Page 13 of Retrofit Analysis

“I had an errand to run,” I say, waving my hand. “But I can go another time. I don’t want to leave Jake while he’s upset.”

Kellen is quiet for a moment and Jake yanks a clump of dandelions from the yard, hurling them toward the street. “I see that your grass is a bit long,” Kellen says. “Is the landlord supposed to mow?”

I bite my lip and shake my head. I haven’t gotten around to dealing with the lawn yet. Every time I think I’m getting caught up with this new life, I’m reminded of another thing I didn’t do. Or couldn’t do. How hard is it to get a lawnmower and take care of this small amount of grass? Evidently hard enough that I failed to do it.

“Tell you what,” Kellen says, standing and extending an arm toward Jake. “Why don’t I show Jake here how the lawnmower works. You have a knack for mechanical things, right?”

“I understand how combustion engines function to operate the blades.” Jake rolls his eyes, like Kellen just suggested he didn’t know something simple like counting to five.

Kellen chuckles. “Well then we’re halfway through already. Beth, you can run your errand and by the time you get back, we’ll have covered safety tips as well as mechanics.”

“Oh, I can’t let you mow my grass, Kellen,” I spit out automatically, accustomed to saying no to help. I may have known Kellen as a teen, but I’m not ready to leave my son alone with him, not when Jake’s been upset. Most of the time, the well-meaning person offering assistance isn’t really qualified to help me get Jake to the car or coax him to move if he’s blocking a door and gets upset. I’ve just gotten used to being on call. All the time.

“I’m not going to mow it,” Kellen says, scoffing. “Jake will.”

My mouth drops open to protest, but Kellen holds up a hand. “I’ve taught four teens how to use a lawnmower and haven’t had a lost digit yet. You go on and run your errand and then stop somewhere for a cup of tea by yourself.”

I swoon, right there on my porch. If I hadn’t been leaning against the door to my house, I would have fallen right to the ground. That is the most romantic thing anyone has ever said to me in 50 years, and that includes the first time I knew Kellen when he used to say beautiful things to me before we’d kiss.

I touch my lips, remembering the feel of his soft lips against mine. He had smooth cheeks then, no chest hair poking out from his shirt collar. I shake myself back to reality and sigh. He’s right. I should run my errand, but I also should stay home and make sure that Jake doesn’t relapse into the red zone and hurt himself.

Kellen seems to watch me working through this thought process. He squints. “What if Jake calls to check in every ten minutes until you get there? He’s got a phone, right?”

Jake rolls his eyes and pulls out the phone in question. “Mom, it’s fine. I want to use the lawnmower.” He doesn’t look back at me, walks right across the street toward Kellen’s garage in that way he has of shutting off the switch, like the lightning storm never even happened.

“I swear I’ve got this, Beth,” Kellen says. “Go run your errand.”

I try not to cry, and I close my eyes. I tell him, “When his shoulders get tense, that’s his tell that he’s starting to get very upset. Promise you’ll have him call me right away?”

“I will study his shoulders with all the care I give a dam about to break.” Kellen holds one hand over his heart and one hand in the air, like he’s saluting me, and I feel something shift in my chest. Maybe this can be okay. Before I can talk myself out of it, I run back inside to grab the folder with my resume, along with my purse.

When I get to the driveway, I see my son crouched next to my former lover, leaning over the lawnmower and talking about “rigid rules and flexible rules,” and I know for sure that I’m going to have to use my facial massager later, because my god. This man understands how to talk to my son. And it turns me on.

“May I help you?” There’s a pleasant woman at the reception desk when I find the FARE office in a row of old industrial buildings.

I put on my most confident smile and lean on the counter. “I hope so,” I tell her. “I’m interested in applying for the open position I saw online. For the parent coach? I’ve got my resume and cover letter here.” I open the folder and hand her the documents, but I can tell by the look on her face that I’ve made a blunder somehow.

“Oh,” she says. “I’m so sorry. We actually just filled that position.” I will myself not to feel defeated. It was a pipe dream job, anyway. In no universe would the perfect part-time job open up and fall at my feet that way. Not that easily.

I nod. “I understand. Bad timing,” I say, pulling back the papers. A door opens behind the desk and I see a woman who looks vaguely familiar.

She hangs up her cell phone call and does a double take when she sees me. “Elizabeth Gaston!” She points at her chest. “Do you remember me? Karen Wolfe. Our boys were in social skills together. Gosh, it’s been almost ten years now.”

I do remember her, now that she says that. I smile and shake her hand. “It’s Elizabeth Burns now,” I say. “It’s so good to see you.”

“What brings you down here? We don’t get many visitors here at the office.” I learned from their website that most of their trainings are in schools, for teachers and staff, but sometimes in community centers when they host events for families to attend.

“I was actually here to apply for the coach position, but I just learned that I was a little too late.” I shrug and try to seem casual, even though I’m ready to cry inside.

Karen makes a disappointed face. “Oh, gosh. That’s too bad. I always love when we get parents on the team who really get it. You know? Of course you know. How is Jake?”

I shrug. “Pissed off that I ruined his life by moving him to a new neighborhood with new smells and different furniture.” We share a belly laugh about that. I seem to recall that her son has an aversion to the color yellow and can’t even be in a room if someone else is wearing a yellow shirt. “Is Evan still struggling with yellow?” I clutch the folder tight against my chest, hoping I haven’t struck a nerve. That one would be a really hard aversion to manage, especially in Pittsburgh where half the city dons black and gold clothing every Friday in support of the baseball, football or hockey teams.

Karen beams. “You remembered! Oh man, that one was a hard one. We got the most wonderful behavioral specialist and she took him to the football stadium—you know most of the seats there are yellow. Gold. Whatever. She did all this desensitization work with him and of course he still hates yellow, but is able to at least attend class with other kids who wear a Steelers jersey or something.” She shrugs. “I’m so bummed we don’t have anything here for you.”

“There will be other opportunities,” I say, echoing things I’ve heard Lisa say before. Echoing the statements I say to my own kid when he’s suffered a disappointment. If I say it often enough, maybe the sting will wear off my own disappointment.

Karen makes a face. “Well,” she says. “Why don’t you leave your info with me. Got a resume? Of course you do. Anyway, we partner with so many organizations. It’s the time of year where there’s so much turnover as schools are getting started…why don’t I pass your info along if I see something?”