“You?” I asked, intending it as a throwaway comment, but I opened my eyes when Ethel didn’t respond and saw her frowning.
“I miss Amy,” she said, and I couldn’t help the gasp I made.
“Amy?” I asked, wondering if she was remembering the right person, but she just looked at me like I was the senile one.
“Amy? Your girlfriend?” She laughed. “I’m not that far gone yet.”
Not today, I thought, but obviously didn’t say. “Amy and I broke up,” I admitted. I’d told her this at least once before, but clearly she didn’t remember, since she reeled back in shock.
Then she smacked my arm out of nowhere.
“You’re an idiot if you let that one get away.”
“Don’t I know it,” I said, pretending her strike had actually hurt. “But what’s done is done.”
“God, you’re thick,” she said, and I couldn’t help but laugh.
“Really, Ethel?” I asked, incredulous. “Says the woman who can’t remember what day it is?” It had been a while since we’d joked like this; it was dark, sure, but I missed it.
“It’s Saturday, thank you very much, which I know from that handy new clock you got me.”
The new wall clock in the hallway was an aesthetic abomination– it was about two feet across with big red LEDs displaying the day, date, and time– but it did seem to help Ethel orient herself.
And it was in fact Saturday. Until a few weeks ago, I’d planned to be halfway to Manchester with Amy right now for the wedding, and then the ball.
“You don’t seem happy,” Ethel said, examining my face.
“Don’t I?” I asked, genuinely surprised. I was the closest to happy I’d been since I’d driven Amy away.
“You don’t,” she said, pressing the pad of her thumb to the centre of my forehead. “You look just like your father. He got the same wrinkle right there when he was upset.”
I smoothed my forehead with my hand as if that would undo all the frowning I’d been doing these last weeks. Hell, these last years.
“I’m not upset,” I muttered.
“Could have fooled me.”
“That’s not saying much.”
“Shut your dirty mouth,” she said, and I burst out laughing. God, I missed sharp-tongued Ethel. Getting glimpses of it was such a rare treat these days.
“What I’m trying to tell you,” she continued, “is that you’re just like your father was, like it or not. He worked so hard for you, and he left you with a lot, but he didn’t know how to be present.”
I frowned. She’d never said anything critical of my parents before, not once that I could remember.
“Learn from his mistakes, Phil. Be present. Don’t let life get away from you.”
“But what about you?” I asked. Because that was reality. If I was too present with Amy, with anything else, I’d miss the time I had left with Ethel. And there would never be enough of that.
She sighed. “I’m so grateful for everything you’ve done for me.”
“It’s nothing compared to what you did for me.”
“That is my job, darling boy.”
“And this ismyjob.”
She huffed, indignant. “Oh, I’m a job, am I? Does that mean I can fire you?”
