by Cook, Claire
Across from us, a woman peeked over her magazine at us. Lorna looked at me. I looked at Gloria.
Lorna cleared her throat. "Doesn't it just make all the hard work and endless dedication worthwhile when a child's internal monitor clicks into place?" she said loudly. "There is nothing more rewarding then sending a future good citizen out into the world."
"Here, here," Gloria said.
We were quiet after that. I watched my pedicurist paint a clear topcoat over my summery pink toenails. Then she reached for a sample board and held it out to me.
"Decal or not?" she said.
I wasn't a decal kind of girl, but I took the board from her anyway, just to be polite. Tucked in the middle of shooting stars and leopard spots and paisleys and posies was the perfect little dog print.
I pointed. "I'll have that one, please. Actually, I think I'll have ten of them."
I sipped a cup of herbal tea that tasted like freshly mowed grass while I waited for Lorna and Gloria to come out of their massage rooms. My own massage had been a disappointment. Halfhearted, to say the least, and made more awkward by the fact that my ace-bandaged wrist was propped up on a pillow. Clearly Stefan did not have the soul of a masseuse. He was going through a tough time with his partner though, so I probably needed to cut him some slack. They were almost definitely finished for sure this time, and not only would they have to figure out who got to keep their apartment, but they also owned a time share together in Las Vegas they'd have to unload.
"Couldn't you just share it?" I asked. Stefan was pounding my back, so it came out with extra syllables.
"Oh, he'd like that all right." He dragged the heels of his hands down either side of my spine, added some more beach rose massage oil, dragged them again.
"And he has the nerve, the nerve, to say this is all my fault."
I didn't say anything.
"Do you want to know why?"
I let out a soft, noncommittal sound, while I wondered what it was about me that caused perfect strangers to overshare their personal lives. Kind eyes? Broad shoulders? A visible masochistic streak running, skunk-like, down the center of my back?
My eyes were closed and I was trying to pretend I was walking through a field of lavender, maybe in Provence, without a care in the world. Sarah est une jeune fille insouciante. I mouthed the words over and over like a mantra to try to tune out Stefan. When that didn't work, I switched to the old dishwashing detergent commercial. Calgon, take me away. Calgon, take me away.
"Because I like to go out, and he likes to stay in. Because I like to make plans and he likes to go with the flow. Because I like to travel and he's a freakin' homebody. Which means. Stay home. And do. Nothing."
"Ouch," I said as Stefan found a sore spot behind my right shoulder.
"Stress," he said.
Yours or mine? I wanted to ask, but I didn't. Instead I spent the rest of my massage wondering, not for the first time, how anybody ever stayed with anybody and how they somehow, against all odds, managed to make it work.
"Enough with the inner and outer fluffification," Lorna said as we all flipped through our gift certificates. "Let's eat."
I propped my elbow on the little picnic table we'd commandeered. It was strategically located between the salty breeze off the harbor and a packed row of waterfront restaurants.
I struggled to place some gift certificates on the table with my left hand. Ambidextrous I was not. "I've got a pair of Oceanside Taverns and a pair of Seaside Seafoods. And I'm happy to share."
"Either works for me," Gloria said. "I've got one of each."
"Three of a kind," Lorna yelled as she slapped three Oceanside Taverns on the table. "I win!"
"Good job, honey," Gloria said. I was pretty sure Gloria praised everyone she ran into all day long, like a switch she couldn't turn off. The clerk at the grocery store when he gave her the right change, the UPS delivery person who managed to find her address. Good job, honey, I imagined her saying to her husband after they finished having sex.
"What's so funny?" Gloria asked
"Not a thing," I said. "Okay, Oceanside Tavern it is."
Lorna was still flipping through her certificates. "Teacher Depot? Like I don't spend enough of my own money on school supplies as it is. Now you're going to give me a gift that I have to spend on your kid?"
"I got one, too," Gloria said. "But I'm okay with it. I can always spend it on my own kids." Gloria taught all day and then went home to her four kids. Sometimes I wondered how she did it and was relieved I didn't have to. Sometimes I was simply jealous that she had kids and I didn't.
