“So what are you saying? You were hacked by China?”
Patrick sloshed the vodka around in his glass. The sound of the ice cubes calmed him.
“And your drinking. Their father’s in rehab and you can’t not drink for a few months?”
“You drink in front of your kids, I’ve seen you do it! You think pinot grigio is a food group.”
“Their father’s not in rehab!” Clara traced the edge of Patrick’s counter with her finger, stopping just shy of the Post-it with his reset passwords that Cassie had left sitting next to a potted succulent. It wasn’t China. He was hacked by Maisie.
“You’re not taking them, Clara, and that’s final,” he said, stomping out of the room. Patrick sank into his sofa, pulling a coaster from the stack on the surfboard coffee table for his drink. It featured an old photo of a woman sporting a beehive hairdo and a caption that read love your hair! hope you win!
“Think about what they need.” Clara leaned against the bookcases on the far wall to keep her distance. She knocked a ceramic bowl to one side with her elbow, then awkwardly returned it to its proper place.
“I am thinking about what they need. You know what you told me when Joe died?”
“No, Patrick. I don’t know. What did I say?”
“‘It’s not like you were married.’” Patrick punched the pill-ow, scraping his knuckles on the appliqué. “I hate this fucking thing.” He stuffed it in the trash bag with the wrapping paper in a huff, tied the bag tight, and headed for the garage through the kitchen.
Patrick discarded the trash in the bins in his garage, then made a chore of restacking the extra lawn chairs until he gathered his cool in the heat. In the corner he found a croquet set and pulled it out to play with the kids. The orange ball came loose and rolled across the cement floor; he caught it just before it rolled under the Tesla, which sat like a lump under a dustcover. Why did he let his sister get to him like this? He’d long ago untethered himself from his family, from everyone. He shouldn’t care this much. But it was the continued suggestion that he was nobody, and the nagging feeling that she was right.
When he returned, Clara stood at the counter. They fussed in silence, Patrick sloshing the last of his vodka back and rinsing his glass in the sink. Finally, he couldn’t take the silence. “You take them and we’re through.”
“Through with what? What are we through with, Patrick?”
“God help me, I mean it, Clara. Through. Finished. Done.”
“Patrick.” Clara gestured to encompass the room. “Look at where you live. You’re not part of this family anymore. You’re not part of life anymore. You’re already done. Now it’s time for them to come home.”
Patrick spun the glass in his dish towel so quickly, not only did it dry but the towel seemed to also.
Clara put her hands in her pockets and studied her toes. “I got a pedicure for this.”
“This argument?”
“This trip.”
Patrick didn’t know what to do with that information. “Someone should give you a medal.”
“Oh, god. You’re insufferable. I wish I could chalk it up to your own grief over Sara—the sister you never had—but you’ve always been this way.”
“The sister I never—?”
“Please. Let’s not pretend otherwise. Our names even rhyme. It’s like you recast me with her the moment you met.”
Patrick opened his mouth to protest, but couldn’t. Following his own advice, he had to at least acknowledge that Clara felt that way, and it didn’t require much thought beyond that to understand those feelings were probably valid. So instead he kept his mouth shut.
Clara seemed to respond favorably to his silence. Her tone shifted. “Did I really say that? About Joe? I didn’t really say that.”
Patrick dried his hands on the dish towel, and fished a clean spoon out of the drawer. “Not when he died. Maybe six months later. It was in the context of . . . It was in the context of something else, some other point you were making. For me to get on with my life. But, yeah. You said it.” He pulled open the freezer, took out a pint of expensive-looking ice cream, pried off the lid, and took a bite. “This is awful.”
“What is it?”
“Buh-her bwickle.” Patrick swallowed. “I sound like Grant. Butter brickle. Maisie picked it out. We tried them all and she only likes old-lady ice cream. Did you see her earlier? She had a date shake.”
Clara recoiled. “I thought she said grape.”
“No, date. Like prunes.” Patrick pointed at the freezer. “We probably have some Neapolitan, if you prefer.”
“Let me try.” Clara opened the drawer for her own spoon and took a bite. “Oh, god.”
“Right?”
“You know who would like this?”
He shrugged.
“Greg.”
Patrick rubbed his eyes. “Oh my god. Remember when we were kids and all he wanted was rum raisin? Nothing chocolate. No peanut butter. Rum raisin.”
“Do you think he thought there was actual rum in it?”
“Always the addict?”
Clara smiled as she set the ice cream down and rinsed her spoon in the sink. “We should bust him out.” She meant it as a joke, but as soon as it was out of her mouth it seemed plausible. “We could do it together. It’d be fun.”
Patrick had an image of the two of them dressed as cat burglars in the shrubbery, tossing pebbles at Greg’s window until they saw a light turn on. “It would be.”
“Just for the night. If only to get some some better ice cream.”
Patrick agreed.
“If I said that to you about Joe, I’m sorry.”
“You did say that to me about Joe.”
“Would you let me apologize?” Clara blurted before lowering her hackles. “I liked Joe.”
Patrick opted for silence again; he reached for the butter brickle before remembering he hated it. He pushed it away from him so hard it tipped over. “I did, too.”
Clara looked out the window, but since it was
