I haven’t said anything to her about this because I don’t want to cause a problem.
The teakettle whistles, I fill her mug, dunk the tea bag up and down until the water is dark. I add two teaspoons of sugar, get the milk from the fridge. The carton’s opening is smeared with her red lipstick. I pour milk in the tea, put the carton back in the refrigerator.
Yesterday morning I was going to have cereal, but when I found the carton in such shape, I put it back, pictured Jan, late at night, lit in the glaring refrigerator light, head tipped back, guzzling milk. Instead I poured orange juice over my Raisin Bran, hoping she didn’t drink that from that carton, too.
I walk out to the living room, hand her the tea. She smiles and so do I. I know she is trying to be nice. I make it across the living room, to the edge of the dining room where I’ve folded my blanket and stacked pillows—the place where I sleep because Jan is in the guest room. She also told me when I first got here that she needs the couch late at night when she can’t sleep.
“Okay, baby, I’ll call you tomorrow.” She hangs up, sighs. “Melinda.”
I turn back reluctantly, want to like her, but there are so many things about her that drive me crazy.
“I’ve probably talked to him more this week than I have in months.”
I want to say, And all on my father’s dime, but I don’t. I feel bad for even thinking it. She has come here to take care of my father, and I should be thankful for that. I only wish she would actually do a little work while she’s here.
I nod, press my mean thoughts and words back where I hope they stay. “It’s nice you can talk to him.”
“He remembers you. He’s had his problems, but he’s straightened out.”
I think, It’s about time, close my eyes against the words, then I smile at her again.
“That’s good, Jan.” I walk into the kitchen, begin cleaning up. Through the pass-through, I see her get off the couch, cross the living room and head toward the kitchen. She sits at the pine table that holds the computer my father bought three months ago but has not used.
I sweep tea bags and crushed napkins into the trash, run water for the dishes. I really don’t feel like cleaning, but it will keep me from having to shift my full attention to her.
“Before Stanley and I were married, he was so nice to Donny.” Her voice is thin, baby-like.
I know she’s gearing up for one of her negative stories about my father. I wash a mug and watch a tea bag float in between the soap bubbles.
“The first year we were dating, Stanley fixed Donny’s bicycle, took him places, but then after we got married…it was like Donny didn’t exist. When Stanley moved down here and volunteered at the grammar school, well, I thought that is the perfect place for Stanley. He can help then walk away with no commitment.”
The anger I’ve tamped down turns over, groans, but I press it back. Maybe if I don’t say anything she’ll stop or talk about how she misses Seattle. That I can relate to. Right now I’d like to be sitting in my sunrise-filled breakfast nook, drinking from the coffee mug Jenny gave me.
“I never understood why he volunteered at the grammar school. He never liked kids.”
“I suggested he volunteer,” I say, remembering when he called me from Las Cruces right after he moved here and told me how lonely he was. I told him to call a senior volunteer program. He did and for a year he was a first-grade teacher’s aide at a school filled with Hispanic children. I was happy for him because he was getting a kick out of the kids and making friends with other volunteers.
“Like I said, I thought it was strange, but then I realized it was perfect for him because he didn’t have to make a commitment or really get involved. That’s how he likes it—his life without any ties.”
“Don’t we all. But he took some great pictures of the kids.” I submerge my hands in the hot water, remember the black-and-white photos he showed me of the happy young faces staring up into his camera lens. He snapped the photos right before Easter. They were perfect—artistic, beautiful.
“Some of those kids never had their pictures taken till Dad took them.” I manage to keep the edge out of my voice.
“Well, you know Stanley. He’s not much of a kid person. He’s never come to see Donny’s son.”
“Weren’t you two divorced by then?” This slips out as I stare at the dishwater. Oh, God, why can’t I just keep my mouth shut? She’s so sensitive about their divorce and my father not moving to Seattle.
“Well…” There’s a tiny bit of shock in her voice, and this makes me feel better for a moment before I realize my remark was small and petty.
“But we were always good friends, even after our divorce. Oh, I don’t know what I’ll do without him if this doesn’t come out okay.”
I wash the last mug, turn around, know I have to get out of the kitchen before I say something else I’ll be sorry for. Plus I need space, some air. “Are you finished?”
“Not quite. I’m nursing it a little.” She takes a small sip of her tea, looks at me over the rim. “You know your father and I had a great sex life.”
Oh, my God.
I face the sink, mop the clean counter with the sponge. This I do not need to hear.
“He’s a great lover. I never liked it with any other man, but with Stanley, well, that’s a different story—”
“Dishes are finally done! Tea bags are where they should be, in the trash,” I say over her whisper. “I’m going to the store.”
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