Read Online Collateral Damage by Katie Klein - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Katie Klein
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continues. "My mom was going to turn this space into a bonus room or something. Something else that didn't get done. You can actually get in here from the roof. There's a huge oak tree just to the left. It takes you to the second story. There's a dormer over there, and you can climb right up. I used to do it all the time."
I peer through the dirty glass. She's right. I can see the oak tree, its low branches. "Aren't you the daredevil."
"Yeah, well, I haven't done it lately. Sarah and Daniel and the baby sleep on that side of the house, so.... Anyway, we should go."
Sarah and Daniel and the baby ....
Joshua. Her oldest brother and his family still live here.
She flips off the light and we descend the stairs in semi-darkness, feeling the walls with our hands.
"Not bad," I say, re-entering her bedroom. She closes the door behind us.
"Pretty cool, right? I bet my room's not so boring now, is it?"
"Nah. I like the whole thing anyway...you know, restoration houses."
She smiles, but it's a sad kind of smile. "This isn't a restoration."
"But I thought...."
"Come here." She flips the bathroom light on. "See that?" she asks, pointing to her sink. Her sink—it's missing a nozzle. Her sink has a pipe sticking out of the porcelain, and a little wrench perched on the edge. "If this house was a restoration...it would be restored. Meaning I wouldn't have to break my wrist every time I need cold water. The toilet is...ancient...the tub needs refinishing...."
She steps back into her bedroom and bounces on the wood floor. It creaks. "The floor needs bracing. Downstairs? The ceiling in the den is sagging in the corner...we can't get hot water in the kitchen sink...this house is a total problem. I mean, I don't think anything major has been done since 1960. I'm grateful there's electricity and indoor plumbing."
"But your dad is like, this huge construction guy," I say, not understanding.
She folds her arms across her chest and laughs—a quiet, humorless laugh. "New construction, yes. Or more importantly: Other People's New Construction. When it comes to ours? Forget it. The best part of the house is what you see when you drive by slowly and keep going. When you stop? No way. It's a huge mess."
A huge mess.
Perfect on the outside, all screwed up on the inside. I open my mouth to tell her...I don't know... something . But the words aren't there.
"I just feel kinda bad for my mom, you know?" she continues. "I mean, this was supposed to be her project. It's like we moved in, slapped a few coats of paint on the walls and outside and that was it. I know she had big plans for this place. She wanted to re-stain the floors. Update the kitchen. She always saw how much potential it had, and here we are years later and it's virtually unchanged." She stops here. Her cheeks flush and her eyebrows draw together, like she's confused about something. Embarrassed, maybe. I don't want her to feel embarrassed around me. She shouldn't feel embarrassed around me.
I know all about "huge messes" and "screwed up on the inside."
"I'm sorry," I reply. She glances at me, and our eyes meet. That sparkle—it's gone. And I feel a pang of something in my gut, something unfamiliar, part of me wanting to reach out and touch her—a gentle tap on the arm, an "It's okay." But her eyes tear from mine as quickly as they found them. She sucks in a huge breath. "Anyway," she says, voice lifting. "We should get to work. I hope you like Sun Chips. They're supposed to be better for you than regular potato chips." She tosses the bag on her bed and grabs a bottled water.
"They're fine. Good, actually."
She seems pleased to hear this. "Good," she replies, all smile—like it never happened. The whole conversation—these confessions.... "So. Ethan and Mattie. What do we know about the suicide attempt?"
Just like that, it's over.
We sit down on her bed. I make myself comfortable, leaning against her pillow—her headboard. It smells like her—like her shampoo, or her
I peer through the dirty glass. She's right. I can see the oak tree, its low branches. "Aren't you the daredevil."
"Yeah, well, I haven't done it lately. Sarah and Daniel and the baby sleep on that side of the house, so.... Anyway, we should go."
Sarah and Daniel and the baby ....
Joshua. Her oldest brother and his family still live here.
She flips off the light and we descend the stairs in semi-darkness, feeling the walls with our hands.
"Not bad," I say, re-entering her bedroom. She closes the door behind us.
"Pretty cool, right? I bet my room's not so boring now, is it?"
"Nah. I like the whole thing anyway...you know, restoration houses."
She smiles, but it's a sad kind of smile. "This isn't a restoration."
"But I thought...."
"Come here." She flips the bathroom light on. "See that?" she asks, pointing to her sink. Her sink—it's missing a nozzle. Her sink has a pipe sticking out of the porcelain, and a little wrench perched on the edge. "If this house was a restoration...it would be restored. Meaning I wouldn't have to break my wrist every time I need cold water. The toilet is...ancient...the tub needs refinishing...."
She steps back into her bedroom and bounces on the wood floor. It creaks. "The floor needs bracing. Downstairs? The ceiling in the den is sagging in the corner...we can't get hot water in the kitchen sink...this house is a total problem. I mean, I don't think anything major has been done since 1960. I'm grateful there's electricity and indoor plumbing."
"But your dad is like, this huge construction guy," I say, not understanding.
She folds her arms across her chest and laughs—a quiet, humorless laugh. "New construction, yes. Or more importantly: Other People's New Construction. When it comes to ours? Forget it. The best part of the house is what you see when you drive by slowly and keep going. When you stop? No way. It's a huge mess."
A huge mess.
Perfect on the outside, all screwed up on the inside. I open my mouth to tell her...I don't know... something . But the words aren't there.
"I just feel kinda bad for my mom, you know?" she continues. "I mean, this was supposed to be her project. It's like we moved in, slapped a few coats of paint on the walls and outside and that was it. I know she had big plans for this place. She wanted to re-stain the floors. Update the kitchen. She always saw how much potential it had, and here we are years later and it's virtually unchanged." She stops here. Her cheeks flush and her eyebrows draw together, like she's confused about something. Embarrassed, maybe. I don't want her to feel embarrassed around me. She shouldn't feel embarrassed around me.
I know all about "huge messes" and "screwed up on the inside."
"I'm sorry," I reply. She glances at me, and our eyes meet. That sparkle—it's gone. And I feel a pang of something in my gut, something unfamiliar, part of me wanting to reach out and touch her—a gentle tap on the arm, an "It's okay." But her eyes tear from mine as quickly as they found them. She sucks in a huge breath. "Anyway," she says, voice lifting. "We should get to work. I hope you like Sun Chips. They're supposed to be better for you than regular potato chips." She tosses the bag on her bed and grabs a bottled water.
"They're fine. Good, actually."
She seems pleased to hear this. "Good," she replies, all smile—like it never happened. The whole conversation—these confessions.... "So. Ethan and Mattie. What do we know about the suicide attempt?"
Just like that, it's over.
We sit down on her bed. I make myself comfortable, leaning against her pillow—her headboard. It smells like her—like her shampoo, or her
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