Lisa Owens - Not Working

Muttering, the other one pulls a fistful of cash from her coat pocket and slams it in the bagging area.

The checkout guy gives a rueful smile as they traipse off. “Sisters. Always in here, always fighting.”

At the bus stop, I see them across the road, settling into a doorway. From their coat pockets, they produce real metal cutlery and tuck into their picnic, chatting away. Before the approaching bus obscures them, they clash their beer cans in a sloppy toast and I find myself wishing that I had a sister to grow old and mad with.

Luke gets in as I’m prepping the starter for dinner, smoked trout on brown bread.

“Yum,” he says, kissing me on the cheek. He stays watching as I try to fit fish slices to bread squares: an exact and fiddly operation. “Why are you doing it like that?” he asks. “Why didn’t you put the salmon on whole slices first and cut them into squares after?”

“Trout,” I say. “Shows how much you know.”

It isn’t fair that he’s spent the day saving lives and gets to come home and be right about this too.

—

“Everyone should learn the Heimlich maneuver! It should be a legal requirement!”

The meal is done, we’re four bottles in, and passions are running high.

“So how do you do it, then? Teach me,” says someone.

“This is my point! I don’t know!” I say.

“I’ll show you,” Luke offers, stacking the plates.

“You shouldn’t have to! This is what I’m trying to say! You don’t listen; no one is listening to me!”

—

My feet are soaking wet: there’s water everywhere, but the dishes at last are done.

“Do you think they had a good time?” I ask.

“Sure,” says Luke from the kitchen table, head in his arms.

“Was I too much? I think I might have been too much.”

“No.” This said on the exhalation.

“Did you like the dessert? I liked it. There’s some left. We can have it tomorrow.”

“It was fine,” yawns Luke.

“Only fine,” I say, and march to the fridge, take out the cheesecake and dump it — dish, spoon and all — in the bin.

—

In the morning, my blood is charged with regret and bad feeling.

“I’m sorry,” I say to Luke. “I’m a horrible person.”

“No, you’re not,” he says into his pillow. “Go back to sleep.”

“I am. I’m sorry. I love you,” I say, kissing his head, his warm neck, his velvet-smooth back.

I used to think the problem was I didn’t like my job; but now I see the problem is that wasn’t the whole problem.

Today’s mid-afternoon game-show contestants include a marketing executive for a Web development company, a business analyst for a stockbroker, a body-combat teacher and a statistician for the pharmaceutical industry. So by the end of the episode I’ve learned not only the capital of Lesotho (Maseru) and the key ingredient in a sidecar (cognac), but also the existence of four more career paths I don’t think I want to pursue.

Coffee, coffee, coffee, coffee, wine, wine, wine.

“Do you want to know the worst bit about my mum not talking to me? I’ve run out of hand cream and can’t go home to restock.” My mother has been buying luxury hand cream in bulk for years, ever since hearing a rumor at book club that her favorite brand was about to be discontinued. The fact it has remained widely available is, she insists, due to the change in her own personal consumer behavior, so substantial and dramatic as to have falsely inflated the perceived demand. I’ve been in no hurry to explode her theory, since the ever-replenishing supply meant I could help myself every time I went home, assuaging any niggling guilt with the knowledge that, if anything, I actually saw more of my parents than I would were moisturizer not a factor in the timing and frequency of my visits.

“See?” I rub the back of my hand against Luke’s cheek.

“That’s rough,” he says.

“This one bled the other day. Look, I have scales.”

“So buy some more.”

“I can’t. Do you have any idea how much one tube costs?”

I tell him and watch as he blanches with shock.

“Maybe you should try calling her again,” he says, handing me my phone. “I think it’s high time you two worked things out.”

“Hi, Dad.”

“Is that Claire?”

“Obviously. Unless I’ve got a secret sister you haven’t told me about.”

“What?”

“I’m the only person who’s going to phone and call you ‘Dad,’ is what I’m getting at.”

“I don’t understand,” he says. “What’s this about a secret sister?”

“Never mind. How are you?”

“Fine, thank you.” There is a pause, which under ordinary circumstances would be filled by him calling unprompted for my mother. “Was there anything in particular…?”

“I was hoping to speak to Mum, if she’s there.” I listen for her in the background during another silence; picture her vehemently mouthing, “No,” shaking her head and slashing the air at her throat.

“She’s still not ready,” he says at last. “She’s… We are sorry, Claire, but she needs more time.”

“But I need to explain,” I say. “How can it get better if she won’t let me explain?”

“What is there to explain?” her voice comes, shrill but distant. Dad must have me on speakerphone.

“Could you tell her I’m sorry for upsetting her?” I say, pretending I haven’t realized, and then take a breath because my voice is about to split. “That I really didn’t mean to, and that I miss our chats?”

The line is quiet, like a vacuum.

“You could have been a wrong number,” says Dad.

“Huh?”

“Just now, when you said, ‘Hi, Dad,’ and I asked if it was you. It could have been a wrong number, another woman phoning for her father. That’s why I checked it was you.” He sounds pleased to have squared this one away.

“Okay,” I say. “I guess that makes some sort of sense.”

“I hear you have a buddleia problem — you need to get that removed immediately. They can cause a lot of issues if you don’t act quickly.”

I’m touched that this information must have filtered down from Grandma via my mother, but his tone makes me want to plant a thicket in the walls.

“It’s not that straightforward, actually: I’ve been looking into it.”

“Tell Luke I can recommend someone if you need scaffolding.”

I close my eyes. “Oh, I’ll be sure to pass that on.”

“Claire, I’m just trying to help.”

“Sorry — and thank you, honestly, for the concern, but I’ve got it in hand.”

“I’d ask how’s work, but…” says Dad. “Any news on that front?”

“Not yet. A few possibilities, nothing concrete.”

“Well, all the best, now,” he says. “Unless there was anything else?”

“No, just goodbye. Bye, Mum,” I say and hang up before she has a chance to say nothing in reply.

“As a nation we need to reassess what is objectively ‘good’ and ‘bad.’ ”

“Mm.” Andrea nods, eyes fixed on the device in her hand. She’s not really a friend, more a friend of a friend, but as a freelancer (something in social media), she’s available to hang out during the day, and together we tour interchangeable cafes peopled exclusively by Mac-users.

“This morning, right, the weather woman — weather forecaster? Does she forecast the weather or just tell us about it? Anyway, she said, ‘This fabulous weather is set to continue.’ But what about dying crops? What about shrinking reservoirs? I don’t think climate change is fabulous.”