Lisa Owens - Not Working

“Oh, them ! I’ve met them! They’re not so bad.”

“Totty. A person who calls herself Totty.” I sigh. “Have I really got you so very wrong all these years?”

He puts his head on my chest and we lie there in silence for a while.

“Ow,” I say. “Knobbly knee. Ow, shoulder. No, your shoulder in my arm. Collarbone — your chin’s digging in mine!”

We wriggle and shift, realigning our edges. “Better?” asks Luke.

“Yes.” There’s a brief pause. “I’d miss you if you died, is what I was getting at.”

“Why don’t you come?” Luke says. We’re brushing our teeth, and what really comes out is, “I oh oo uhm?”

“No, thanks.” (“O anx.”) I spit. “I have things of my own to get on with.”

“Such as?” he says. (“Uh ah?”)

“Making plans. Still need to work on the finer details, but I think I’ve decided I’m going to temp for a bit to save up for a proper trip somewhere.”

“Oh.” He thinks about it. “That’s a good idea. Cuba? Or Peru. I can’t believe we’ve never been to South America.” He resumes brushing.

“I was thinking more like Iceland. Or Canada. As I say, need to work out the specifics.”

“Those don’t really appeal so much,” he says through gritted teeth, white flecks flying everywhere.

“That’s fine,” I say. “You’re not coming. You’ll be in Baltimore.”

He spits. “But…how will that work?”

“Well, instead of me being here while you’re at Johns Hopkins, I’ll be somewhere else.”

“I thought you said you wanted to meet me in New York.”

“I could still do that on my way to wherever.”

“Why don’t you just come out and stay with me? Free accommodation. New city. We can go on weekend trips on my days off.”

“Because you’ll be there to do your thing. I’d just be hanging around like a spare part. I want to do something for me. Aside from these last few months, I’ve been in full-time work or education for over twenty years.”

“Okay…so then what happens after your trip?”

I sit on the edge of the bath. “I’ll come home and get a job.”

“Yeah, obviously, but what? Isn’t this just putting off the same old problem?”

“I think I’m coming round to the idea that there’s a whole world between any old thing and the thing.” Luke looks quite impressed, so I decide not to credit my father with this wisdom for now. “I know what I’m like. Being somewhere different will make me nostalgic for a routine. I’ll find something, give it a go. If I don’t like it, I’ll try something else.”

“I’ll hire you,” he says. “A new role’s just opened up, actually, in the Department for Hugs and Kisses.” He looms toward me, clumsy like Marshmallow Man, toothpaste froth spewing from his lips.

“Maybe six months apart isn’t nearly long enough, ” I say, leaning back into the bath.

He grins, rinses his toothbrush and drops it in the cup, where — as random good fortune would have it — it swings round to nestle next to mine.

I phone Dad to hear how things panned out at work.

“What’s the verdict?”

“It’s over. I’m out.”

“I’m so sorry. Can’t you appeal?”

“No, Claire: I resigned! I told them I’d had enough of being treated like a second-class citizen.”

This, I really did not expect. “Oh wow. Are you okay?”

“I think so,” he says, but after the spirited announcement, he sounds a little shaken and tired.

“Congratulations, Dad. That was very brave.”

“I took your advice. If something isn’t making you happy, change it: isn’t that what you said?”

“Did I?”

“Maybe not in those words. But that’s what you did, leaving your job. The first time, anyway.”

Alone in my kitchen, I allow myself a small, unconcealed smile of pride.

“Does this mean early retirement, then?”

“No.”

“Yes!” my mother, hitherto latent, calls from the background: speakerphone strikes again. “We can access the pension in a few months’ time. We’ll be fine.”

“Hi, Mum!”

“We need to sit down and work out the budget,” says Dad. “I think I’ll need to do some consulting part-time. A colleague said he has some good contacts.”

“Still, you’ll have more time for yourself. Any big plans?”

“I might try and get the garden sorted.”

“No!” says Mum. “House first, then garden. We agreed! Claire, don’t mind him — he’s pulling your leg.”

“I think he’s pulling your leg, Mum,” I say. “Dad, you could take a course in something — architecture maybe? I’ll send you some links.”

“I’d be too old for that,” he says. “I’ll be dribbling onto my drawing board by the time I qualify.”

“Not to retrain,” I say, trying to banish the dribbling image. “Just for fun. Maybe I’ll sign up too: we can go together.”

“What about me?” says Mum. “Could we find something all three of us might enjoy? Ooh — flower arranging?”

“Um,” I say.

“Salsa? Bernadette’s big into her salsa and says it’s great fun.” There’s a stomp-clack noise, which I take to be her heels tapping out some moves on the kitchen floor.

“Cha-cha-cha,” says Dad.

Mum laughs, stomp-clacking again.

“I think that’s something different,” I say. “I think that’s the cha-cha.”

“Cha-cha-cha! Oh, hello, Mr. Snakey-hips! You should see him, Claire!” Mum hoots, and I give brief wordless thanks that I can’t. Then there’s a rustling noise on the line, and Mum starts to shriek, “Oh no! Stop that! Put me down !”

“I think you guys should go for it. Salsa’s more of a two-person thing anyway,” I say, over their breathless laughter.

Aunt Dee is hosting a birthday party for Grandma: the cousins are in our usual spot — crammed round a couple of folding tables in the hallway, with seats scavenged from throughout the house, while the adults live it up on coordinated furniture in the adjoining dining room. Sophia, one of the twins (perched on a linen chest), thanks me for organizing Grandma’s present from the family — an iPad, plus broadband installed in her home.

“No problem,” I say, waving a hand and propelling myself back and forth as much as limited space will allow. I’ve got the rocking chair, and feel every bit the wise elder at the table. “I thought it would help with the loneliness. Imagine having never been online — it’s a form of exile, when you think about it.” I’m conscientiously watching my wine intake, but I’ve had just enough to bring fire to my cheeks, and grand hypotheses to my tongue. My cousins nod, willing to grant me that one.

“Not it for teaching her how to use it,” Stuart says quickly.

“But you work in computers!” This is from Faye, who has had unfortunate wispy bangs cut, and who I still haven’t fully forgiven for blabbing about the Gum business way back in the first place.

“Last time I went over there, I tried showing her how to use Google on my phone.” Stuart rolls his eyes, segueing into a spot-on impression of Grandma. “ ‘Ask it my name…How old am I, then?…Should I have soup or sausages for dinner?…Well, I don’t understand how you can say it has the answers…No, I’m sorry, I really don’t understand how you can say that.’ ”

—

A cork pops in the dining room. “Children! Cake!” calls Dee, glugging champagne into flutes. We troop in obediently round the grown-ups’ table and I stand behind Mum, my hands light on her shoulders. Dad reaches back and puts an arm around my waist. We launch into a stirringly tuneful round of “Happy Birthday” to Grandma, who, clapping along — decked out in party sparkle and fake fur, thin white hair teased to soft peaks like whipped cream — looks all set to lift off from the table, powered by delight at the attention, plus the enormous helium balloons tied to the back of her chair.