Lorna waved her Teacher Depot certificate in Gloria's direction. "Here, take mine. On principle alone." Lorna's kids were grown and gone. Her après school life seemed to consist of trying to get her husband, Mattress Man, to put down the remote and get out of bed.
I handed Gloria a gift certificate to an ice cream place called Sprinkles. "Allow me to contribute to your kids' dentist bills."
Lorna flipped over another gift certificate. "A knitting store? Like I have time to knit. It's beach season."
"Maybe you can buy a finished sweater." I squinted until I could read the amount upside down. "Or at least a headband."
"Good point," Lorna said. "And last year they gave me a mug, so I guess it's a step up. I mean, come on, they have his and her Land Rovers and their nanny makes better money than I do. And don't think I didn't trick her into telling me."
"Oh," I said. "All these gift certificates just reminded me. There's this woman at John's office who gave him a present for 'the big guy'."
"She gave him a present for his penis?" Lorna said.
"Thank you," I said.
"Penis presents are not okay," Gloria said.
"Agreed," I said. "But it turned out to be a doggie painting kit for Horatio. Get this: you sprinkle some paint on the paper, cover it with this plastic thing, and let the dog walk all over it and, voila, you have a canine masterpiece." I shook my head. "Pathetic."
"What kind of plastic thing?" Lorna said. "I mean, maybe we could adapt it for the classroom. Can you imagine how much easier the school year would be if we didn't spend half of it scrubbing paint off the kids?"
"Ooh," Gloria said. "Here you go, honey." She handed me a gift certificate to Foofoo's Four Footed Bakery. "Not that I think you have anything to worry about."
"Yeah," Lorna said. "But just to be on the safe side, next time you go over there, you might want to dab some peanut butter on your ankles."
Chapter
Fifteen
I was sitting on my couch, my father and my brother Michael on either side of me, Mother Teresa draped across our feet like a furry blanket. We were all wiggling our toes gently, rocking her to sleep.
"Thanks for bringing dinner, Dad," I said.
"The pleasure was undeniably mine." He reached over and patted me on top of the head. "And might I add, my darlin' daughter, you heated it to perfection."
"Thanks." I sighed. "I can't believe that was the last casserole."
"You didn't make it?" Michael said. "And here you had me almost convinced you could actually cook."
"Spaghetti pie?" I said. "Like I could pull that off."
Michael reached for his phone on the coffee table and checked for messages. It was at least the third time in the last five minutes.
"I don't trust those namby-pamby little things," my father said. "I'm no telephone operator, but it seems to me that when you cut off the wires, you've got to figure some of the messages are going to get derailed before they reach their final destination."
"Ohmigod," I said. "Remember that first cordless phone we had? The beige one shaped like a brick with the long antenna? It took two hands to hold it, and it picked up all the neighbors' conversations?"
My father shook his head. "I got a juicy earful or two from across the street one time when the mister got a ring on the ting-a-ling, I'll tell you. Nice people, but a wee bit too hot roddy for the likes of your mother and me."
Michael just shook his head and checked his phone again. Phoebe and the girls had been in Savannah for close to a week, and other than one text from Phoebe to say they'd landed safely, and a phone call from the Savannah/Hilton Head airport from the girls right after that, there'd been radio silence.
"No news is good news," I said. "If Annie and Lainie were bored, you know they'd be calling you every five minutes. Promise me you won't leave another message until tomorrow, okay? Once a day to say I love you is enough. After that, it gets a little creepy."
"I'm not an idiot." Michael tossed his phone and it landed with a thunk on the coffee table. "But if I find out that bitch is keeping my daughters from calling me—"
"Michael Aloysious Hurlihy," my father boomed. Over the years, our father had been known to bungle our first names as often as not. CarolChristineSarah, he'd say, rattling off my sisters' names as a way to get to mine. ChristineSarahCarol. JohnnnyBillyMichael. He'd given up entirely on trying to come up with our middle names. He used middle names only when he was angry or to make a point. The boys were all Aloysious and the girls Penelope. Even at my age, when I heard Sarah Penelope Hurlihy, I knew I was in trouble.
