When I open it, Faith is standing on the W…E mat in wet pajamas. She’s out of breath, and I can’t tell if it’s because she’s just run up the stairs, or if it’s because she’s scared. “Thank God. Seamus, we need your help. A pipe broke in Hope’s apartment, and The Lipokowskis aren’t home. There’s water everywhere, and we can’t find the main water shut off.”
I look down at my underwear, all too aware the time for modesty was before I opened the door, not now that Faith is standing in front of me asking for help. I’m sure she could care less if I walked downstairs naked at this point, as long as I shut off the water. Hope, however, I’ve never met. And underwear is not appropriate introduction attire, even during a crisis.
After I throw on some shorts, I instruct, “Stay here with the kids, please.”
She nods quickly.
I’m walking down the stairs, just past midnight, trying to keep my balance. There’s a recliner, small table, and dresser on the sidewalk in front of apartment one’s door. When I knock on the unlatched door, it swings open a few inches. “Hello?” I call out loudly, not wanting to walk into a stranger’s home unwelcome.
A tall, extremely thin woman walks out of what I’m assuming is the bathroom. Upon first glance, I can’t take in anything about her other than despair. She looks like the type of person who’s been beaten down by life so long that misery is a constant companion. “A pipe’s busted. I don’t know how to make the water stop.”
I step into the apartment without introducing myself. “Where’s the utility closet?”
She points to the door next to the kitchen.
I walk to the closet, and every step I take is wetter than the last. The carpet is saturated. The main water shut off for the apartment is located in the closet next to the furnace and water heater, just like in our apartment. Thank God for consistency.
When we hear the water stop running, she sighs. It’s the audible release of stress. “Thank Jesus,” she whispers, her eyes downcast.
I nod and offer my hand. “I’m Seamus. I live upstairs with my three kids. I’m sure you’ve heard us.” I feel like I need to apologize for our noisiness. “We try to keep it down, but I’m sorry if the TV gets loud or you hear them chasing each other around.”
She reluctantly takes my hand and her grip is slight, only her fingertips return my grasp. “I’m Hope,” is all she says. She’s looking at her damp feet.
“I see your furniture is all outside. I’ll get my box fan and some towels and help you get this cleaned up.” As long as Faith can hang out in my apartment with the kids, I can help Hope.
“I got a fan in the closet,” she says. I realize she’s offering a solution, but the way she says it is strange. Almost as if she’s just making a random statement. It feels disconnected from the conversation for some reason.
“Good.” And then I add, “Set it on the tile in the kitchen where it’s dry and turn it on. I’ll be right back,” because I’m afraid she’ll set it up on the wet carpet, plug it in, and end up electrocuting herself.
She nods.
I slosh through the soaked carpet to the door. When I step outside, I roll my shoulders a few times, close my eyes, and breathe in the humid night air. The tension in my body, created by the emergency-induced adrenaline coursing through me, is receding. And as it ebbs away, I find myself wishing all stress was that easy to release. The stairs taunt me, and the climb is slow because exhaustion is creeping back.
My apartment door is wide open, and Faith is sitting, cross-legged, in the middle of the living room floor, a palm resting face down on each thigh. Her eyes are closed, and I can see her chest rise and fall in a series of deep, deliberate breaths. Her lips are moving slightly as if she’s talking to herself, but she’s not making any sound.
It’s an awkward situation; I’m not sure if I should interrupt her or wait to see if she senses I’m back in the room with her. I clear my throat; it’s my way to deal with the impasse.
Her lips move for a few more seconds and then she opens her eyes and stands. “Well? Is the water turned off?”
I nod, but in my mind, I still see her sitting on the floor. “What were you doing? Meditating? Praying?”
“Both, I guess, though I don’t like to pigeonhole,” she says as she walks by. “I like to multitask.” She winks.
I don’t know if the smile reaches my lips because I’m tired, but on the inside, she makes me smile. “I need to grab my box fan and some towels and go back down to help Hope clean up.”
“Why don’t you give me the fan and towels and I’ll help her? I don’t mind at all. It makes me feel useful,” Faith says.
“But I told Hope I’d be back down to help her,” I argue because I hate letting people down, especially when I’ve promised something.
Faith smiles and I already know she’s not going to let me win. “Your kids have school, and you have to work in the morning, I don’t. Get some rest, Seamus.”
“You’re sure?” I feel bad backing out, but she’s right. I have to get up for work in a few hours.
She nods.
I insist on taking the fan and towels down myself and explaining to Hope the situation and that Faith will be back down to help her. I also tell her to come up and knock if they need anything.
Hope nods in understanding but doesn’t say a word.