He’d read her completely. “How do you only have one kind?” she asked.
“Because I’m not a hundred years old.”
Clara rubbed her cold feet to bring circulation to her toes. “When did this start?”
“What start?”
“Why are we like this with each other?”
Patrick looked down at the untied ribbon he’d twirled around three fingers. He held them up like “scout’s honor.” “Look at this. Am I my mother’s son? Am I going to reuse this ribbon? Of course not. I’m never going to reuse this ribbon. So, what am I doing?”
Clara smiled. “You know one time I caught her hanging a wet paper towel over the windowsill to dry?”
“You’re kidding.”
“Swear to god.”
To avoid this destiny, Patrick unspooled the ribbon from his fingers and tossed it in the trash. Clara reached for her mug and held it tight in her hands. It said yaaaasss in bold letters. Patrick regarded it with an expression somewhere between bemusement and horror. “You have it all wrong, you know.”
“How so?”
“Greg was the smart one, you were the crusader. I was the trivial one and you treated me accordingly. It’s okay. I’m not making a big deal out of it. But that’s how it was.”
“Well, what do you want? We had different interests. I wanted to change the world, and you were interested in . . .”
“Surviving it.”
Clara rubbed her temple. Either the cold air was giving her a headache, or she was suffering jet lag. She took a sip of her tea, which had already cooled. “Where’s your microwave?”
“You don’t hear me, do you. Every conversation we’ve ever had, you don’t listen. Not really. You look at me. Your mouth stops moving. But the entire time, you’re just waiting until it’s your turn to talk again.”
“I’m not sure you’re aware of this, but the problem with the world is not that women don’t listen to men.” Clara marched her tea into the kitchen and Patrick followed in pursuit.
“You’re doing it right now!”
“Am not.”
“Are too!” It was amazing to Patrick how quickly siblings could devolve into the language of childhood. “If you were really listening you would have said, ‘I’m sorry you feel that way, Patrick. That must feel devastating not to be heard. It was never my intention to contribute to your feeling that way . . .’”
“We’re not actors, Patrick. We don’t all follow a script.” Clara held her breath, failing to stop an impending hiccup. “You want to know what it’s like to not be heard? Try being me. Or any of the rest of us when you’re around. Or not around! All anyone wants to talk about is Patrick. Do you know what that’s like? As soon as anyone finds out we’re related, they’re no longer interested in me. They’re only interested in you.”
Patrick opened the microwave drawer that pulled out from under the counter. “I’m sure that’s very frustrating. If it’s any consolation, I’m sick of hearing about me, too.” He hit the button to reheat.
They waited in silence for the microwave to beep. When it did, Clara removed the mug, testing the temperature carefully. “Nothing productive ever comes from litigating the past. It’s the past.” She headed for the living room.
“Perhaps,” Patrick said to himself as he folded and refolded a dish towel before tossing it on the counter with disgust. He really was becoming his mother. He found Clara sitting with a dancer’s posture on the nearest arm of his sofa.
“I’m taking the kids back with me,” she announced. “To Connecticut.”
“What? Where?”
“To Connecticut. You’ve had your time with them. It’s only fair I have my time with them, too.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Look who’s not listening now.” She took a sip of her tea and it burned her mouth. “This is too hot now.” She returned to the kitchen for an ice cube, talking over her shoulder. “I think Greg would agree that’s fair. A passing of the baton.”
“It’s not a relay race.” Patrick made a sour face as he heard Clara activate the ice maker in his refrigerator door, imagining tea splashing across stainless steel.
“It’s not a marathon, either,” she called back.
“We’re kind of in the middle of something here. The kids and me.” He leaned in the kitchen doorway.
“What’s that, Patrick. Throwing parties at all hours of the night?” She set her tea on the counter to let the ice melt.
“Party. One party. They had fun!”
Clara sighed wearily. “There’s a video of the kids on the internet.”
Patrick was confused. Was someone stalking them? A fan perhaps, recording him while they were in public? “What are you talking about?”
“At dinner. You filmed them playing with their food and you put it on the internet. To remind people you exist, to gain sympathy for yourself. I don’t know what your scheme is, but I don’t like it. I don’t like you using those kids.”
Patrick was genuinely perplexed. “The cotton candy thing?”
“And that’s not even touching on their diet. Candy for dinner? Is that what you’re feeding them?”
This was like Whac-A-Mole, new charges sprouting faster than Patrick could swat them away. “Like I’m the first person in history to give a child sugar?” This wasn’t making any sense. “Clara. I honestly don’t know what you’re going on about. I took a video of them. It’s on my phone. I can show it to you.” Patrick searched the counter for his phone.
“It’s not on your phone. It’s on YouTube. And god knows where else.”
“That’s not possible.” And then, after he thought about it, “How do you know?”
“I have a Google Alert set up on your name. I’m shocked you don’t have one.”
Patrick frowned. “Why would I have one?”
“So that you know what people are saying about you.”
He stifled a laugh at the ridiculousness of the idea. “That sounds like a nightmare.” He plopped a few ice cubes into a glass for himself and poured a sip of vodka. “Look, I’m flattered
