulled out my childhood copy of Paddington the Bear.

“Ooh, Rod, I had forgotten how … how sweet you are,” said Liuva.

Rod turned away and made funny eyes at me. I smiled and made funny eyes back. Then I took the book from his hand, placed Paddington firmly in Liuva’s, and gently pushed her toward the guest room. “We’d love to help out, but we’ve got crazy-early shifts,” I said. “G’night.”

* * *

“What, did you order the Krabby Cake Special?” Rod asked me the next morning at breakfast.

I pretended I hadn’t heard him. Dear Rod did not get up three times in the night, once to remind Liuva not to smoke in the house, once to tell the kids not to thump on the wall anymore, and once to turn off the blaring TV that the three of them had fallen asleep in front of.

As he drove me to work, Rod said, “It’s just for a day or two.”

“I doubt it,” I said, looking out the window at the bulging grey clouds, leftovers from the storm. “Mom and Dad can’t take them in—their condo’s so small you have to step outside to change your mind. And Liuva’s not exactly flush with cash.”

“She’ll find something. Look at all the Help Wanted signs,” he said, pointing at random storefronts as we drove by.

I waited for him to comment on her looks—men always do, sooner or later, assuming prettiness helps her find work. Instead, Rod said, “I know it’s tough for you—but just help her out for now.” Did I mention Rod is big on family?

I stared into the morning grayness. “I’d just like to know: Has Liuva ever been there for me, when I needed her? Has she ever been there for Mom and Dad?” Liuva had missed a gut-wrenching chapter of our parents’ existence: my father’s triple bypass and my mother’s nervous collapse the following week. I began to tear up, thinking of how frail they looked, lying there in separate hospital beds.

“Besides, we’ve got our escape clause, remember?” said Rod, putting his big warm hand on my shoulder.

I smiled, thinking of our Big Plan: Giverny. We’ve paid the deposit for a tiny cottage where we plan to move to at the earliest opportunity. Rod will continue his web design business and I will dive into goat farming, run Bruni’s Billy Goats on socials. Maybe score a book deal, if my following is big enough. “Of course,” I said, as he dropped me off at the supermarket where I worked. “How could I forget?”

Mom paged me later that day at work, demanding to know why I hadn’t called her first thing last night, as soon as I’d heard from Liuva. I pleaded, “We were all exhausted, Mom—”

“Oh my, yes, wasn’t she? That poor waif. Such dark shadows under her eyes!” Mom had already dropped by my house to see them. She prattled on about Lukas: “Isn’t he cute, too bad about the cut on his forehead … maybe Wal-Mart has some child-friendly coffee tables?”

“Hang on,” I said. “What cut?”

“Maybe Rodney can pack away everything with sharp edges,” Mom said. “I want you to make your sister feel comfortable.”

“Of course,” I said.

“You know what your father and I would do, if we didn’t have such a nosy superintendent,” Mom said.

The warm growl of Dad’s voice leapt from the extension of their landline. “And I want everyone over for prime rib and Champagne this Friday! Didja tell her, Mildred?” On the phone, Dad tended to shout, as if he didn’t completely trust the phone to convey his words.

“Not yet,” yelled Mom.

“What? Oh, sure, Dad!” I yelled back. Prime rib, no doubt from the fatted calf, and Champagne, from the fatted grape. I understood how the prodigal son’s brother felt. “And what am I: chopped liver?” I demanded. “You’ve never once invited Rod and me over for dinner!”

“Bruni, you know how dinky that galley-kitchen is,” Mom said.

“What, you want liver?” yelled Dad. “Prime rib not good enough for you?”

“Oh never mind! Good-bye!” I disconnected immediately. The problem with smart phones is that there’s no satisfying way to slam down the receiver.

By Friday I had calmed down. In fact, I was perversely looking forward to dinner. Now my parents could cook for the fussy eaters, whose only meal plan seemed to be that no one would eat the same as what anyone else was having. I told Rod not to pick me up from work; I would go home to change, and he should go directly from his office to my parents’ place.

