“No fucking clue, to be honest,” he replies.
“Okay, give me a minute, I want to check something.” I call the pediatrician’s office and when the phone is answered, I put the phone on speaker then say, “Hello, this is Jolie Armstrong. My husband brought his sister, Arya, in earlier today and I have a question.”
The woman, who identifies herself as Nancy, asks, “What’s the question, Mrs. Armstrong?”
“Well, I know we sent in the paperwork showing that we have guardianship of the three kids. Do y’all have a patient portal by any chance? If so, can I give you my email address so you can send me a link? Because from what Dex’s grandmothers have said, Arya’s had multiple cases of strep throat and I wanted to make sure it wasn’t time for her to go to an ENT for follow-up to rule out having her tonsils and adenoids removed.”
“We do have one. Go ahead and give me your email address and I’ll send you the link. Will you both need access?”
I look at Dex who nods and reply, “Yes, but we’ll use the same log-in information to make life easier for all of us. I know there’s a good chance at some point he’ll be out of town for work, and I’ll have to come in, so I might as well get familiar with things.”
I quickly rattle off the email address that I created for us to use for the kids, which we’ve already provided to the school. That way, they don’t get lost in his email because he seldom checks them which I was stunned to find out, and while I do, it’s typically not every day. Having a centralized one for the kids now, I have a daily reminder on my phone to check that email specifically, so we don’t miss out on any upcoming school events, like the standardized testings, or PTA meetings, that sort of thing. Plus, their teachers have another way to contact us as well.
She giggles and I raise my brow at Dex when he chuckles while nodding. “Okay, it’s been sent. Please call and let us know if there are any issues with logging in or understanding the medical jargon and terminology.”
“I will. Thank you so much for your help, Nancy.”
Once I hang up, I do a quick search for a weekday menu chart and find the perfect one that will attach to the front of the refrigerator. With a few clicks, I purchase it and put my phone down then say, “Good, that’s done too, and it’ll be here tomorrow.”
Dex starts chuckling and I’d be an idiot not to admit that I enjoy the rich sound. “What?” I ask.
“Sweetheart, in less than ten minutes, you came out, handed me a bottle of water, called the pediatrician and got them to send us a portal link for the kids’ medical charts, then you ordered something. And you did all of that while I was just sitting here. You’re a force to be reckoned with, Jolie Armstrong.”
I can feel my face heating up, blushing at his praise. It’s something I haven’t heard too much of since Grampy’s been gone, but I’ve noticed that Dex is quick to do it to all of us. “Why do you do that?” At his questioning look, I add, “Praise all of us when we do something.”
His startled expression has me giggling as he thinks about what I just said. “I think it’s because I always want y’all to know that you can do anything you set your mind to do. Especially you. I’m impressed that you seem to constantly roll with the punches, Jolie.”
Shrugging, I reply, “Well, I’ve had a lot of practice.” I’m unable to decipher the look he’s giving me right now, so I pick up my notebook and pen and ask, “You ready to hear what Albert has to say about the house?”
I swear, my notebook, which is one of those old-timey steno pads that secretaries used to use, is filled to the brim with all the lists I have with regard to the houses, this one and the farmhouse. Ihave another portable one I use when I go to the store, but this is my master so to speak. I create to-do lists with supplies I need or tasks to complete and when they’re bought or even finished, I cross them off. Once it starts looking really crazy, I rewrite it so it’s fresh and clean. In short, it never really goes away per se, but I feel better knowing I’m as organized as possible.
“Hit me with it, sweetheart,” he says, sending a delicious thrill through me.
Get a grip, Jo!
Flipping to that page in my notebook, I glance at him, take a deep breath and state, “The house has black mold, Dex. Which is bad, very, very bad.”
“Fuck,” he whispers. “Where? All over or–?”
“Well, it apparently started at the additions where the ground wasn’t completely level, which allowed water to seep inside. He found evidence from the basement to the attic and of course, without cutting out sections of drywall, he doesn’t know if it goes into the studs, the subflooring, or anything else. But he suspects it has based on his experience. Oh! He asked if anyone has noticed an uptick in nasal congestion or even rashes since it can make you sick, especially if you have a sensitivity to it.”
“I know I’ve been somewhat stuffy since coming home but assumed it was the change in climate,” he muses.
“Yeah, I’m the same,” I admit. “Okay, so he recommends a professional mold remediation company come in and do a more thorough inspection since there are areas he wasn’t able to confirm. Like I said, though, based on his experience, the whole house is contaminated, which means there are spores everywhere.”
“What are we going to do? Abuela deals with asthma,” he asks.
“People with respiratory issues are more susceptible to illness,” I reply. “Dex, we can’t stay here, it’s not healthy for anyone.”
“I really didn’t want to uproot the kids if at all possible because of what happened. The last thing they need to deal with is a new school on top of everything else. What are you suggesting? And how long would it take for them to get it taken care of?”
I sigh then reply, “It could take years. Apparently, it started with the additions and has, of course, spread unchecked.”
“Fuck,” he grumbles.
“We uh, we can stay at the farmhouse. It’s got more than enough room. Plus, when Grammy got sick, Grampy built a small, two-bedroom mother-in-law suite that’s attached to the house by a covered walkway which would work for Abuela and Nonna,” I say.
“But I thought you were renovating?” he questions.
