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“Bill’s gone to the Woodman’s in Green Bay for the weirder groceries on Ben’s list, so I think we’ll be all set for dinner.” As Beatrice spoke, she unloaded the dishwasher, placing plates and bowls and drinking glasses in the correct cupboards without having to ask where anything went.
“Here, peel these for me.” Nancy handed Beatrice a bag of carrots. “I need them for the potato salad.”
“Diced or rounds?”
“Get the skins off and then dice them up small.”
“You got it.”
Rosemary knew she ought to contribute. Offer to peel the potatoes or run to the store for ice. She’d been sitting on her designated stool for half an hour while Kal glowered alone in the living room. They were not being adequate houseguests, not by any reasonable measure.
Beatrice had never unloaded Rosemary’s dishwasher without a grumble. She’d never cheerfully whirled around the kitchen, peeling potatoes and organizing plans for a party. At home in England, she would have been sullen and obstructive and made herself so unpleasant that Rosemary would eventually have snapped and sent her away.
“How’s the film coming along?” she asked.
“Since yesterday?” Beatrice said. “About the same.”
“You said you were going to edit the new footage.”
“I have.”
“How did it come out?”
“It’s perfect.”
“That sounds exciting.”
“I guess.”
“I thought the filming you did yesterday was very inspiring.” Rosemary hated how her voice sounded, stiff and proper, but she was Beatrice’s mum. Mum-voice developed whether one wanted it to or not. She’d rehearsed what she wanted to say to her daughter in the car this morning. Tell her you admire her. Be supportive and interested. “It made me proud to see you capturing a moment like that—a moment that has so much to say about women’s stories, what the world does to women.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“I’m going to go check in the garage, see if we have enough club soda for mixers,” Nancy said. “Watch that pot for me, will you?”
“Yep,” Beatrice replied.
Then it was the two of them, mother and daughter, if you didn’t count Kal on the other side of the wall. Which Rosemary couldn’t. He’d made that clear. He hadn’t even returned to the hotel room until after midnight, and he’d slept in the other bed, leaving her to toss and turn alone.
She tried again with her daughter. “After I left, I met with Yangchen and her cousin, and they told me stories about Everest I wish you could have filmed. There’s so much women have to say that we never get to hear. I wonder if you’d thought about that for your film? I mean, have you thought thematically about Nancy’s message for other women, who it might resonate with, or—”
“Mum.” Beatrice had stopped peeling. She was staring at Rosemary. Glaring, actually.
“Yes?”
“Maybe don’t tell me what my film is about, since you haven’t seen it?”
“I didn’t mean to—”
“I get that you’re here to make friends with me. I guess it’s nice and everything, but also? Maybe ask me what my movie is about instead of telling me what you think it should be about? Because I actually do have a plan. Wrote it down and everything.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to presume.”
With a smooth, vicious movement, Beatrice dug an eye out of the potato in her hand with the sharp point of a paring knife.
Panic threatened to overwhelm Rosemary. She’d already lost Kal. She couldn’t lose her daughter as well, not like this, in this kitchen, where she felt so desolate. “Can’t we be friends?” she asked. “I’d love to hear more about what you’re doing. I know I’ve been traveling, but we could certainly text each other more. I’d like not to have to…guess at your life. Scrutinize your Instagram photos for clues.”
“I’d like to not have to guess whether you’re dead or alive in between your postcards from Base Camp.”