As I walked up the front stairs, I was debating whether to wear the ugly birthday sweater Dad had given me or the frumpy skirt from Mom. “Oh, Bruni, you’re … here,” Liuva said, meeting me at the door. She was wearing only a long T-shirt and her sweet-naughty look.

“Why wouldn’t I be here? I hopped on the early bus home, to get ready,” I said. I smiled, having at that moment decided: both sweater and skirt.

She smiled back.

Suddenly my nose tingled, and I heard a faint roar. “Everything okay, Liu?” I asked.

“I was so tired. I needed a little nap. And the kids were just having a little bath—”

It suddenly clicked. “Upstairs?” I screamed, taking the stairs two at a time, the roar of water getting louder and louder. I started pressing 9-1-1 on my phone. “You should never never leave kids unsupervised in water!”

There was a squeal of laughter, and Lukas’s wiry body went sliding to the end of the hallway. Amaya made pretend pistol-shot sounds.

“Whoa!” I cried. Water everywhere. I grabbed at the hall railing, but I was too late and my shoulder crashed into the bathroom door. I scrambled to the overflowing bathtub and yanked the roaring faucet to “OFF.” I felt strangely elated, though: no drowned children.

“They’re not babies,” Liuva said defensively.

I bolted downstairs to get a mop from the pantry. I heard an ominous plonk-plonk in the living room. “Oh no-o-o,” I shrieked, pointing at the ceiling. The plaster was puffy and discolored.

“Hello? What is your emergency?” crackled the voice from my phone.

“Nothing’s wrong!” I shouted to the emergency dispatcher.

“What, is your roof leaking?” said Liuva.

“You idiot! It’s the bathroom,” I screamed. “With the—the overflowing tub! It’s right over the living room!”

The base of the chandelier began to detach from the waterlogged ceiling. It began to hiss and spark. Bluish zaps shot between the base and a thick wire, then pffft! All bulbs went dark.

“Rod, help us!” screamed Liuva. I thought she said, “God help us” and I turned to stare at her—was that what she up to on the West Coast? Did my sister get religion?

I saw Rod coming downstairs— galloping two stairs at a time.

Coming downstairs?

I blinked furiously. “What the hell?”

The chandelier lurched and swung. Tinkling noises overlaid a grinding metallic squawk. I stared hard into the darkness—was that Amaya still playing finger-pistols? “Watch out,” I cried.

I cursed vehemently as thousands of dollars and dozens of hours in restoration work were destroyed in a giant shuddering crash.

Then, silence.

Bile rose in my throat as I took in the destruction of my perfect home: the ruined books, the sodden carpet, the thick lumps of plaster debris and broken crystal. And there was the Monet reproduction—with sticky fingerprints all over the lily pond. Water puddles stained both the print and the living room floor.

“Bathtubs overflow all the time,” Liuva said.

“Maybe in the places where you happen to live,” I retorted. “This one—this one—.” Words failed me while I tried to figure out movements independently of what people were saying. I sniffed the air; it was not just dampness but also sex that I could smell, Liuva’s animal smell mixed with her fragrance. Coming downstairs? Rod?

Rod joined us, swiveling his head to stare at the glittering wreckage of crystal and brass. “Whoa,” he said, dragging it out slowly, solemnly. Woe-ah. He turned to make funny cross-eyes at me, but I was having none of that.

It dawned on me that he thought I had not seen him coming down the stairs. He was pretending rather well. He was even taking off his jacket—as if he had just arrived home. I leaned toward him and, yes, I could smell her all over him.

“I’ll pay for the fix-up!” Liuva said, gesturing grandly. She had no idea, either, that I was on to them.

“A little drywall will do the trick,” Rod said, deliberately slow and steady. Oh, yeah, Mr. Reassurance. He touched my arm and whispered, “Giverny.”

Ah, yes, Giverny, I thought, scalded by fury. Our big plan.

I yanked the Monet from the wall and cracked open the frame.

I ripped that damn thing apart.

THE END