The Sky Beneath Her(15)
“‘Folks like us’?”
“Plumbers, electricians, any vendor that needs to get into a house.”
“And they just give out the codes?”
“The codes get changed from time to time. It’s a pain when they fail to notify me, but I have everyone’s phone in my contacts.”
“Are the busiest days still Saturday and Sunday?”
“And Friday. Friday checkins and checkouts help with traffic.”
The mop shifted and clunked me in the side of the head. “Do you get a lot of one-off jobs like today?”
“I never say no to any work.”
She pushed open the door, and we stepped out of the heat into the cool, dark interior. Sandy grit ground under my athletic shoes. I flipped on the lights and was a little taken aback by the carnage. Beer cans, pizza boxes, wrappers, and other trash were spread throughout the house as if whoever was here just dropped whatever they didn’t want and left. The couches had been pulled toward the sliding glass doors and were covered in sand. The couch legs and skirting were wet.
It appeared the renters had taken furniture on the beach. “It’s a level eight.”
“Yeah,” she said with a frown. “But between the two of us, it’ll go quickly.” She snapped several pictures with her phone.
“For your memory book? Ten worst cleanup jobs? Before and After for the website?” I set down the bucket and vacuum cleaner. I reached into the supply bag, grabbed rubber gloves, and wiggled my fingers into the cool plastic.
“Good to document.”
“Must have been some reunion.” I picked up a pizza box filled with stale slices and shoved it into the garbage bag.
“I would say so.”
We moved around the room, collecting bottles, cans, wadded-up sandwich wrappers, and stuff balled in tissues I didn’t dare look at. After we’d gathered all the debris and set the bags on the porch, I nodded toward the back bedrooms.
“I’ll strip the sheets and bag them up,” she said. “You tackle the kitchen.”
“Right.”
As Kaitlin moved to the bedrooms, I stepped into the kitchen. I loaded the dirty dishes into the dishwasher, filled the soap dispenser, and pressed start. Once the machine was humming, I filled the sink with hot soapy water and washed the large pots and platters.
“All the fast-food garbage, and they had time to trash the kitchen,” I shouted.
Kaitlin paused, a bundle of sheets in her arms. “This won’t be the worst you’ll see in the next two weeks.”
“Oh, I know. I’m already having flashbacks.”
After another hour of picking up trash, making beds, and cleaning bathrooms, I finally had a clear path to run a vacuum and mop the floors. It took us a solid two hours to turn this disaster zone into a nice space.
“We better get going. The next renter will be here in an hour.”
“Right. Any more places to clean today?”
“No, we have the evening to ourselves. How about we grab a beer at Arthur’s and walk the beach after.”
The sun wasn’t too hot, and the crowds wouldn’t be intense this week. But I’d have to build up to the beach. “Beer sounds good. But I’m not quite ready for the ocean.” I’d avoided looking at the rental’s views of breaking waves.
“It’s not like you’ll get in. We’ll just sit on the sand. Terra firma. Nothing happens on the sand.”
But the ocean churned up memories I’d spent seven years either burying or dragging kicking and screaming into the light with my therapist.
My mother, Mariah, had been an explorer. She’d traveled the world ever since she’d run away from Norfolk on her eighteenth birthday. She’d started as a crew member on whatever ship would take her to the best dive spots. Before I was born, she’d explored reefs and undersea life in all the most exotic locations.
And then, somewhere off the coast of Australia, she’d met a guy and gotten pregnant with me. They’d married a few months after I was born, and then they’d split. She had a few pictures of Dad and had only said nice things about him, but I’d never met him face-to-face. A week after I’d turned five, he was killed in a motorcycle accident in Indonesia. It had always been just Mom and me, so his loss didn’t really land.
I didn’t regret my childhood. It was magical in so many ways. I’d traveled to the Far East, the five oceans, and at least ten seas. By age ten, I could navigate by the stars or charts, sense when the weather was shifting, tie any kind of knot, and thrive in very small living spaces. I knew enough about backwater seaports to stay out of trouble. And I could size up brewing arguments on a ship and diffuse them. And once Mom’s focus shifted to the wrecks, the metal boneyards became my playgrounds.
Mom had insisted I read at least twenty pages a day. Books, she’d said, were a sailor’s best companion. I’d always had a pile by my bunk, and whenever we’d arrive in port, I’d find a store willing to swap my old titles for new ones. Oddly, I’d read very little in the last seven years.
It was a good life. I liked the freedom. And then, when we were in Greece, Mom had decided our next move would be the Outer Banks. She’d said it was time for a real school for at least a semester. I wasn’t sure, but I was willing to give it a try.
The Outer Banks were rich with diving grounds. The water off the coast had earned the nickname “the Graveyard of the Atlantic” for good reason. Over the centuries, upward of three thousand ships had fallen prey to the area’s shifting shoals, storms, or German U-boats. Mom was spoiled for choice.