Mother Teresa looked up groggily at the sound of angry voices.
My father reached down to pat her as he yelled at Michael. "That bitch is the mother of your children. And married or not, you will treat her with the respect she deserves and find a way to do right by those daughters of yours until death do you part."
Michael ran his hand through what was left of his hair, then rubbed his eyes. "I know, Dad, I know."
"Phoebe would never try to keep the girls from calling you," I said. "She knows how much they love you. It's going to be okay, Michael. You'll get through this part and then you'll move on."
Michael shook his head. "God, I remember saying almost the exact same thing to you when that asshole husband of yours left."
"Michael Aloysious," my father said.
"Sorry," Michael said.
"It's okay, Dad," I said. "He was an asshole."
"There'll be no more trash talking." My father put his feet on the coffee table and crossed his ankles. "And do not for one minute think that either one of you is too old to have your mouth washed out with a bar of Irish Spring."
"Ha," I said. "Remember when you and Mom were on that swear jar kick? I think we filled it to the top with quarters in like two weeks."
Michael put his feet on the coffee table and crossed his ankles exactly like our dad. Neither of them was wearing socks with their boat shoes, which I was pretty sure, by my niece Siobhan's assessment at least, meant that they were both total date bait.
"What I'd really like to know," Michael said, "is why you and I are the only ones in the family who can't hold a marriage together. What's wrong with us?"
"Thanks," I said. "I needed that."
"'Tis not the way to look at it, Mikey boy," my father said. 'Tis at the beginning of a sentence was one of my father's tricks for weighting it with historical significance by sounding like one of his own ancestors and waxing philosophical at the same time. "You children are still four for six in the marriage department, and our very own Sunday newspaper pronounced the national divorce average as a smidge over fifty-fifty. Hence, the proper way to see it is that statistically our family is significantly ahead of the curve." Hence was another one of my father's trick words.
"Gee, thanks, Dad." Michael said. "I feel better already."
"Yeah, no kidding." I put my feet up on the coffee table, too, my dog print toes a nice contrast to their boat shoes. "Now you've got me worrying about which Hurlihy marriage is going to bite the dust next."
Michael reached for the remote, turned on the TV. Gilligan's Island: The Complete Third Season was already in my DVD player, so all he had to do was click on the next episode.
The three of us sang along to the theme song. My father sounded a little bit like Frank Sinatra, but Michael and I weren't bad either, especially on our favorite line about the three-hour tour. It was simply amazing to me that you could go out for a sail and end up on an uncharted South Pacific island. I mean, why couldn't things like that happen to me? Although multiple boat collisions with my father at the helm in my childhood had left me feeling more comfortable on land than on sea. Plus, with my luck I'd get stranded with my family and the whole adventure would end up being just like the rest of my life.
Our singing woke up Mother Teresa again. She let out a beefy snort and wormed her head behind Michael's ankles. It was hard to tell whether she was trying to get more comfortable or to block out our singing.
"The Second Ginger Grant" started with a bang. Mary Ann and the rest of the crew were watching a scantily clad Ginger put on an island performance. Then Mary Ann hit her head.
"Oooph," my father said. "That's some smog in the noggin'."
I smiled. "Don't worry, Dad. I'm pretty sure she survives."
Sure enough, Mary Ann managed to get back up on her feet.
"Now she's cookin'." Apparently my father was going to do the whole play-by-play.
It turned out Mary Ann's fall has triggered a case of amnesia, which somehow makes her think she's Ginger.
"Like she could ever be Ginger," Michael said. "There's only one Ginger."
"Ain't that the word from the bird," my father said. "I wouldn't mind watching some submarine races with that doll myself."
"Are you two kidding me?" I said. "Ginger tries too hard. I mean, who wears an evening gown on a deserted island? And that beauty mark of hers looks like a total fake to me."
