I had barely squeaked through the ground breaking even with a professional on site to fix my mistakes. Now that I was all alone, the gaping foundation holes were as daunting as pathways to the underworld. Even repetitive viewings of geo39th’s wise overview of footings hadn’t managed to make me look like an expert. If I went back and watched the video, I was willing to bet I’d see a line of chalk or paint when the backhoe ate a hole in the earth. He had probably imagined that any imbecile would know enough to take that step. It went without saying. You couldn’t leave the strings and stakes up for the dig. That would be just plain stupid. And even though geo39th had sworn by the rebar chairs, he wasn’t working in red clay. And what was this about a mini spring? I walked around the trench, my courage as unstable as the wet earth.
The far corner where Jimmy had directed his laughter was closest to the neighbor’s pond. It was still a good 250 feet from the water, but there was no question he was right. The neatly squared corner held at least six inches of water, and the water was pooling higher and building to a stream moving toward the front of the footing.
“Hip waders? All my boots have heels.” I kicked a layer of mud off my old running shoes. They weren’t going to be the ideal footwear for the construction project after all.
Look at your feet, I heard Matt say with a contemptuous snarl. And as badly as I wanted to feel superior and strong and a million years away from the effect of his shaming, I didn’t. I felt inadequate, like I was a failure with big feet and a small, small mind. What made me think I could build a house? I had just made a fool of myself, breaking ground with our self-rising Christmas flour. The loan officer would flash me a classic smirk for that one—and I deserved it.
I pulled my muddy shoes off into a shopping bag and drove back to the house in cold stocking feet. The image of Caroline’s tornado house that had been perfectly clear in my mind that morning had faded into a blur that barely felt real. Balancing the kids, work, and building a house felt impossible. What had I been thinking? I had a big software project to roll out. My mystery novel, which I thought of as my future, had a weak protagonist and a weaker plot. I had freelance articles to get to the newspaper, and we needed the cash to keep paying the bills. It wasn’t going to be easy. What had Mr. Rothschild been thinking? The bank had been insane to loan me money; I was a terrible gamble.
Hershey greeted me with a stripe of fur on her back raised into a Mohawk. The house was quiet and empty.
I had less than an hour to work on an article before the kids came home. Hope would pick Roman up on her way, and he would be clingy and cranky after a long day in day care. I felt a little clingy and cranky myself, so that suited me just fine. Everything worthwhile had run out of my mind, leaving me raw and empty. My editing progress sucked even more than usual, and tomorrow’s deadline loomed closer and more impossible by the minute.
The courage I hoped to find building a house wasn’t going to drop in my lap; I was going to have to hunt it down and trap it. Fifteen minutes before the afternoon chaos arrived, I stretched out on my bed with my eyes closed, my mind buzzing with to-do lists. Years ago, I had tried guided meditation but had never mastered it. There had never been a time when I needed to clear the space between my ears more than that moment.
I talked myself through what I remembered of the old meditation CD. Squeeze and then relax your toes. Your calves. Your fingertips. Feel a warm breeze passing over your body. A bright light rose up and wrapped around me. Had that been part of the CD? It was peaceful, so I floated awhile, weightless and empty. The CD man had told me in a low, gravelly voice that people often met their true selves on deep meditation journeys. My true self was superb at hiding, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to meet her anyhow. I shivered, losing my concentration. What if I found Caroline there, standing in the upstairs window, framed by the red curtains? Even though I admired that imaginary woman, I was afraid to meet her, afraid she would narrow her eyes at my weakness, my fear.
Breathing deep, I fell weightless in the center of the warm light. I opened my eyes—not for real, but in the little dream world—and someone was sitting cross-legged near my right hip, chin pressed on his chest to look down at me. It wasn’t my true self unless my deepest soul was an elderly black man with a sun-weathered face and narrow, dark eyes.
He sat perfectly still with his hands in his lap. His lips stretched flat, expressionless, and I had the sense there were few teeth behind them. His eyes felt wise and a little world-weary. He was trying to tell me something with those eyes, and I hoped it wasn’t another damn secret I was supposed to intuitively absorb. I was tired of life’s coded messages. I willed him to speak, to tell me the grand secret of life. He didn’t say a word, just continued looking down at me, rarely blinking but stretching it out long and slow when he did, like he was falling asleep and waking again. His name was Benjamin; I knew that without him saying.
Tell me I’m going to be okay. Tell me we’ll make it. Tell me something I can believe in. But his dark eyes took in every minuscule detail of my soul without giving me anything back. The strange man simply existed, nothing more. Then Hershey barked and the front door swung in to bounce hard against the doorstop. The bright little world vanished.
I felt calmer, more in charge, like I was able to take a full breath for the first time in years. But I was also a little afraid of the old man. Who was he? And what if I didn’t like what he was there to tell me? I bit my bottom lip. Life had tossed me some hard deals; whatever the old man had to say, I could take it. I promised myself I’d try it again, maybe every day, until I really did find my true self and understood the island man’s presence.
The kids announced homework and school drama. A teacher had been put on leave for an investigation, a janitor had helped a special-needs kid after a bad fall, and one of Jada’s friends was going out with the boy Jada had liked for two years. Hope and I made pork chops, potatoes, and corn on the cob, with Roman serving up plastic cakes and cookies on mini dishes while we worked. He wasn’t clingy after all, but slow and quiet without his afternoon nap.
After cleanup, Drew and I drove the seven miles to the job site while the girls did homework and took care of Roman. I had a concrete truck scheduled for the next morning to pour the footer, but the rebar had to be in place first. Instead of boots and hip waders, we had put our feet into tall bread bags and secured rubber bands around the ankles before putting on our running shoes. It kept the water a thin layer away from our skin, but not far enough to keep us warm.