Page 59 of Center Ice
“How about you and I read a book together so my son can show your mom around?” She sends a small, conspiratorial smile our way.
Oh shit, is his mom trying to play matchmaker here?
“Okay,” Graham says, and his voice lacks the dubious sound it sometimes carries when he isn’t sure about something. I relax, knowing he’s comfortable with her.
When Jules and I were kids, our father took us plenty of places we shouldn’t have gone, and left us in the care of far too many sketchy adults, so he could go drink with his friends—especially once my mom got sick. I’d never want Graham to feel like I was off doing something else and leaving him in a situation where he didn’t feel safe.
I wait while Graham kneels down at a basket Mrs. Jenkins has pointed to and selects a book. When he climbs up on the couch and settles in next to where she’s sitting, I say to Drew, “Alright, maybe you can point out what you’d like to do so I know which rooms to measure?”
He leads me down a hallway and shows me around the minimalist space. Like most houses built in the 1960s in the Boston area, the hallways are narrow, and the rooms are all divided up, completely enclosed with only a narrow doorway to move through. For someone with mobility issues who needed a walker, or eventually a wheelchair, I could see how it would be hard or even impossible to get around. There’s no way,for example, that a wheelchair could make the turn from the hallway into the room Drew wants to convert into the primary bedroom—the angle you’d have to turn to fit through the doorway would be too tight.
We talk a bit about how we could move the door to the end of the hallway so it would be a straight shot in and out of the room, and then tuck the bathroom over on the side with a double-wide doorway to get in and out.
Luckily, his mom is not at the point where her mobility is severely impacted enough that she needs a walker or a wheelchair, but he speaks quietly about the possibility of a cane or a walker in the near future.
“I just want her to be able to stay in her home for as long as is humanly possible, you know?” His lips turn down at the corners and, without thinking, I reach up and cup his cheek in my hand, smoothing out his frown with my thumb. His eyes widen and, for a second, I’m afraid I’ve overstepped, and then he presses his hand over mine, holding my hand to his face. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For being here. For considering this project, even when I know you and Jules are overbooked. For being you.”
My stomach flips over, and I’m not sure how to respond, but then we hear Graham yell, “There’s a cat in the yard! Can I go out and pet it?”
I can hear his feet running across the floor, presumably toward the door, and that’s when Drew says, “I’ve got this. You good to start measuring?”
“Yeah. Thank you for keeping an eye on him.”
I listen as Drew offers to take Graham out to see the cat and throw around a football, and as they walk out the door to the backyard, I hear Graham say, “I’ve never thrown a football. Will you show me how?”
“Of course, Bud,” he says, already adopting the nickname that my whole family uses for Graham. At first, I hated that the nickname stuck. But it was fitting, because when Graham was a baby, taking care of him really was a team effort and he was always with me, Jameson, or Jules during the first year of his life—our little buddy who we carted around with us everywhere we went, making it work with our various school and work schedules.
It takes me about half an hour with the laser measure to record each room’s dimensions, and while I work, my mind is reeling with the possibilities of what we can do to transform this family room into the perfect first-floor living space for Drew’s mom.
As it always happens when I create a new floor plan, I picture the possible layouts and different design ideas spin in my brain until a fully formed image comes to the forefront. And then I know exactly which layout will work best—before I ever even sit down with my drafting software—and just how it will look once I can have Jules work her magic.
I design the layout, Jules does the structural engineering and construction, and then I work with the client on the finishes and design. Our synergy means our system flows seamlessly and the results are always spectacular.
But I have the nagging feeling that we can’t keep going at this pace. Jules works nearly 24/7, and I probably would too if I didn’t have Graham. But even in the evenings, once he’s in bed, I’m usually on the couch with my laptop, talking through different projects with Jules. But how long can we sustain this without burning out?
I make a mental note to circle back to Morgan’s idea about partnering with different trade schools in the area so we can recruit female contractors directly out of their trainingprograms. The possibility of building this business is not only exciting, it’s necessary.
As I walk over to my bag, which I set on the couch under the window, I’m distracted by the view to the backyard. Drew is kneeling behind Graham, who has a football in his small hand. Drew’s got his hand over Graham’s and is pulling his arm back and snapping it forward, without letting go of the ball. My eyes fill with tears when I realize that my son’s father is teaching him how to throw a football. It’s a sight I never dared dream I’d see.
“How’s it going?” Mrs. Jenkins’s voice surprises me, and I spin to find her standing in the doorway watching me.
“Great. I just finished measuring everything. I think this space will be the perfect bedroom, and it’ll be easy to convert the hall bath to a nice ensuite for you.”
“I never thought my son would be a catastrophist, but that’s what this feels like,” she says, folding her arms across her stomach.
“Do you not want this work done? Because I in no way want to infringe on this situation if you’re not ready.” I want to be transparent here, because even though Drew’s right that these adjustments will be necessary if she’s going to be able to continue living in this house long term, they probably don’t need to happen quite yet.
“I just wish it wasn’t necessary,” she says as she walks across the room to stand next to me. “But in the long run, I know this will need to be done. He thinks I don’t see how he worries,” she says, and I follow her gaze out the window to her son. It takes me by surprise that she’s speaking about this with me—a virtual stranger.
“Is he naturally a worrier?”
“No. I used to joke that he didn’t have the good sense to worry. He was always so happy, such an optimist. It’s been hard watching him be an adult so far away. I’m glad he’s back home.”
Me too,I almost say. “I bet,” I manage instead.
