Jen Lancaster - If You Were Here

“Why is life so hard to navigate now? It wasn’t always so hard. I got through my teenage years without a lot of problems, in many ways because of your guidance. You taught an entire generation how to deal with every problem we faced — insecurity and first love and bullies and mean girls and pressure. Personally, you helped me figure out how to forge bonds across socioeconomic classes and how to navigate cliques by showing me that, deep down, we were all going through the same stuff. You gave me the confidence to go forth and be my best self.

“But I’m all grown-up now and you’re gone, and I don’t think I know how to be an adult without your guidance. You didn’t leave a trail of bread crumbs for us to follow. The greatest tragedy is that we lost you before you had a chance to teach my generation what to do next.”

I stare at the unmarked headstone for a long time. As the light changes, I’m aware that it’s time to do something, but what? I’m not sure.

I get off the bench and kneel in the grass. “Sir, if you’re out there, if there’s any part of you that still exists — and there has to be, because you left a little piece of yourself with an entire generation — please give me a little nudge. Point me in the right direction. I’m begging you for a sign, one small clue as to how to take the first step in the rest of my life. Please. Something.”

But nothing happens.

I wait for it and I wait for it, but nothing happens.

I am truly on my own.

And that breaks my heart.

So I stay where I am, on my knees in the dying light of late afternoon. I need to get up and do something, go somewhere, but I just feel paralyzed.

I stay there for what feels like hours, bent over with my face in my hands, trying to figure out where to go once I finally muster the strength to stand.

“… go home.”

And then I almost jump right out of my skin.

I stare down at the headstone. Did. . did John Hughes just say something to me? Is that possible?

“Ma’am, I’m sorry to disturb you, but we’re closing the gates shortly. Visiting hours are over and it’s time to go home.”

That’s when I realize I’m being addressed by a groundskeeper standing at the edge of the grass, and not a voice from the great beyond.

But damn it, a sign’s a sign.

Thank you, sir.

You’ve still got my back.

I live only a couple of miles from the cemetery, but the ride home takes forever. When I finally reach my street, Lululemon — I mean, Amanda— is out for a jog, propelling two happy toddlers in the stroller in front of her. When she sees me, I get the briefest flash of a smile and a barely perceptible wave, yet that greeting smacks of what Admiral Dewey must have felt when he returned to New York from the Pacific.

When I slowly pull down my driveway, I look for anything that might give me a clue as to what’s been happening inside.

The first thing I notice is that the Dumpster is gone and that someone must have power-washed the area underneath it, because my drive is clean and clear for the first time since Mac ripped down the first sheet of drywall.

The next thing I notice is the windows, as in, we have actual windows in each and every frame and not just half a dozen strategically placed boards. Plus, my perennials seem healthy and strong, and someone even removed the stump from the tree I executed.

All of these are positive omens, but I’m not really going to have a grasp on where things stand until I see Mac.

The front door opens and I run to throw myself into Mac’s arms when I realize that Mac is suddenly taller.

And burlier.

And blonder.

And dressed kind of like the construction guy from the Village People.

What the. .?

“Hey, there, ya must be Mia. Heard ya may be comin’ home today. We’d hoped to be finished, but you’re a little early and we’re still cleanin’ up.”

Wait. I know that voice. It’s all confident and businesslike and vaguely Canadian.

“The name’s Mike Holmes. Glad to meet ya.” He holds out a meaty palm and gives my hand a firm shake.

I’m speechless.

“Speechless, eh? Let’s give ya a little tour and show ya what we’ve done.” Numbly I walk in the front door, and I’m in such a state of shock that for a moment I don’t even realize my dogs are jumping on me.

I snap out of it. “Hi, guys, Mummy’s home. Yes! That’s right! Mummy is home!” I let them romp and bark and kiss me for a couple of minutes, because that’s happening whether I want them to or not.

Greeting the dogs has given me time to collect my thoughts. “So, you’re here. How are you here? And where’s Mac? And are there cameras — is this for a show? I’m sorry; I’m a little lost.”

“Nope, not filmin’, just helping ya out, doin’ the right thing. I gotta tell ya, this place was a mess when we got here. I can’t believe ya were livin’ like that. We almost thought ya were pullin’ a prank when we got your husband’s call.”

“Mac called you?”

“Oh, he’s been callin’ the production office for a while, couple of months at least. We had your house on the list for potential sites to scout, but we’re not filmin’ the new season yet.”

As Mike talks, I start to look around my house. In the foyer, the hideous black and white tiles have been replaced with wide-plank dark walnut floors, and they go as far as I can see. When I inspect the walls, I don’t see lath and plaster or drywall; 167instead I see smooth, even walls painted a light yellowish green. The ceiling not only exists, but it’s a really clean white, and it’s bordered by four inches of glossy crown molding.

I don’t understand. “Then. . how are you here?”

“Funny story. I was on vacation in Miami with the family, and your grandmother tracked us down. She”—he pauses and flinches just the tiniest bit—“convinced us to come up here.”

That doesn’t make sense. “How’d she even know? No one in my family wanted to tell her, because we didn’t want her to freak out. She’s old and kind of delicate.”

Mike shrugs. “I guess Mac called her and asked for her help. Turns out it’s a real small world, because her company cleans the condo where we were staying, and let’s just say she can be very, very persuasive. Also, I’m not so sure about the delicate part.” Then he kind of bites his lip and looks off in the distance for a second. “Anyway, are ya ready to see your new kitchen?”

We pass the library, and I can’t help but notice that all my gor-geous paneling has been repaired and restored, and also that the enormous gilded cross Babcia gave us as a housewarming gift is now mounted over the fireplace.

You know what? I can live with that.

Mike shows me all the features of my brand-new kitchen, with the warming drawer and extra refrigerated drawer in the island. The cabinets are a painted cream finish with antiquing in the crevices, with oil-rubbed bronze fixtures and pulls. The counters are a sandcolored granite with cambered edges. Although I’m both shocked and awed, I’m not surprised by how well it all coordinates, because they used all the stuff Vlad and I picked out. The guy might have been a mercenary and possibly a thief, but he was definitely an aesthete.

“All of the appliances work?” I ask tentatively. “I can have hot or cold food whenever I want?”

“Of course it works! Our job is to make it right around here!” Mike booms.

The rest of the house is equally overwhelming, and I ooh and ahh over every closable door and flushable toilet. Holmes and company even put in a fail-safe opening in the panic room, and they got rid of the Jacuzzi. 168

“Is Mac coming home soon?” I ask. All of what I’m seeing is amazing, but what’s really making me happy is the effort Mac made to make it all right. And he called Babcia! That’s what blows me away more than anything. The only possible interpretation of all this is that even though we hit a rough patch, his love for me didn’t waver.