As I stand, righting the box with both hands, Kai comes out. “You need some help with that box, Dad? Or should I just grab the other one from the car?”
“I’ve got this one. Why don’t you grab the other one, buddy? And see if you can coax Rory out of the car,” I ask Kai, brushing off my current exasperation.
Rory is my nine-year-old. He’s not happy about our move. Or with his mom and he’s not shy about letting her know. He scornfully addresses her as Miranda.
Kai lopes down the stairs, taking them two at a time. He’s tall for his age at five feet five inches, and athletic. He’s pretty much a mirror image of me when I was eleven. A carbon, genetic copy with dark hair and eyes, golden brown skin, wide-set shoulders, and long, gangly limbs.
When I walk into the apartment, Kira is perched on the arm of the couch. Her stuffed cat, Pickles, is in one hand, and the TV remote is in the other. She’s flipping through channels at breakneck speed.
“Can I help you with anything, Kira?”
She responds without taking her eyes off of the screen of flashing images, “No, Daddy. I’ve got it all under control.”
I smile and shake my head realizing she’s heard me say that one too many times if she’s worked it into her vernacular. When I say it, it’s mental coaching to prompt self-assurance; when she says it, it’s confidence. I love her confidence.
“Knock knock,” a singsong voice calls from the landing outside the open door.
I set the box I’m carrying on the couch next to Kira and turn to see our landlady, Mrs. Lipokowski, standing on the worn, faded welcome mat. All of the letters are worn away except the W and E that bookend the word. The mat, like everything else in the furnished apartment, is old and worn. I’m not complaining, there’s character and an almost identifiable charming essence encapsulated in this time capsule my family will call home for the next year.
Mrs. Lipokowski and her husband have owned this small brick building since it was built in 1972. It houses a deli that they run, two tiny apartments on the first floor and two larger apartments on the second floor, one of which the Lipokowski’s live in. It’s three blocks from the beach, and two blocks from John F. Kennedy High School, where I’m a counselor. The location is ideal.
“Hey, Mrs. L. It’s good to see you. Come on in.”
She walks in and immediately takes my hand in both of hers. It’s a motherly, friendly gesture. She does it every time I see her, which is most every day since I survive on her deli sandwiches during the week for lunch. “I see you’re getting settled in, Seamus. Anything you need?”
I glance around absently, not really looking for anything in particular. “No, I think we’re good. Thank you.”
She pats the top of my hand with hers which draws my attention back and my eyes land on her Janis Joplin tie-dye t-shirt. She wears tie-dye every day in some fashion or another: shirts, pants, skirts, shorts, scarves. You name it, she owns it in tie-dye. She’s a hardcore hippie. I don’t think she’s changed her wardrobe, or her lifestyle, since the sixties. Some would call her dated, I call her authentic. She is who she is and she owns it. And I love that about her. Authenticity is rare. Either people don’t know who they are, or they’re afraid to share themselves with the world—I myself fall into both of those categories: I don’t know, and I’m afraid. I wasn’t this way before. And I’m not happy about it. Life has beat me down. I fought for a long time, but after the divorce I woke up one day and couldn’t remember the man I used to be, only that time and circumstances have changed me. I need to find me again.
“Stop by our apartment tonight and I’ll brew you a cup of my herbal tea. It helps calm the nerves.” She winks and smiles warmly, and I wonder for a moment what type of herbs are in her tea.
“Okay,” I answer.
“Just pop in the deli if you have any questions about the move-in or your apartment.” She looks at my daughter and says, “And you come down later and I’ll give you some pickles, Kira.”
Kira’s ears perk up at the mention of her name and pickles in the same sentence. Pickles are her favorite thing, followed closely by television and cats. “Five slices?” she asks excitedly.
Mrs. L nods. “Five pickle slices for the five-year-old.”
Kira stands on the couch and throws her hands up in the air over her head in an act of jubilant celebration, the remote and Pickles the cat still clutched in her hands. “Yay!”
“Well hello, boys.” Mrs. L’s greeting pulls me back to the front door where Kai walks in carrying a box with Rory trailing closely behind.
“Hello, Mrs. Lipokowski,” Kai says politely.