42. a House Is Not A Home

42

A HOUSE IS NOT A HOME

PATRICK

A MEMORY

Our Realtor could sell insect repellent to an army of ants.

Keegan Sommers of Nearby Neighborhood Real Estate treats every property like it's a villa in Versailles. Gesturing grandly and using flowery roundabout speak like, "And here we have one of the many luxurious amenities of the property, a first-floor half-bath perfect for entertaining guests complete with vanity mirror over a porcelain sink and a working commode."

Quinn asks in a low voice, "Is he suggesting indoor plumbing is an amenity ?"

I shush him. Mostly because this man stands between us and homeownership. Which is an important step in getting my parents to regard me as the success I desperately want to be. I got the job. I got the husband. All I need is the house.

"Seems like a fixer-upper," Quinn says. This time directly to Keegan, so I stifle my shush.

Keegan, without balking, says, "The fun is in the fixing. That's how you turn someone else's house into your home ."

But as we stand in the soupy August air on a crumbling back porch looking out at a backyard overrun with tall stalks of grass and weeds flowering over other weeds, my stomach drops another notch. If we didn't have a strict budget, maybe this wouldn't be so torturous. If I wasn't an architect, maybe I wouldn't be thinking, "I'd have done it this way or that" in every room we walk into. And it's not like we're sitting on the funds needed to flip a place. We make enough for the basest repairs at best.

"Isn't this stunning?" Keegan asks. He plants himself between me and Quinn. Not that that's hard to do. Quinn's left a full foot of space between us as we stare blankly into the expanse. "This is a great way to do your part in going green. Maintaining a manicured rear lawn is an environmental nightmare. Look at how you can celebrate biodiversity with all these natural wonders right on your own property."

When he's not looking, I roll my eyes. But as he goes on about the acreage and the many possibilities for home gardening, I find myself starting to agree with him. And then when we go back inside, I convince Quinn to take another lap, alone with me.

"This could be a home office," I say to Quinn on the far side of the upstairs. In what's considered the "den" but is really more of a walk-in closet without the shelving. "Can't you imagine us getting ready for work here?" We're standing at the sink in the bathroom just off the main bedroom. It's roomy enough for us both, sitting beside a tub that's decidedly not claw-foot like I dreamed up for us but at least isn't a walk-in shower. "You could soak in here and read on Friday nights. Wouldn't that be nice?"

I borrow Keegan's inflections as if I'm the one about to make a commission and not a massive capital investment.

"I don't know, Pat," he says, wringing his hands. "This all seems so—I just think we shouldn't rush this."

"Of course. But you know how the market is. Houses get snatched up like that. What if the place we're meant to be in is for sale now like this one and we let it pass us by?"

"But what about your design? Building our own house?"

"That's"—I wave my hands in the air—"for the future. This is now. A starter house."

Quinn's mouth reminds me of a guppy. I half imagine little bubbles of unsaid thoughts pouring out and popping at the surface of his tank.

I hold out my hands for Quinn to take. "I know you had your heart set on a honeymoon skiing in Switzerland, but right now, I'm glad we have that money because I think this could be the house for us. It's got two floors like you wanted. There's room in the main bedroom for a desk of your own. Plus, a dining room for when we host holidays."

"When do we ever host holidays?" he asks, skeptical.

"Never, because we can't in the apartment, but here we can. Here we can do anything. We can deck the halls completely," I say. Knowing I sound like some animated character but meaning it still.

Despite my cheesiness, his nod grows faster. I lead us back downstairs and into the kitchen. His eyes flick to the fridge.

It's an old, yellowing thing with brown handles but it buzzes with enough life to keep kicking. "Here, we'll use magnets to hang all the Christmas cards from family and friends and our new neighbors, and over there"—I point to a space in the family room beside the fireplace—"we'll put up a full-sized Christmas tree. No more miniature, plastic ones. We'll go to the nearby farm and cut down a ten-footer."

"The ceilings are eight and a half feet," Keegan interrupts.

"We'll go to the farm and cut down an eight-footer." I beam at Quinn. Growing weirdly excited about a future I just now decided for us. "What do you say?"