Lisa Owens - Not Working

“You know, Claire,” she says with tenderness, reaching across the table to pluck a stray hair from my shoulder, then gracefully releasing it into the air, “there’s no shame in being wrong.”

I nod because I have to agree with her there. In this instance, there’s only shame in being right.

Luke greets me at the door like a faithful pet.

“How was it? Are you okay? Did you sort things out?”

I go straight to our room, crash facedown on the bed.

“Guessing that’s a no.”

I give him muffled directions to my bag and the printouts.

“Yikes,” he says, once he’s taken a look. “So this is the new party line?”

“So it seems.”

“Shall I make a cup of tea? Something stronger? Glass of wine?”

“Is there a drug I could take that would knock me out for a while?” I ask.

“What, you mean a sleeping pill?” The mattress dips as he hops on beside me.

“I was thinking a bit longer term. More like a few months?” I turn to face him. He looks concerned, as though I’m exhibiting signs of something serious, so I slightly change tack. “I thought you could set me up in the living room with a drip. Actually, could you rig it so I lose a few pounds? Kill two birds with one stone. It’ll be great: you’ll come home, watch some soccer and your beloved foreign films, and I’ll be right beside you but you won’t hear a peep. Just like now, but without any talking. Could be really good for our relationship.”

Luke nods and frowns. “But what about sex stuff?”

“What about it? I said it would be like now — i.e. not a factor.”

“But what will I do about food? And washing.”

“Yeah, you’d have to take care of that yourself,” I admit.

“I knew there’d be a catch.”

“You’re right. God, what was I thinking ?”

“It’s off! Coma’s canceled.” He puts his forehead to mine. “Claire. Are you really okay?”

I pull my knees to my chest, roll away from him. “Oh, you know. I feel as if…I could just do with a bit of time off.”

“Time off from time off? Wait, I’m pretty sure there’s a cure for that. It’s what we in the medical profession call ‘getting a job.’ ”

“Why are you still here? Fetch me some wine!” I say.

Since the voluntary coma’s not a goer, I’m going to need to resort to plan B.

Can’t speak because my hair’s all tangled up in my teeth.

The disposable camera I left at the drugstore turns out to be from a trip my parents went on at some point in the last ten years or so. The results are nearly identical to every other set of their holiday photographs I’ve seen over the years: alternating between solo portraits of my mother in poses of staged relaxation (reclining in sunglasses and straw hat on a sun lounger, arm spread dramatically toward a building or view) and my father dutifully taking his turn against identical backdrops, but squinting, teeth clenched, arms stiff and fists balled with the effort of appearing natural.

I can’t stop looking at the last in the set, the only one of them together, late in the holiday judging by their tans. Relegated to the bottom left of the shot, Dad has his arm around Mum’s shoulders and both are smiling with sweet uncertainty — spared, only just, by the vast blurry thumb of some anonymous stranger eclipsing all else.

Not the first time I’ve jumped at that dust ball in the corner mistaking it for a spider or worse; pretty confident it won’t be the last.

“Should we get a cleaner?” Luke asks, rooting through the sink for something.

“We don’t need a cleaner. We can’t afford a cleaner. Why do you think we need a cleaner?”

“Things are getting a bit…wild,” says Luke. “The black stuff on the tiles in the bathroom, and cobwebs everywhere, and in here there’s, like, general grime. Look at the stove top.”

I look at the stove top. It’s dull, flecked with various bits, some identifiable (bean sprout), some less so (sludgy beige splodge).

“If we’re dishing out orders, here’s one: clean the stove top,” I say.

“I’d prefer to pay someone.”

“I’d prefer not to.”

“You wouldn’t be paying them. Where are all the knives?”

“What’s it for?”

“Claire, no. I just need a knife.”

“If it’s for buttering that bread, you can use a spoon,” I suggest, wielding one. “It’s better than a knife for spreading — you use the back.”

He pulls it from my grasp and clatters it on the counter. “I don’t want to use a spoon.”

“Honestly, try it — you’ll never look back,” I say. I bump him aside with my hip to get to the cleaning supplies and hunker down at the cabinet. “What do you mean, I wouldn’t be paying?”

“What do you think I mean?”

I put my knuckles on the ground to steady myself. “You said you wouldn’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Hold me to ransom with your income. We agreed.”

“I’m doing exactly the opposite. Freeing you up so you can spend more time getting a job.”

I straighten up. “This isn’t about ‘getting a job.’ I can ‘get a job’ anytime. I’m sorry if that isn’t straightforward, but I always told you that was the plan.” I spritz too much Mr. Clean around the stove top.

“How are we on this? I just wanted a knife!”

“You’re undermining all the work I do around the house. You never say thank you, you never ask if you can help, and you never hear me complaining that you basically don’t do anything.” I move the dirt around in soapy swirls.

“Oh my God! You’re right! I’m not finishing my medical degree to secure our future while also paying the mortgage and bills.”

“Hang on, that’s not fair. That’s only been the case since Geri fired me: I was paying my way until then. And whatever happened to what’s yours is mine? You said you were happy with this arrangement!”

“I am!”

“As long as I keep everything spotless and don’t complain?”

“I don’t think there was ever any danger of that happening.”

“Fuck off !” I say. We’re both a little stunned. “I’m sorry, but I don’t know how it’s turned out like this. I just wanted to try and take control of my life and somehow it’s turned into me doing everything around here.”

“Which is why! I’m suggesting! A cleaner! For God’s sake, Claire, I just want things to be a bit nicer!”

“But I don’t want you to want that! I want you to think this is enough!”

He leaves, sighing, with no breakfast, abandoned packed lunch (two unbuttered slices of bread) on the counter and me staring into the sink at a wooden spoon drifting facedown in the greasy debris.

I’ve only ever really asked two things of Luke: one, don’t have sex with anyone else, and two, don’t leave clean bowls faceup to dry. Yet in the drying rack here I find three faceup bowls, with murky, chalky water pooling in the bottom, and now I have to wonder where we stand on number one.

I grit my teeth and listen, all in one go, to my mother’s latest voice missives:

1. Monday, 3:35 p.m.

“Oh! Claire, it’s me, just calling to catch up, see how you are…Did you have a chance to look at those things I printed out for you? No, I’m not pressuring, there’s no rush, I’m just curious I suppose, to know what you thought and…There was something else…Oh yes, that was it, I got chatting to a girl who was at school with you: Becky? Reddish hair, very striking, pharmacist. Anyway, she was so interested to hear how you’re getting on career-wise — were you married? Any children? She’s a pharmacist . Did I say that already? Two boys, three and one, she told me their names but I didn’t quite catch them, a bit unusual, but no, still, nice, something different…and Becky’s mother looks after the little ones when Becky’s working — I’ll give you a laugh: they call the granny Moo Moo! Isn’t that lovely? I thought that was lovely, and of course Moo Moo’s completely besotted and Becky’s delighted to have both, the career and children — it suits her, anyway…So…and…yes, she said to say hello, full of praise for you and how clever she thought you were at school, she’d always predicted great things for you, expected you’d be in journalism —not a bad idea, actually. I said to her that you were thinking about a new direction, not that you were [whispered] unemployed, but just working things out — just some food for thought, what do you think? Oh yes, you’re not there, of course. So okay, I’d better get moving, but we’ll speak soon, if you have a moment, give me a ring. So okay, bye now, bye now, bye…”