Pen Pal

3

I don’t know why, but I’m expecting an older man with a balding head and a beer belly wearing a tool belt slung around his hips. Instead, what I get when I open the front door to his knock is a smiling, slender young man with long brown hair held off his face with a braided leather headband. He’s wearing a John Lennon T-shirt, faded bell-bottom jeans, and sandals, and holds a rusty metal toolbox in one hand.

He reeks of pot.

“Hey. You Kayla?”

“That’s me.”

Grinning, he extends his hand. “I’m Eddie.”

I return his smile, and we shake hands. He seems sweet and harmless, two things I appreciate in any man I allow into my home while I’m here alone.

“Come in. I’ll show you around.”

He follows me into the kitchen, commenting on how cool he thinks the house is.

“Cool but falling apart a little more every day.” I gesture to the two brown water stain rings on the kitchen ceiling.

“Yeah, these old houses need lots of TLC.” He cranes his neck to stare up at the stains. “Especially with the humidity here. You got mold problems?”

“Not anymore. Took care of that a few years back. Right now it’s the roof leak and the electrical.” I give him an overview of what’s been happening with the lights and the doorbell. “Plus, I smell something burning when I run the dryer. And the TV sometimes turns itself off. Oh, and a couple of light bulbs have exploded recently.”

A sudden cold draft lifts the hairs on my arms and the back of my neck and sends a tingle down my spine. Shivering, I rub my hands over the goose bumps on my arms.

I should ask him to have a look at the weather stripping around the windows while he’s here. But first things first. “Let me show you where the electrical panel is.”

Eddie follows me to the utility room at the back of the house next to the garage. The washer and dryer are there, along with cabinets containing a hodgepodge of household supplies.

Setting his toolbox on the floor, Eddie flips open the metal door on the electrical panel and does a quick visual scan of the switches.

“I’ll check the voltage first, see if the breaker’s running at the right capacity. Then I’ll look at the integrity of the wiring. You might have water damage or fraying that could cause problems. Then I’ll check all your outlets, make sure they’re not compromised. Where’s the meter?”

“Right outside the garage door.”

He nods. “Dig it. I’ll take a look at that, too. Should take me an hour or so to get through everything, then I’ll give you an estimate for the repairs. Sound good?”

“Sounds great, thanks. To get into the attic, the access is on the second floor through the master bedroom closet. The ladder’s in the garage.”

“Cool.”

“Holler if you need me. I’ll be around.”

“Will do.”

I leave him to it and head into my office. I’m able to work for a while before the headache starts. It’s a dull throbbing around my temples and pressure behind my eyes so strong, it makes them water. I lie on the small sofa with the shades drawn and the lights off until Eddie appears in the doorway with his toolbox.

“Oh, sorry, man. Didn’t know you were sleeping. I was just gonna check the outlets in here.”

Disoriented, I sit up. “I wasn’t asleep. Just resting my eyes. I have a terrible headache.”

He nods in sympathy. “I used to get crazy migraines.”

Used to, past tense. I feel a weird pang of hope. “Did you find something that helped them? Nothing I take makes a dent.”

“You’ll laugh. Mind if I turn the lights on?”

“Go ahead. And I won’t laugh, I promise. I’m too desperate.”

When Eddie hits the switch and light floods the room, I wince. I try to stand, but discover I’m too dizzy. So I sink back onto the sofa, close my eyes, and gingerly pinch the bridge of my nose.

When did I last eat? I can’t remember.

Eddie ambles around, hunting for outlets. He’s so slim, his footsteps are silent on the floor. I’ve known cats who made more noise.

“After I started seeing a therapist, the headaches went away. Poof, man. Just gone. Turns out, I had lots of emotions bottled up.”

I open my eyes to find him crouched under my desk with a small power meter in his hand. He sticks it into the electrical outlet, waits a moment as he reads whatever it’s telling him, then stands and moves to the next outlet where he repeats the process.

“Psychosomatic illness, they call it. Your brain literally makes you sick. Stress is that toxic. Far out, isn’t it?”

“Far out,” I agree, wondering if he lives in a commune or co-op. They’re all over Washington and the Seattle area, communal-living groups started in the free-love sixties where people share housing and resources and eschew modern things like cell phones and GMO foods.

I’m much too private to live in such close quarters with people I’m not having s*x with, but I don’t judge anybody’s life choices.

Standing, he turns to look at me. “I can give you my doc’s name if you want. Unless you don’t think stress could be a problem for you.”

“Does losing my husband count as stress?”

I don’t know why I said that. Or why I said it in the biting way I did. I don’t normally wear my heart on my sleeve, and I’m not sarcastic like Michael was. He dealt with depressing or morbid things with black humor that sometimes came off as insensitivity, but I knew was just a coping mechanism. The man was a marshmallow.

Confused, Eddie stares at me. “You lost him?”

No one can possibly be this dumb. “He died.”

Now he looks stricken. “Oh, dude. I’m so sorry.”

“Thank you.”

“Was it recent?”

“New Year’s Eve.”

“Holy s**t! That’s only a couple weeks ago!”

I should stop talking now. Every word out of my mouth makes poor Eddie more and more upset.

I’ve always had a problem over-empathizing with other people, which is one of the reasons I tend to keep to myself. Everyone else’s emotions piled on top of my own can get suffocating sometimes.

“Yes. Anyway.” I manage to stand this time, then avoid Eddie’s eyes as I say, “So what’s the verdict?”