The Lisa Nicole House
Our family home on Lisa Nicole Court, built in 1998.
My husband is a man of few words, something I’ve grown accustomed to after being married for 40 years. So when I received a text from him that was merely a Zillow link to our old house, I wasn’t immediately sure why he had sent it. Then he added, “It is listed as Coming Soon.”
In that moment, my heart did a little flip. It was the only house we’ve ever had built from scratch, and the house where we raised our three children through much of their childhood. Getting the “Lisa Nicole” house ready to sell in 2019 wasn’t easy and took a few months, as it needed a lot of updating to appeal to current buyers. We also needed to sort through 21+ years of accumulated “stuff” and let go of as much as possible.
We always called it the “Lisa Nicole” house. When we were picking out the lot to build the home, we had all been tickled about the names of the streets in the new subdivision, which were all proper first and middle names of people—Lisa Nicole, Margaret Michelle, Macey Lynne, Brennen Thomas, Sara Beth. Rumor had it that the streets were named after some of the builders’ own children and grandchildren, but I never really knew if that was true.
Now I was looking at the property listing, hoping that maybe the new buyers would be a young family who could enjoy the neighborhood and house as much as we had. Looking through the photos was bittersweet. It was obviously staged by the realtor, and several changes (new flooring, new kitchen counters, a redone powder room) had been made since we last lived there. What struck me most, though, were the elements that looked the same: the light tan/brown brick fireplace flanked by built-in oak bookshelves in the family room. The oak stair railing that paralleled the stairs from the first to the second floor, then circled the large loft area at the top. The seashell sinks in the vanities in the master bathroom. These were all very ‘90s touches that I clearly remember picking out as the house was just beginning to take shape in the middle of the dirt and gravel lot. I was surprised yet pleased that these remnants of “our house” had continued on even after we sold it. I did not hold out any hope that a new round of buyers would do the same, though.
After glancing through the photos, my eyes fell on one line on the main listing page: Open House 7/18. Wouldn’t it be fun to go and walk through the house again for old time’s sake? I was sure my older daughter, Erin, would go with me if I asked. Now in her early 30s, she was just about to start kindergarten when we first moved into the house way back when.
But then I began to take a closer look at the listing photos.
The fireplace and bookshelves. One Christmas morning comes back to me. The kids’ stockings were hanging on the bright brass metal screen in front of the gas fire. The tree was twinkling in the corner, and the kids had gotten up early and were anxious to start unwrapping presents. Our daughters, roughly ages 2 and 8, were in their plaid flannel nightgowns, long blond hair cascading down their backs. Our son, Eric, who was nearly a teen, sat stoically on the blue velvet sectional, obviously too cool for this whole scene.
My husband, Rich, was adjusting the video camera on the tripod, making sure to get everything set to just the right angle for the present-opening. “First the stockings!” he said firmly. The girls ran over and pulled their stockings from the screen, then sat down on the carpet in front of the fire to see what goodies were inside. As soon as they put their hands in, their expressions turned to disgust. First one, then the other, slowly pulled their hands out, each flexing their chocolate-covered fingers and saying “Ewwww.” Rich and I looked at each other with exasperation. Santa would never again bring chocolate candy for the stockings, or if he did, we’d make sure not to turn the fireplace on.
The staircase leading from the first floor to the second floor. In my mind’s eye, I could see a high-school-aged Eric bounding down the stairs two at a time, headed for the basement. He was wearing athletic shorts and a t-shirt, his short blond hair damp from his nightly shower. As he reached the bottom, he opened the door to the basement and loudly slammed it behind him, disappearing to play video games on the big screen TV for the next couple of hours. On weekends, he was joined by his large group of friends, their laughter and voices rising up through the vents into our family room. Saturday mornings often started with me finding one or two young men sleeping on our family room sectional, snoozing quietly after a long night of playing Halo or another popular game of the time.
The kitchen. In early 2002, I was thoroughly enjoying my life as a stay-at-home mom to my younger daughter, Emily. We spent much of our days together in the kitchen with the small TV above the sink tuned to Nick Jr. She loved shows like Maisie and Oswald, and happily sat in her booster seat, attached by metal arms to the island’s Formica countertop. As I loaded the dishwasher, she often ate cut-up spaghetti from her brightly colored plastic plate with her matching plastic fork. Having just started talking, she would happily call her favorite meal “skadebbi” for the next year or more.
The master bathroom. A few years later, Eric had headed off to college, leaving Rich and me with just the two girls. As I awoke in the middle of the night, groggy and searching the dark, I felt a small hand pulling on my pajama top. “Mama, my tummy hurts.” These words are probably my least favorite in the world, as I have a huge phobia about throwing up. I hate the words vomit and puke. With a passion.
I quickly sat up and grabbed her in my arms, barely making it to our master bath toilet before the inevitable heaving began. As I gagged along with her, I tried my best not to let her know how difficult it was for me, but of course she knew. And instinctively, we both knew it was going to be a long night. After round one, I ran out to the loft and grabbed the kids’ folding foam lounges that each extended into a flat sort of mattress. I quietly dragged them through the master bedroom, past a sleeping Rich, and into the bathroom with me, closing the door behind me. The two of us would spend the rest of the night there together as nausea and sleep alternated until the sun came up.
The dining room. When we were picking out lighting fixtures for the house, we did our best to keep costs down, but one item we splurged on was a beautiful brass and crystal chandelier to hang above the dining room table. It was gorgeous and opulent, and that room played a major role in hosting many family gatherings and dinners—Thanksgivings, Christmases, birthday celebrations, and many more.
But when I think of the dining room, the memory that comes back has nothing to do with opulence or celebration. On a beautiful, sunny October morning in 2008, I answered the phone in the kitchen to find my dad on the end of the line. I immediately knew something major was wrong when he asked, “Sis, is somebody there with you?”
“Yeah, Dad, Rich and Eric are both here. What’s going on?” Seconds later, all I remember is dropping the phone and taking a few steps through the short hallway into the darkened dining room. As I fell to the floor and curled up on my side, I heard a loud, guttural moan and realized it was coming from me. Rich had grabbed the phone and was talking to my dad as I sobbed. My big brother, my only sibling, had died by suicide just an hour or so earlier. The rest of the day, and the next several weeks, remain a blur to me.
As I scroll back to the Zillow listing page, I know that I won’t be attending the open house. The house that I thought I wanted to visit doesn't exist anymore—not because it has changed, but because the people who made it home are no longer living there together.
Back in 1998, we had built our dream house in a neighborhood that was just beginning to fill with young families. The elementary school was new, the trees were small, and so were our children. We chose it because we could picture a bright future there, even though we had no idea what that future would actually look like. Now we have actually lived the future we were only anticipating back then. It will always be our dream house, but it’s no longer our family’s home.