Clashing With You

3. So I wait.

Archie

AFTER I HIT THE BUTTON ON THE remote clipped to the passenger side visor in my SUV, I wait for the garage door to open, the high-pitched squeals of the ancient door piercing the evening on the quiet neighborhood street. I pull into one of the slots of the two-car garage, turn off the engine and exit the vehicle. I blink my eyes to adjust to the darkened space, splices of light cutting through the windows in the garage door, the disturbed dust particles swirling in excitement until they resettle once again.

I blink again from the brightness as I step out of the detached garage onto the paved walkway that connects to the old two-story house—home of so many of my childhood memories. Although I've lived here for nearly two years, I still struggle labeling it as my house rather than my grandparents. Probably because it remains mostly untouched, a memorial of the full life lived here before I inherited it.

I climb the cracked cement stairs that lead to the wide front door, glancing at the old rickety metal glider that I can still hear squeak as if my grandma's ghost rocks the day away, watching the neighborhood activities with a crossword puzzle in her lap and a cup of cooling coffee on the side table.

Entering the house is like a time warp to the 90s, the last time the house was updated. Every so often, I catalog all the things I want to change, making mental plans in an ongoing To Do list that I tuck in the far recesses of my mind. You'd think with my line of work, I would have jumped at the first chance to get my hands on this house, but something has always held me back.

No, that's not true. I can't pretend like I don't know what holds me back. I blame Kelly, my boss. When I discovered how he tricked his girlfriend into designing her dream house, a house he pretended was a regular flip for the business, an idea bloomed in my head, and I haven't been able to quite shake it. I like the idea of my future life partner having a hand in crafting our house—together. A joint project that would yield results we'd both be happy with. In theory, it would be the setting of our long life together, after all.

I look around the cramped living room, all the evidence of my grandparents' long life staring back at me. How can I deny my desires when I can so plainly see the love and life that shaped the very home I now stand in? A home I experienced firsthand for the formative years of my life and beyond. I'm part of the fabric of this very place, and I'd like to do justice to the house's next phase of life.

So I wait.

With the duck wallpaper borders, cross-stitched platitudes, worn Afghans draping all the furniture, jewel-toned plaid curtains, wood paneled basement, and the wall of family photos in mismatched wooden frames.

I mostly don't see these details now, having grown used to them over time, and the ambiance is somewhat comforting with all my grandma's familiar touches. As I make my way to the kitchen with the almond-colored appliances, I suddenly wonder how Vivi would see the house. I'm curious to see it through her eyes and ask her what she envisions a remodel to look like. Would she find the home charming or horribly outdated? Would she want to keep some of the old touches or gut it and completely redo it?

It's a fun game I like to play. Torture myself with thoughts of a future with a woman who can't stand me.

I'm startled from my thoughts when a phone ringing pierces the quiet house, and I cross the kitchen to the butter yellow rotary phone that hangs on the wall in the same place my grandpa mounted it decades ago. Only one person calls me on this phone line, and I suppress a groan as I lift the receiver to my ear.

"Hey, Ma," I greet my mother as I walk to the refrigerator, the long cord uncurling as it extends across the room.

I've attempted to cancel the landline service several times since the day I moved in, but my mother insists I keep it. The phone number has been in the family longer than I've been alive, she always argues, as if that's something that matters to anyone outside of her generation.