Seth and Ron stepped into the kitchen.
“Ayana is gone, for now, but she said she’d stop by again Thursday,” Seth said. “Anything I can help with?”
I shook my head. It was only spaghetti, not an Amish barn raising, after all.
Ron had a hat in his hands, some free cap that you’d get from a store. He was working it like a rosary. “I, uh . . . thought maybe I should stick around and help a bit.”
Now, that was a surprise. I thought he had a new girlfriend to entertain him. “What does Trish say?”
“I dunno. We haven’t exactly . . . We haven’t had a chance to discuss that.”
Seth and Ron were leaning against different countertops. I was beginning to feel watched, so I gave them a job to do. “Set the table, would you?”
Ron went right to the cupboard with the plates. Of course he would know where everything was. At least in the organized version of his house, which we’d managed to partially restore.
“So what was going on out there, if you didn’t talk about helping?”
Ron coughed. Seth answered, “They were having some trouble sorting out a couple of things Trish said, which didn’t turn out to be true.” He glanced backward, down the hall.
“Oh,” I said. “Jack told me she lied about where he was sleeping.”
“And she also had underestimated to Ron the severity of the situation.”
Ron appeared in my peripheral vision. “How bad was it, Mary? Can you tell me? For real?”
I closed my eyes. “Don’t put me in this position. She’s my sister.”
“I just wanna know one thing. Was it as bad as with your mom?”
I bit my lip and considered what to say. Yes, I started to answer, thinking of the tiny little paths around Trish’s living room when I first came in, the thick, choking dust and scent of mildew. Just remembering made my skin itch with the ghost of those hives. But again, no. Yes, her fridge had too much expired food, but it was all in her fridge, not all around her living room. She had no animal waste.
I settled for: “Not quite.”
Ron dropped his gaze to the floor, considering this, perhaps remembering the last time he saw our mother’s home, trying to imagine what “not quite” must have looked like.
“I wish . . .” he ventured, then shook his head, walking with practiced assurance to the silverware drawer.
Chapter 35
Many lonely nights I’d imagined having Ron back at this table, in a clean house. I never pictured, however, my son in a brace injured by my clutter, a social worker visiting me with the threat of a judge hanging over my head, and my sister and her old “friend” sitting silently like a couple of boulders at the end of the table.
I looked again at Jack. He caught me looking. “What?” he said.
“Want some more Parmesan cheese?”
He shook his head, and I pretended to concentrate on my plate. The sounds of flatware on my dishes was making me a little batty. Was no one going to talk, for the love of Christmas?
Jack seemed fine now. He’d knocked on my door and I knew from its quietness that it was Jack, and I almost absorbed him, I hugged him so much when he came in.
It had just been such a shock to walk into my house, finding Jack and Ayana deep in conversation and have her take me aside the way she did. She pinned me with this hard stare and asked why I had not been honest with her about where Jack was sleeping. I didn’t mean to yank my head in Jack’s direction, didn’t mean to ask, “What did you say to her?” It burst out of me before I thought better of it, along with a surging sense of betrayal. Why was everyone against me? I asked her, and she’d scolded me right there like a wayward kid about how I shouldn’t be upset with my child for being honest. Then she wanted to know if I was encouraging him to lie to her, to the authorities.
No! I’d stage-whispered. Ron was edging closer to our conversation until he was practically on top of us and I’d barked at him to get away, and then he demanded to know what was happening and Ayana said she needed to have this conversation with me privately and she’d talk to him in a minute, and Jack started trying to talk over us and then Mary and Seth came in and Seth acted like some big fat hero jumping in to restore order.
No wonder no one felt like talking anymore. We’d all been talking too damn much.
My phone chimed, and I snatched it up. I finally saw the old texts from Ron about bringing Jack home. I’d left my phone in the bathroom of all places, so no wonder I’d missed those messages. The new text was from Drew. Sorry, got held up. Be there tomorrow after walking dog.
Held up doing what? I knew better than to ask. He wouldn’t answer and would just get indignant. I wondered whether other moms of teens dealt with this secrecy, or if it was just me, because I’d filled his room with junk and he’d left and believed I had lost the right to details of his life.
“So I think I wanna stay and pitch in,” Ron said.
I dropped my fork, wanting so badly to spit his words back to him, the ones about how I could fucking well lie in the bed I’d made.
He knew me inside and out and read my mind. “I know what I said. But I already took the week off and rescheduled jobs and that. I can keep Jack company and also help out.”
Once again a powerful urge seized me to throw the whole lot of them out of my house, to lock all the doors, draw all the shades, and sit in the dark with my ice cream and television and forget about all this shit.
I almost made myself chuckle thinking of Ayana clucking with disapproval at my counterproductive thinking patterns.
“Fine. But you don’t get to throw anything away without asking me.”
Ron frowned. “How’s that gonna work? I mean, anything? That’ll take a frickin’ year.”
“That’s the rule.”
Ron shook his head slowly, staring back at his plate. I could tell from the way he set his jaw he was pissed. “What, Ron? Just spit it out.”