They both turned to look at me.
"She's way too high maintenance," I said. "Mary Ann is much more naturally attractive."
Michael reached for his phone. "Don't have a cow, sis. Mary Ann makes a great coconut cream pie, I'll give her that."
"And that's no small thing," my father said. "Given our current casserole condition."
"Men," I said.
"Your mother," my father said, "had the uncanny ability to be all kinds of beautiful at once. And she could cook like there was no tomorrow."
Carol didn't knock. She just breezed in the way she always did, like she owned the place.
She walked right by us and turned off the TV.
"Hey," I said.
"We were watching that," Michael said.
"Can you get me a glass of water?" she asked me.
"Can you get me a glass of water, please?" I said.
Carol smiled and opened her eyes wide. "Pretty please with sugar on top?"
I pushed myself up from the couch and stepped over Mother Teresa.
Carol sat down in my place and opened her laptop.
"I can't believe you tricked me and stole my seat," I said. "Get your own water."
"Fine," she said. "Then you can pull up the online dating profiles I made for Dad and Michael."
A flashback to my own dating days hit me with such force that a shiver actually ran down my spine. I hightailed it out to the kitchen and poured Carol a big glass of water. While I was there, I took a moment to pour another glass for myself. And to drink it. I loaded my dishwasher and rinsed out the sink. Then I opened my refrigerator and started checking expiration dates and dumping things into the trash. After that, I organized what little was left until everything was pleasingly arranged on the shelves.
I still couldn't shake the flashback. And what was even worse was that a nagging thought had risen from the deep, dark, scary parts of my brain, and I couldn't seem to get it to go away again: How did you know whether you were staying with the person you were with because you really wanted to be with him, or only because you didn't want to have to go through all that painful looking all over again?
My cell phone was sitting on the kitchen counter. I grabbed it without thinking, woke it up. A new voicemail popped up. We must have drowned out the ring with our singing. I pushed Play. Hi. It's me. John. I'm, um, checking in to see how you are and, well, to make sure your wrist is okay. And Ho
ratio wanted me to be sure to tell you it was an accident. Scratch that last part. I know he can't talk. Listen, what I'm trying to say is that I felt we were on the right track all the way up until the tail end. Pun intended. Okay, maybe not. What I'm trying to say is that I think we should try it again right away. That way we can build on the progress we've made. Because I think we need to work things out between the two of you as soon as possible. Horatio isn't getting any younger. Ha. I guess none of us are. Okay, so I was thinking if you didn't have plans tonight, maybe the two of us would make the ride down. We could all walk the beach, pick up some fish and chips. Call me when you get this, okay?
I stared at my phone, wondering what it would take to get only one of them to make the ride down.
"What the hell is taking you so long in there?" Carol yelled. "Are you digging the well?"
I sighed. I brought Carol her water, sat on the arm of the sofa next to my father. I carefully avoided looking at the computer screen. "Hey, Dad," I said. "What was that thing you just said about Mom? Tell Carol."
My father didn't seem to hear me. He was hunched over Carol's laptop. He pulled his index finger back and hit the mouse pad hard, like it was a typewriter key.
"Ooh-wee," he said, "How do you like them apples. It says here she's a holy woman and a woman of simplicity. Now wouldn't that be a lovely thing in a wife, Mikey boy?"
"Dad, she's a nun," Michael said. "You hit the wrong link."
Carol reached for the laptop. "Siobhan is doing a report on saints for CCD. I was helping her with the research."
"Wow," I said. "Siobhan is still going to catechism? Impressive."
Carol shrugged. "Not really. She only pretends to go and sneaks off with her friends to meet boys, exactly like we did at her age. Dennis and I just try to make it as painful as possible for her."
My father nodded. "Your mother and I used to play tag team. I'd drop her off on Main Street near the harbor with the younger kiddos, deliver the older ones to catechism class, then circle back around to her, park the car, and we'd close in and try to catch you in the act."
