Two mornings ago, we awoke to the sound of our maintenance man, Charlie, banging on our door. A water main in the neighboring apartment had gone during the morning, and, as Charlie said, “I waited as long as I could before waking you.” It was an inch deep in the kitchen, and already seeping into the carpet around the entrance to the hallway. Six hours later, the plumber had come and gone, leaving a three-foot hole in the back wall of the pantry. After him was the carpet guy. He left a giant dehumidifier blowing with instructions not to turn it off for forty-eight hours. L’s parents graciously allowed us the use of their guestrooms.
Go-go seems to be weathering the disruptions with a turtle’s patience, unflustered endurance. I noticed this morning that I’d left her light on all night, and I switched it off. Turtles need sleep, just as humans do.
Emotionally, however, the rest of us aren’t doing as well. It isn’t exactly a vacation, but it is a few nights sleepover. They aren’t sure what to do, and they certainly aren’t sure why they need to go to bed at night. (At least Kara pulled three tests in the eighties this week.)
L is barely holding it together, what with the apartment shoved back into the bedrooms to clear space and the damage to the carpet itself. To peel back the carpet and remove the damaged padding, for example, the carpet guy had to cut right across the entrance to our hallway. If he is planning to fix it, no one has said.
I remember how, at our last place in Massachusetts, we moved in with all this alteration enthusiasm. Let’s paint this. Let’s repair that. Then came the first flood with, water two feet high in the basement. Gone were those dreams of do-it-yourself to be replaced by a sober renter’s pragmatism.
This plumber’s flood has had a similarly cold effect. And it could mean we buy a house that much sooner.
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