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“I hope you haven’t gotten that flu that’s been going around.” I completely make that up. I wouldn’t have a clue what germs are filling up his church, but desperate times call for desperate conversation topics.
“I don’t have the flu,” Dad says, and now we both just sit, phones to our ears.
I break first. “Did Mom tell you that I’m the manager here at Providence while Sylvia is on her cruise?” As soon as I hear the hopeful boast in my voice, it feels like an error. This feels like that moment when you’ve set up a joke perfectly, and the other person has a killer punch line.
He delivers it. “I hope you’re remembering to lock the office. Here’s your mother.”
“Okay then. Bye.” I hold the receiver away to exhale. I’m shaky and tears are threatening. I’m careful now. Aren’t I?
I open my checklist app to make sure I performed my lockup routine properly last night. One item—the recreation center door—is unticked. Did I actually do that? I know I was there, but I think I got distracted. I close my eyes now and visualize myself, out there on the path, the door handle cold under my palm. But my ears were listening for faraway motorbikes.
Mom interrupts my miniature meltdown. “My little Ruthie Maree. You know, I was just thinking about you. How are you?”
Even though I called her, I’m irrationally annoyed. I need to go. “Good, thanks, