So I am working on becoming a writer, in between working full-time, attempting to help with the purchase process on the house, hosting nieces every which way, and getting ready to travel to Philly this weekend. My latest venture is this essay, a semi-fictional adaptation of that moment in the coffee shop when I knew which house we would buy. I am submitting it to church, of all places, because this year's Women's Retreat focuses on Writing from the Heart. Serious writers were invited to send in an essay so we can spend extra time with the retreat leader, Mike Harden, a retired Columbus Dispatch columnist.
What do you think?
Sign Language
By Marti Post
“What’s your medium size?” I asked the well-caffeinated man behind the coffee counter.
“Medium,” he replied with an ironic grin. My husband laughed, knowing I was about to spew a complicated, European-sounding coffee order out of pure Starbucks habit.
“Okay, I’d like a medium chai tea latte, please, made with soy milk if you have it,” I said, and turned to wrestle my huge, oh-so-fashionable purse toward the coffee waiting area. I heard Steve place his order behind me, and I snuggled into my coat with appreciation as he handed over the money and waited for the change.
The sky outside was strangely white, impossible to tell what time of day it was, or even what season. As I waited for my soy chai latte, the front door opened, and a gust of wind blew in a man with his arms full of books and his hands full with a young, blue-eyed son. Drops of rainy ice pellets dripped down their Crayola-bright parkas. The little boy made a beeline for a stool by the over-varnished wooden fireplace, while the dad balanced a hardbound copy of Harry Potter and the Sorcerers Stone with his wallet and his son’s stocking cap.
Steve came to my side and we waited for our lattes together. As usual, we both suddenly spoke at once, sharing a thought and carrying on our conversation.
“We could build a patio at Dunedin,” he was saying, just as I blurted, “We could walk to this coffee shop every Saturday.”
Steve smiled, and we both fell silent, thinking again of the two houses, mentally placing furniture and hosting parties and commuting from each to see which felt right.
Our lattes were announced, and we navigated to a table near the fireplace and within earshot of the boy, who had was wiping the spring rain off the plastic Easter eggs in his tiny plastic basket.
We pulled off coats and scarves and started our back-and-forth again about the house up north on Garden Road, or the house around the corner on Dunedin Road. We’d looked at 42 houses in six weeks, hoping that our first home would just “feel right” to us, the way our relationship and many of our big wedding decisions had. After lots of lots of “no way” and “you’ve got to be kidding,” there were suddenly two houses we loved, for very different reasons.
“There’s more space at Dunedin, and we could add the patio and deck you loved at Garden,” Steve said. “And we can walk to the park, and the realtor said that service station at the bottom of the hill is a farmers’ market in the summer.”
“True. But the kitchen at Garden is perfect for us, whereas Dunedin’s kitchen has a long way to go. And we’d have to do all the work ourselves.”
My husband smiled an eager smile, his eyes alight with manic home improvement energy. He wasn’t afraid to get his hands dirty; in fact, he refused to seriously consider any house that was too “done” for him to make progress or drastically improve.
I fell silent, my conversation turning inward. I can’t believe this entire decision comes down to one rainy Saturday afternoon. How do you decide where to build your future? Why isn’t there a sign for this? Real estate is full of signs … For Sale, Foreclosed, Spectacular! Price Reduced! Must-see! Why isn’t there a “Just Right for Steve and Marti” sign on any of these houses?
Steve looked at my face and said, “I’ll be right back” and melted away down the hallway. I settled myself more comfortably in my seat, and took several deep breaths.
Behind my elbow, the father must have arrived next to his son, because I heard him start reading the unmistakable story of young Harry. The son quieted immediately, and I turned to sneak a glance at the two of them. The dad sat on the floor, while the little guy looked over his Dad’s shoulder and pointed to the pages.
I stared at them in a reverie. Someday that might be Steve sitting in this coffee shop, reading stories to one of our kiddos, having walked down here through the icy Easter rain from our house around the corner on Dunedin Road. And I’d still be out with our other little one, looking for one last egg in the park before coming inside to get warm.
The man must have felt me staring, because he looked up suddenly and looked my way. I smiled, and reached for my latte to cover my awkwardness. The father smiled back and ducked his head once again to the book.
A pair of brown eyes re-appeared around the corner as my husband returned.
“How many times have you read this one?” he asked me, referring to the Harry Potter storytelling.
“Three,” I replied promptly. “This is one of the best parts.”
Steve winked at me and then quickly shook his head, as if to say simultaneously, ’Atta girl and You are crazy.
“Come on, my little bookworm, let’s go home,” Steve said.
We braved the wind and sleet one more time, grumbling to each other the whole way about the Ohio rain. I slammed the car door on the weather and mumbled a desperate prayer for spring sunshine.
“Either house will be great because we’ll be there together,” Steve said, while I shuddered with cold and then started the car and turned on the wipers. The passenger-side blade left a drippy wet streak across the glass.
I turned right, into the traffic, my wipers making protesting squeaks with each swish. I merged into the left lane.
“Just think, if we buy the house on Dunedin, you can walk to this coffee shop every weekend and listen to Harry Potter, or maybe even start your own story hour. You can come here to write, or work or meet Stephanie for lunch.”
“Or drink coffee,” I said absentmindedly, and turned left onto Dunedin Rd.
“Where are you going?” Steve asked as we drove by the yellow bungalow with the huge For Sale sign in the front yard.
“Home,” I said, and waved at our new house as we passed by and turned the corner.