He cut his eyes over at Jack, who was still eating, looking between the both of us, eyes bouncing back and forth like he was watching tennis.
“Let’s go outside a minute,” I said. “I need some air.”
He wiped his mouth with his napkin and followed me out. I heard Seth try to engage Jack in conversation about video games as I shut the door behind us.
The afternoon air was cheerfully warm, and I almost smiled in spite of myself.
Ron started to walk, hands jammed in his jeans pockets, kicking up dead leaves as he went. I followed along, knowing he always found it easier to talk when he was doing something else.
“You shoulda got these leaves up before winter. I woulda helped you.”
“I don’t care about the leaves.”
“What the hell, Trish?” He sounded more weary than mad.
“Don’t give me the wounded clueless bit, Ronald. You knew the house was a mess when you left, which is why you left, so don’t act all amazed that it continued to be a mess when you were gone.”
“You know it wasn’t just that. It wasn’t just the stuff.”
“Bullshit,” I retorted, but it was a knee-jerk answer and empty of conviction.
We walked farther in silence, our feet scuffing across the rotted, dead forest floor as the house shrank away behind us.
“So what was it, then?” I finally said. “In your estimation, why did you leave me and your sons?”
“You weren’t you anymore.”
“Gee, that’s helpful.”
“I mean, all you did was sit on the couch and watch TV all night long, and you never talked to me about nothing. You never made jewelry anymore, you never went out, you just . . . sat.”
“I was tired! Doing all the books for your business, answering the calls, filing . . .”
“. . . till you quit filing and just put the stuff in piles . . .”
“. . . An
d then the boys would get home from school and I’d have to oversee homework and then cook dinner . . .”
“And I worked hard, too, and I’d still want to get a sitter and take you out somewhere and you’d say no.”
I held my arms close against me. A breeze rustled the branches over our heads. We’d come to the back fence of the property. Out past the fence was a subdivision, where there used to be a field. Some of those houses could have been built by Ron, even. He hired someone to do his books these days. Kept his filing at the office.
“You know why I was depressed, Ron. You know damn well why.”
He dropped his head, staring at the dead ground. “I know. It hurt me, too.”
“Not the way it hurt me.”
He turned to me. Touched my elbow, trying to get me to look him right in the face. “I tried to help you. I found those meetings for you, remember? The support group? I wanted to take you out on dates to get you out of the house, to bring you back to life. I offered to hire a cleaning lady.”
I was refusing to turn to face him or meet his eyes. He continued, “You know, come to think of it, you’re the one who did the leaving. You just managed to do it while sitting on the couch.”
“You thought a cleaning lady would help?” I scoffed.
“Dammit. What was I supposed to do?”
“Not leave me and your kids.”
“I do have regrets on that score. I never shoulda left them in this.”
“It wasn’t that bad then,” I said, cringing at the pleading in my voice, for understanding if not forgiveness.
“No, but I shoulda known. I shoulda checked up, instead of just parking in the driveway when I picked up the boys. I shoulda done some damn thing.”
He took off, striding back toward the house, so fast I had to step double-quick to keep up. I stumbled on a root and muttered a curse. He turned back and offered his hand to help me. I held on to his hand for too long, staring at him, until he pulled his arm back and walked away, back toward the home he built for me.
Chapter 36
Seth and I stood elbow to elbow at the sink, washing dishes. Would we be doing these couple-type things all week? I wondered. And every time, would I think of George and his fiancée doing these things together?
I’d been checking my e-mail on my phone, and not once had George checked in with me, after all those years working together, all the secrets we used to share in the back office, on break.
After Trish and Ron got back from their walk, they’d eaten the rest of their meals with a joyless air, like inmates choking down swill. Afterward, Seth suggested going through the clothes in the bedroom, and after some thought and staring at her plate, Trish said she’d select her best and favorite clothes and everyone else could just shove the remnants in bags for donation. She’d excused herself to go select the clothes, while Ron and Jack went outside to play Frisbee. We could see them out the kitchen window, hear Ron’s encouraging shouts, watch his exaggerated leaps as Jack sailed the disc time after time wildly out of his reach.
“Oops,” I said, my hand brushing Seth’s as we both reached into the dishwater.
He nudged me with his shoulder, and for a frightening moment I wondered what I’d done wrong. I looked up at him and spied his little grin. “Oops,” he said.
I flicked water at his shirt. “Oops.”
He dribbled soap bubbles on the top of my head. “Oops.”
I flicked water again, this time at his face. “Oops.”
He grabbed his eye, buckled a little bit, and I laughed, until he started wiping in earnest, then said, chuckling and grimacing, “Actually, I’m not kidding. You nailed me with soap in the eye.”
I gasped, and then reached up with the dishtowel, trying to dab his face dry. “I’m so sorry. . . .” I felt my face flush hot. Was I doomed to forever sabotage everything good and fun?
He stopped blinking and relaxed his face. “That’s better,” he said, so quietly he almost breathed it.
