For not having a design degree, I think I’ve picked up on a few things pretty well.
After years of odd jobs like bartending and dog walking—let me tell you, working a late-night bartending shift did not mix well with needing to wake up at six in the morning to walk a dog—I decided to put on my big girl panties and get a real nine-to-five job. Josh, Ellie’s husband, recommended a temporary placement agency that his bank uses from time to time. After several awful placements, one at an insurance company answering phones, and another filing paperwork at an oil and gas company, I was sent to Sue.
At the time, Sue had just broken her arm skiing and needed a second assistant at her design studio. I started with fetching coffee, taking notes, and performing a lot of Sue’s personal errands; dry cleaning, grocery shopping, anything and everything a woman with a broken arm couldn’t do.
One day I was at Sue’s house where I was waiting on a furniture delivery. She had just bought a beautiful Article leather sofa that felt like butter, off-white—really gorgeous. When the movers arrived and swapped out with the old one, I didn’t like the way the new sofa fit in the room, so I rearranged…everything. Sue was initially shocked, and I was terrified that I might have overstepped and she’d send me back to temp agency hell, but ultimately, she was pleased and gave me some other design tasks around her house to see what I came up with. She liked those as well, and when she got an exclusive contract with a builder to design and stage all their new builds, she let me take a shot at staging their model homes.
I’m not into the interior design aspect of picking out flooring, countertops and cabinets, making bulk orders of tile and coordinating hardware finishes—that’s all Sue and her staff of designers. My passion, I’ve discovered, is to choose which furnishings, art and accent pieces would look great, not only on site but also visually for listing photos, all to help entice buyers to purchase it.
“I’m going to do a quick walk through. I’ll be right back. Oh, and Jeff will be here any minute, want to let him in and get him situated?” Jeff is the realtor with the listing for this townhome, as well as its four adjoining neighbors. Its three bedrooms and three bathrooms will likely appeal to a young family or an older couple who are looking to downsize but want spare bedrooms for visiting guests, such as their grown kids and maybe even grandchildren. I’ve furnished a few kids’ rooms, and one nursery, for clients outside of the staging-to-sell business. There are so many cute ideas for kids’ rooms these days, I wish I could do more. But, nurseries and kids’ rooms are not part of the model staging I do for Sue’s building contractors. All those homes need to be family neutral, meaning you don’t want someone looking at the house who isn’t going to have kids think the house isn’t their style if they see a baby crib in one of the bedrooms. Some couples choose not to have kids, and some couples can’t.
With that thought, I remember Ellie had her fertility appointment today. It’s been two weeks since her latest embryo implantation and they were going to get results this afternoon.
“Sure thing,” I comment while Sue heads for the stairs. I’m gathering the rest of the accessory bins from the dining room, and simultaneously looking around for my purse, when I hear the buzzing coming from on top of the sideboard. I have eight text messages. One from Sue letting me know she’s on her way and asking if I need anything more from the warehouse. One from Sam, my best friend, continuing our conversation from this morning about where to meet for brunch on Sunday.
“Knock, knock.” I look up to find Jeff coming through the front door with a case of bottled water.
“Hey, Jeff.”
“Hey there, Brooke.” He smiles warmly. Jeff is in his mid-forties, he’s got salt and pepper hair, and one of the best smiles I’ve seen on a man. It’s warm and captivating. If he wasn’t a realtor, he’d probably kill it as a news anchor. He’s also charming and funny, which I’m sure contributes to his ability to close deals. He sets the water down on the kitchen island and looks around. “Looks great in here.”
“Thanks. I just finished up and Sue is upstairs doing a walk through.”
He tears open the plastic wrap around the waters and moves to start putting them in the refrigerator.
My phone buzzes, catching my attention. It’s Ellie.
I open her text and realize the other six messages were from her, ugh, how did I miss those? The first two seem normal, asking if I can come over, then if I can bring ice cream. The rest have misspelled words that apparently autocorrect couldn’t even salvage, and rambling sentences that I can’t decipher their meaning. What the hell was she doing?
I hope I’m wrong, but from the looks of Ellie’s text messages, I think I can guess how the appointment went today. Knowing she’s probably a mess right now, I let her know that I’m on my way, adding a few hugs and kisses emojis.
Sue’s halfway down the stairs, raving about the art I put in the master bedroom, when I cut her off.
“I gotta go, Sue. I hope that’s okay. Ellie had her appointment today, and well, you know how those have been going and I’d feel awful if I didn’t go check on her. I don’t think things went well. Again.” I make a face. Sue knows the face. She’s been along for this ride with me.
Ellie and her husband, Josh, have been trying to conceive for years. Round after round of In Vitro Fertilization with no success. The process is making my sister crazy—not only from the medication she has to take with each attempt, but the rollercoaster of emotions that it brings every time they think this will be the time, just to be let down again. They’re on their third fertility specialist, have seen several reproductive endocrinologists and done at least six rounds of IVF. They’ve changed their diets to be more reproductively friendly, and Josh is not allowed in hot tubs or restrictive underwear. According to the doctors, everything checks out for their sperm and egg, but the embryo never sticks in Ellie’s uterus.
She gives me a hug. “Go. I’ve got everything here. Maybe things will be better than you think.” Her smile doesn’t reach her eyes as she knows as well as I that’s probably not the case.
2
Brooke
“Where is she?” Josh doesn’t even balk at my lack of greeting as I whiz past him through the front door he’s holding open for me. He’s still dressed like a banker in slacks and a button-down shirt, but his usually styled hair is messy, like he’s been running his hands through it, and the look on his face is pure defeat.
“On the deck.” Like I said, it’s not the first time we’ve all been through this. Unfortunately, by now Josh and I know the drill. We’re like medics assessing an emergency scene, applying pressure in the form of hugs, trying to stop the bleeding from Ellie’s broken heart. Even through all the negative pregnancy tests, Josh has always stayed positive. There’s something about this time that feels different, a sense of hopelessness in his otherwise usual optimistic outlook. Josh is a great guy and an amazing husband to Ellie. If their love alone could produce babies, they’d have ten kids by now.
Josh shuts the door behind me and I shift the paper grocery bag in my hand to hang my purse on a hook by the door, then move quickly toward the kitchen, with Josh in tow.
I bought a few essentials that work well during times like these: wine and ice cream. Ben & Jerry’s Chocolate Therapy, Ellie’s favorite, chocolate ice cream with chocolate cookies and swirls of chocolate pudding.
The wine is for me.
In the kitchen I grab a wine glass and a corkscrew from the cabinet. Ellie’s never been a big drinker, especially since she’s been trying to get pregnant. I pour the cold, blush liquid into my glass, before pausing at the back door.
Through the window I see the brown, messy bun that belongs to my twin peeking over the top of a lounge chair. I take a big gulp of wine. I’m accustomed to this routine. The lead up to one of Ellie’s doctor’s appointments is usually two weeks of hope and excitement that this could be the time that everything works out. Those are the fun times where we dream of a little mini-Ellie, talk about names, and as an aunt I think of all of the museums and parks to take her. But that time is short-lived because once the usual test results are revealed, Ellie’s spirit is crushed.
“How bad is it?” I ask Josh so I can prepare myself before speaking with my sister.
