Now what are you going to do?
I pull my car into the garage following another showing, gather up as much as I can carry, and head inside. After dumping my armload on the kitchen island, my first stop is the back door. More than once one of our kitties, usually Katy, has been trapped in the three-season room, the door closed firmly and locked from the inside. Several times the cats have been in, but the backdoor has been left unlocked. If I turned the ceiling fan on to swirl lazily, it will still be on. I snap it off and take a detour on my way to the basement to turn off lights and fans in the tea, yoga and rumpus rooms.
As I make my way through the basement, I guess at the response to my house. If none of the lights have been turned off, then I imagine the showing was brief and the clients turned on their heels, causing their agent to hasten after to the next place. If there’s a blend of lights on and light off, usually the case, I wonder if maybe the family took a more careful look and the agent was flummoxed about what to turn off and when. Often I find telltale debris from the backyard, so I know that the showing group went out through the back, came back in, and then tracked around taking another look here or there. Then again, perhaps it’s just the agents who track in seeds and leaf litter from the back as they’re moving through after, trying to intuit light switches.
On the few occasions when most to all of the lights have been off, I envision the people standing in the dining room or the front hall talking about the house while the agent walks back through more carefully. Agents almost always lower the slider in the exercise room, what we call the health club, but I’ve learned to check that the lights are really switched off and the doors that I want closed are closed. It takes about five minutes to fully check and reset the house.
Somewhere in the basement, or maybe as I’m climbing up two flights to shut down lights in the bedrooms (my closet door is open again, really?), a flicker takes up residence—hope. Could this be the showing that finally nets a decent offer? After all of these months, after so many strangers walking through my house, after keeping everything so clean and put away, after the painting and the decluttering and the stowing of valuables, could this be the family that answers our half of the conversation with their enthusiastic yes?
Some thirty times over the past six months the beep of my phone has notified me of a text message from a 312 number. 312 is the inner loop of Chicago, but in today’s cellular world that doesn’t mean much. In this case it’s the number of origin for house showing requests through an app that realtors rely on. I used to get really excited when I saw the number pop up. Now I roll my eyes and sigh. Then I type a very reluctant “Y,” accepting and confirming the request.
There follows the mental shuffling of my activities over the next twenty-four hours, so that I might primp and fluff the house and be out at the appointed time. For the past six months Fifteen and I have kept it clean, but lived-in clean and showing clean are two different standards.
I still don’t really have a consistent cleaning routine, just an awareness that the laundry has to be managed, the floors clean, the bathrooms spotless, the kitchen sparkling, and our personal effects put away or tucked into the trunk of my car. In April and May and June I tackled these tasks with gusto, convinced that this next buyer would be the buyer, the people who would walk in and fall in love.
It’s possible the initial arranging was too spare; in mid-summer a talented designer and house stager named Becky came through and helped us warm up the space. About that time Fifteen and I stopped saying we lived in the “Pinterest” house and started “beckifying.” Alongside making the beds and lowering the toilet lids, I’ve also done everything everyone has suggested—released the house to love another family, buried St. Joseph upside down in the back yard, smudged, written the house a letter, walked the perimeter drawing Reiki symbols in the air. In spite of it all, we’re still living here at the end of our listing period.
When my realtor and I set our contract, I never imagined it would take six months to find a buyer or, worse, that we wouldn’t find a buyer at all. Four months in, though my cleaning was no less thorough, it was much less enthusiastic. The sense of dismay and audible sighs when the phone pinged a showing request got stronger and were accompanied by far more eye rolling. I vacuumed and dusted and wiped and tucked away, but it was all just a chore. There was no longer any spring in my step.
Turning off the lights after what may well have been the last showing this fall, I registered again the unavoidable flicker of hope in my heart. Maybe, maybe, maybe …
Having a house on the market isn’t unlike being pregnant—people kindly inquire about progress. The difference is there is a baby at the end of the pregnancy, one way or another. When I tell people the countdown to the end of the listing period, everyone wants to know what I’m going to do. I don’t know, I say, with what I’m certain is a pained, conversation-ending look on my face.
It’s a few days later when I learn that the most recent party isn’t interested. The flicker that I felt, the spark I barely breathed into but couldn’t help but feel, the hope dies.
What I’ve come to realize is that the jacking up of hope in my heart, the coiling sense of maybe this time we leap to this next chapter, the inkling of a launching into the succeeding step, all of which is summarily crushed by the letdown I feel when I learn that it’s another no—after six months, it’s too much. I’ve self-diagnosed my spirit as suffering from hope fatigue. Hope is fundamental. Hope is one of the things that makes life divine. Hope also makes us fragile. That’s where I am—worn all the way out by hoping for a change that I haven’t been able to manifest.
What am I going to do? Take the house off the market. Live and breathe a little. Move things to where I like them. Reinstall the trash in the kitchen and the dish drainer on the sink. Take a bath in my bathtub without having to clean it immediately after I’m done. Build a fire in the fireplace on the first truly chilly fall day. Invite my friends in for food and call it a house warming party. And send a cordial invitation, engraved even, to Hope—please move back in too.
Wishing you well on this full Harvest Moon. Namaste, xoR