“She used way too much water for her shower, Mom!” complained my daughter about her twin. “The floor is soaked.”
Soaked? The bathroom floor was a pool, and the carpet was matted in the hallway. The imprint of my husband’s shoes tracked a path into the bedroom as he tried to assess the damage. Yes, it was way too much water for a shower.
“The water is spreading under the bed,” Realm observed as we worked to get everything out of the closet that shared a wall with the bathroom. In fact, the water had traveled to the far wall of the bedroom in a matter of hours that spring-like day while we were outside cleaning up the garage and washing the car.
With ten gallon jugs lined up by the toilet, we shut off the water and stayed up late Saturday night, waiting in gratitude for the repairman who brought blowers to dry out the floor and carpet. The wet carpet pad was done for, pulled up, and discarded. We slept to the sound of tornado-force gales swirling round the front bedroom all the night. A commercial de-humidifier sat in the bathroom, a machine capable of drying out the entire house. And it did. In the mornings that followed we woke with sore throats and nose bleeds.
The plumber arrived and removed part of the wall to clamp off the flow to the busted pipe. He finished just in time for Realm to make it to worship services with us.
The wall was patched on Tuesday, only hours after the plumber replaced the pipe that had a one-inch slit punched through it. The patch-up job on the wall was splendid; the leftover paint poured into our green city garbage can wasn’t so much.
The loud fans and dry air we’d endured for four nights were scheduled to go away, but then it was discovered that the porous baseboard in the bathroom had soaked up the water. The soggy boards were ripped away from the wall, and the de-humidifier and one tornado fan remained in the bathroom. We shut the door and breathed a sigh of relief at the relative quiet. At least the grating helicopter sounds throughout that night were muffed by the bathroom door. The walls dried. The machines were removed.
The pulled-up carpet lay flat like a steam-rolled pancake in the hall and bedroom until this morning, when four repairmen entered the house just before 8 o’clock, replaced the carpet pad, and laid the carpet down again. They were gone by 9.
Only the smell of cigarette tar lingers…and the frame and mattresses of the bed stacked against the living room wall…and a whole lot of mess spread out all over the house that needs to be returned to the rescued bedroom.
I have nothing to complain about. We rent. It was all taken care of for us. I’ve thanked God again and again for our fabulous property manager. Ah, the luxuries we enjoy, like running water and quietness and a home with plenty of space.