The Fault In Reality

Chapter Thirty-Two

"Perhaps we should all go inside and talk about this," my father says, and gestures at the screen door behind him. My mother stands with one hip cocked, a purse slung over her arm. Her eyes reflexively twitch to the watch on her wrist, mouth automatically parted to decline.

Then her stammering gaze falls on me, and her lips purse in reunion. She nods. 

I find myself looking at her and, for the first time, I see something more than her composed eyebrows and outlined lips. Her expression seems less scheduled, more raw, as she slips up the steps, moves across the porch to stand beside us. 

My father is looking at her too, though I'm not certain he realizes he's doing so. An awkward second replenishes itself into two - three before he shakes himself from his thoughts and busies himself with the screen door. 

Jack, my mother, and I move past him into the darkened hallway. As we walk to the kitchen I notice the pictures that hang on the wall. There's one of Pat in a bridal gown, round face framed by a coronet of braided hair and the delicate wisps of a veil. She's smiling like maybe she can't help it, face split wide and lifted by her upturned lips and pearly teeth. It becomes difficult to swallow through my constricted throat, so I turn away and trade the picture for the real thing. 

Pat is lying on a cot in the kitchen. An IV drip is beside her, a needle wedged into her bony wrist. 

"What are you doing here?" I say, thoughts of Devany momentarily scattered. I remember my mother mentioning her presence, but I assumed she was mistaken. 

Pat turns, sending ripples through the white sheets that cover her. She says, "There's nothing they could do, anyway, so I decided to come home."

It feels suddenly silly to care so much about Devany when Pat is here and dying. The kitchen is lonely, with the fridge humming out behind us. My mother's nervous energy thickens the air, leaking into my chest like a stone. It strikes me suddenly how unfair this is, how many of life's little injustices go unchecked. Anger nips at my attention, but it's fruitless and stupid. I'm careful to push it away. After all, you can't exactly hold a grudge against reality. 

But I realize, suddenly, that that's exactly what I've been doing these past few years. 

My father starts abruptly, like a broken car stuttering to life. He moves about the kitchen as though he's got mismatched hands, a jagged end grasping at the cupboards, fumbling with the mugs. Jack eases a kettle from his grip for fear of letting him near the stove. 

Somehow we get some tea arranged and soldier it onto the table. I wheel Pat over and prop some pillows behind her, so that she can sit up with the rest of us. I make myself look at her the way I would before I knew she was sick. My eyes itch to avoid her gaze, skimming the tabletop or her IV drip but reluctant to settle on her face, to dwell on that beautiful smile of hers. She reaches over the table and shakes hands with my mother, who has fluttered her way anxiously into a seat. 

In a morbid way it's kind of entertaining to see my mother so socially disoriented. She's usually the one with the well timed laughs, the subtle nods, the little "mm-hms?" that keep a conversation going. Now she's rigid against the set of her chair, a second or two behind Jack and my father. 

"Well nothing is signed yet," says Jack, "so the ownership wouldn't be hard to transfer."

"And Mr. Robinson promised to return my trailer by noon," my father says, his bristled chin bowing in agreement. 

There's a pause as the two men sip at their tea. My own mug steams idly, untouched. 

"Yes," says Jack, after a wincing swallow of his earl grey; I can only imagine the scalding temperature of the tea. "It could work out quite nicely."