I pulled on the belt, sliding it back and forth against the rough wooden bar. My shoulders ached already, but I knew from my track workouts that I could push through.
I settled into the pain, taking slow, deep breaths. I felt a tiny bud of confidence, a swell of hope that gave me strength.
And then I smelled it.
Smoke, sour and pungent, like a smoldering campfire.
It was seeping in under the door.
This house that was so carefully chosen for my mom and me was burning.
And barring a miracle, we were going to burn with it.
LIBBY
Three months ago
Shopping at Home Depot made me feel like a boss.
I loved wandering the aisles, looking at all the tools and fixtures, discovering the secrets of how a house became a home.
Today I was in the garden center. I knew flowers for our front yard did not qualify as “essential,” but they made my heart happy, so I decided to indulge. The prettiest ones were the perennials. I couldn’t carpet my lawn like in The Wizard of Oz, but a few strategically placed clusters could go a long way, and the optimist in me insisted by this time next year we’d have enough money to plant twice as many.
I pushed my cart through the wonderland of lilies. I loved their long, slender necks and starbursts of color. I chose some Stargazers for their zingy fuchsia petals. I would put them by the mailbox so our mail carrier could enjoy their tangy-sweet smell.
They say home is where the heart is. It’s a romantic notion, but not a terribly realistic one. There are plenty of days my heart is on a beach on the French Riviera with a good book and a bottomless martini. Doesn’t make it my home.
No, a home is not where your heart is, it’s where your effort is. It’s where you cook and eat and sleep and take pains to decorate. It’s where your memories are made and kept. It’s the photos on the mantel, the artwork on the walls, the blankets that you snuggle under, the trees and flowers that you plant and care for.
A home is not a faraway place that lives in your heart. It’s where you are today and every day. It’s an extension of who you are.
As I loaded some playful peonies into my cart, I wondered, What does it say about me that my home is falling apart? Am I a reflection of my crumbling home, or is it a reflection of me? Did I drive it to ruins, or did the ruins corrupt me? Which one is the chicken, and which one is the egg?
When we bought our house, with its aging cupboards and sagging floorboards, we were full of optimism and grand ideas. But over time, we became the home we had bought—tired, worn out, and sad.
We were a total mismatch from the start. For years we were engaged in a struggle over whose aesthetic would prevail. The house knew what it was, and what it wanted to be.
And it was winning.
I had no idea if my cheery purple peonies would help close the gap. But I was ready to fight back. For my husband, for my children, and yes—for me.
If I was going to manifest a bright future, it was going to start right here, in the garden center at Home Depot. If there was a better metaphor for reinvigorating my marriage than dumping a twenty-five-pound bag of fertilizer on our dull, tired soil, I couldn’t think of one.
My commitment to support my husband was renewed right then and there.
And I would tend to our homelife until those wilted flowers bloomed again.
CHAPTER 35
Margaux’s room was at the front of the house.
It had a big circular window overlooking the street, with a padded window seat for all her dolls. Because the window curved like the inside of a spoon, we couldn’t put a shade over it—which was fine with her, she liked the rising moon as her nightlight.
But that night her room was lit by a different light. It wasn’t cool, blue, and steady—it was hot and danced angrily on her walls. It scared her. And so she came downstairs.
“There’s something outside my room,” she said, twisting her nightie between nervous fingers as she came into the family room where Andy and I were both on our laptops.
“What is it, sweetie?” Andy asked, opening his arms to give her a hug. At seven she was just on the outside edge of being a little girl. Her hair was losing its bouncy curls, and her first grown-up teeth were starting to sprout through her gums.
“I’m scared,” she said. Margaux often had trouble sleeping and needed a second or third tuck-in, we’d gone through this drill hundreds of times.
“I’ll go,” I offered, taking her hand in mine. “Let’s go get you all tucked in.”
She let me pull her out of her daddy’s lap, and we walked up the stairs hand in hand. She had a million reasons to come get one of us—I heard a noise, I saw a bug, my room is cold. They were all just excuses to get one of us to tuck her in again. I figured this was just another one of those times.