I noticed his hand on my shoulder. Then it slipped down to my hip and rested there. I’d had to step close to reach his face with the towel. Only inches separated my chest and his.
The phone rang.
Seth stepped back.
It rang again, and I folded the dishtowel, waiting for Trish to pick up. She didn’t, and I figured she must not have a bedroom extension. I never could stand to ignore a ringing phone.
I picked up. “Hello.”
A woman’s voice asked, coolly, “May I speak to Patricia, please?”
“Trish!” I called. “Phone!”
I heard her call faintly. “Is it Drew?”
“No!”
“Take a message!”
“She’s a little bit busy right now, could I take a message?”
“Who is this?”
“This is her sister, Mary. Who may I say is calling?”
“Tell her if she still wants a job tomorrow, she’d better call her boss with a damn good explanation.”
The phone went dead.
“Oh, no,” I said. “Oh, God.”
“What?” Seth said. “What is it?”
“She’s gonna kill me. It’s not my fault, but she’ll kill me anyway.”
Seth was trying to get me to elaborate, but all I could do was stare down the hall and try to imagine explaining to Trish what just happened.
When I came upon Trish, she had clothes in the middle of her bed, three piles, about a foot high each.
“I think that’s it,” she said, shaking her head. “I can’t believe it. But these are all the clothes I ever wear. All the rest of these,” she swept her hand across the room, “are either ugly, outdated, or they don’t fit my big ass, or they just smell too funky. I thought I had so much I had to keep, so much I could use, but it turns out I was basically rotating the top layer of stuff.”
“Your ass isn’t big.”
“Well, it ain’t small.”
I looked at her ass; I’d given the first answer out of female solidarity, not because I really knew. It was bigger than I remembered, certainly not massive.
“I guess the rest of this can go,” Trish said through a sigh. “God, what a waste.”
I didn’t know if she meant waste of time, waste of money, or waste of energy. In any case, she was right.
Then she adjusted her ponytail and asked casually, “Who was on the phone?”
I scrunched my eyes shut, like I used to as a kid when our dad would yank out a loose baby tooth that I had no nerve to pull myself. “Your boss.”
“Oh, shit.” Trish turned away from her stuff to face me, eyes round like golf balls.
“She, um . . .” I cleared my throat. “She said to call back with an explanation if you still want a job.”
“What did you say to her!”
I put my hands up, like in surrender. “Nothing! I said you were busy. She asked who I was and I said your sister. What’s wrong with that?”
Trish flopped on her bed and put her head in her hands. “I’ve been telling her I have the flu.”
“Not on vacation?”
“No. She would never have given me the time off.”
“Well . . . call her back and say you were sick. You were busy throwing up and that’s why you couldn’t come to the phone . . .”
Trish muttered, “It’s hopeless. She already didn’t believe me; I could tell she didn’t. She was just waiting to pounce.”
“Maybe she won’t fire you. Maybe she’ll just get really, really mad and make you grovel.”
“Oh, yay,” she answered drily.
“I’m trying here! And why didn’t you tell me, so I could at least cover for you?”
“Because you would have flipped out about me lying to my boss and tried to make me go to work so you could clean without me and then you’d throw something out
I needed.”
“I wouldn’t do that!”
“Flip out? Or throw out my stuff?”
“Well, okay, I would have worried, but why do you keep assuming we’ll throw away something you need?”
“Remember Mom’s photo albums?”
“That’s not fair. And for all we know she lost them years before. Whose side are you on? You were cleaning with us that day!”
“I’m just saying, accidents happen, don’t they?”
“Do they ever.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing, just . . . Nothing. Now what?”
“I guess I call her back and beg for my job.”
Trish hauled herself off the bed like she weighed a thousand pounds and dragged past me to the kitchen phone. “Do me a favor and give me some privacy, will you? Go play Frisbee or something.”
I watched my proud, hilarious, bold sister pick up the phone, cringing as she dialed. I fled outside, not wanting to hear her grovel to that nasty pint-size Scrooge she worked for.
Seth had already gone out. He was kneeling next to Jack, coaching him on his Frisbee throw.
“This way,” I called, waving for the Frisbee, knowing I’d probably drop it and make a fool of myself, but at least that would feel normal.
Chapter 37
I replaced the phone on the charger in the kitchen and leaned against my cupboards. The conversation with Angela had gone exactly as predicted. She sounded gleeful as a six-year-old as she canned my ass.
“I’m afraid this is unacceptable behavior, and I can no longer work with you,” she’d purred. “Your things will be in a box by the end of the day today.”
I’d tried to claim that I’d been sick this morning and had slightly improved. But the presence of my sister and her statement that I’d been “busy” was enough to condemn me in Angela’s view. Plus, I couldn’t rise to her challenge to provide a doctor’s note stating I was sick enough to be gone for two days.
I tried to find joy in the fact I didn’t have to work for her again, but instead I sank into the cold dread of the unemployed in a recession. I thought of my credit card statements. I’d already been sinking in the muck of my impulse spending. It was only a matter of time before I was all the way under.
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