Life Reconstructed: Chapter Thirteen

By Friday afternoon, Cat marveled at the change in her mood. No, it was bigger than that. It was her whole attitude, about everything. The weekend loomed ahead of her, quiet with no real plans. And yet, unlike last Friday, this knowledge didn’t fill her with a kind of silent desperation. In fact, she was almost looking forward to doing nothing. No sooner had that thought popped into her mind then Cat heard the telltale ping of a text message notification, coming from within the muffled depths of her purse.

Unlocking her apartment door and nudging it shut with her shoulder she blindly hung her purse up on one of three pegs, nailed on a piece of hollowed wood, hanging up on the peach-colored hallway there. Nabbing her phone from the front pocket of her bag, she frowned at the wall. She’d always considered that color, while normally so bright and happy, to be almost grim in the narrow, windowless hallway.

With a swipe of her finger, she brought her eyes down to her phone as she checked her message.

Reading it, she paused.

Then she read it again.

 

MATTHEW MCBOY

Door’s done.

 

That was it. That was all the message said. Closing her eyes as a wave of an excited sort of nauseas rasped at her throat, Cat quickly pressed the Call button, bringing the phone up to her ear.

“Hello?”

“Matthew?”

“This is him.”

“Hi, it’s Cat—”

“I know.”

“Right.” Stalking up and down the narrow hallway, she felt a sort of energy exploding out of her limbs. “So? How’s it look?”

There was a slight hesitation on the other end of the phone.

“This is no time for modesty—!” Clomping down on the words, Cat grimaced. Okay, even she heard the dramatics in that statement.

“It’s good.”

“Is it?”

“It wasn’t exactly a difficult design.”

Cat talked right over this dry piece of delivery. “Do you think…?”

“They’ll never suspect a thing.”

“Oh. Thank God.” Even though she knew Matt was mocking her, could, in fact, hear his muffled amusement over the phone line, Cat didn’t care. The first wave of relief settled on her shoulders since this whole ordeal began. It was done. And it was good.

“Only…”

Cat’s back pulled back. “Only?”

“Well, it’ll still need to be painted, of course.”

“Painted?”

“The door you brought me as a sample design. It’s white.”

“Right. Yeah. Of course,” Cat felt her jaw cracking. “Shit.”

“I take it you don’t—”

“Wait.” Holding up a hand, Cat cut him off. “You sell paint at your store, right?”

“Yeah.” All traces of amusement were gone from his voice now.

“Oh, thank Go—”

Matt’s voice retained its earlier hesitation. “But I’d still need to know what paint—brand, color, finish.”

“Oh. But, can’t you compare the paint with the sample door? Or what about the broken door?” Cat was speaking quickly now. “Chip some paint off of that and, um, maybe…”

“Look, I can try. But you need to understand that it’s not a perfect science. Paint fades and different companies have different color gradients…” She could practically see him shrug on the other end of the phone. “At best, they’ll be a close match.”

“Right. Right.” Biting down on her fingernail, Cat thought for a moment. “If the landlord had extra paint lying around where would he keep it?”

“I don’t know. A spare closet?”

“No,” Cat considered. “Those were all empty when I moved in.”

“Basement storage?”

Cat stilled. Then she nodded. “Yes. Yeah. I almost forgot!”

“Haven’t been down there in a while, huh?”

She shook her head. “It’s not exactly welcoming.”

“Might want to make an exception this time.”

Unsaid, both of them were thinking the same thing—especially considering the amount of work Matt had already done for her. Don’t fuck it up now.

“Right. Okay. I’ll do that. I’ll call you with what I find.”

“There’s no rush.”

And again, with that flick of casual indifference, Matt somehow managed to make Cat sound equal parts over-eager and pathetic.

Ugh. He made her feel dramatic.

“Right. Whatever. Talk later then.” And then, because of that, she said even more ridiculous things, like that. Could she have made her offense more obvious?

Pathetic.

Ending the call, she shoved her phone into the pocket of her slacks. With a deliberate growl, she turned on her heel once more, this time heading for her bedroom. She’d need to change before she went trekking into the basement of the building. She hadn’t been completely honest with Matt just now.

She had, in fact, been done there once before.

And that had been enough.

Dangerously steep stairs led down into a musky, low-ceiled rock-walled enclosure. Wooden pallets lined the floor which grew damp with the spring frost. A few boxes were stacked on these. Three bare bulbs hung from the short, narrow space. It was dark, shadowy and undoubtedly loaded with spiders.

When Cat had first moved in she’d gone down there to store some household items. She’d never even made it down from the last stair, however. The site of the moldy, claustrophobic space had convinced her that whatever she couldn’t manage to squeeze inside her apartment was better left given to secondhand stores.

Now, in her bedroom, shrugging on a dark blue pullover sweater and a pair of tattered jeans, Cat wondered if she shouldn’t put a baseball cap on her head. Reaching for it, she also considered that it would be best to bring a flashlight down with her. And probably her phone. Just in case.

Nabbing up a large metallic flashlight, Cat carefully shut her apartment door behind her as she entered the exterior hallway of her building. Cream walls greeted her on either side. They held a slight grease on their paint; and it was best not to look to closely at the scuff marks and finger prints, and other markings, either. Still, at a glance the cream color made the space look clean. The carpet was brown and held the unmistakable scent of mold, feet, and carpet shampoo, the latter of which had clearly been applied too late. The damage had been done. It wouldn’t be fixed. So her apartment building was a little dumpy. Cat shrugged. It was home.

Turning to the left, she headed further into the building. There it was. The last door on the left. A small, slim door greeted Cat. Like all the doors on the first floor, its front was painted in a complimentary brown of the carpet. It gave the room an almost nauseating sort of neutrality. Creams, browns and, accompanying each brown-painted door on this level, a gold-plated address number on each door. But unlike Cat’s door, which was marked with a C7 this door was labeled: BASEMENT STORAGE. FIRST FLOOR.

Opening the door, Cat looked down the stairs. They were softly lit, but even the yellow glow did nothing to disguise the paint-chipped, warped, and steep, steep steps. Grabbing for the railing on the left-hand side, Cat trudged down to the bottom step. A damp sort of musk greeted her as she dropped to the cement flooring. Turning off the landing, Cat was immediately shrouded in darkness. The lights to the steps didn’t extend far. With a flick of her thumb, she turned on the flashlight.

Aiming her light first low on the ground and then steadily up and around, Cat felt her feet spinning in a slow circle. She’d almost gone completely around the room, her light catching the edges of cardboard boxes, plastic and rubber bins, one fake Christmas tree, and a pile of fishing rods, when Cat’s light flashed over a pair of sneakers. And then legs.