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Downstairs during renovation
Jane took pictures of the rapidly-transforming space and emailed them to us a week
later.
We weren't sure if these shots made us feel better or worse about the renovation. Des-
pite our initial excitement, there was something unsettling about actually seeing our house
being pummelled, pounded and jack-hammered to pieces from hundreds of miles away.
“What if the new beams aren't strong enough and the upstairs ends up downstairs?” I
wailed.
“Steve knows what he's doing,” said Michael. “Go lie down with a cool cloth on your
forehead.”
Jane kept us posted as work progressed, and everything seemed to go according to plan.
Finally, one day in early May, she called to say that everything was cleared out and they
were ready to start rebuilding.
I called Steve to thank him. He sounded pleased but preoccupied.
“Is everything okay?” I asked.
A pause.
“I hope so. I'm headed to Fajardo tomorrow for some tests.”
“What kind of tests?”
“A chest x-ray.”
“Oh,” I said, relieved. “Bronchitis?”
Short silence.
“I don't think so.”
I forced myself to shift into a more upbeat mode.
“I'm sure everything will be fine.”
“Fingers crossed,” he said, his voice flatter than usual.
“Is Sue going with you?”
Sue was his wife.
“Absolutely.”
He sounded alarmingly un-high.
We called Jane.
“I'm worried,” she said in her no-nonsense way. “That boy hasn't looked right for a
while.”
“How do you mean?”
“His color's off. He's kind of gray.”
“You mean his hair?”
“No, his skin.”
“Oh.”
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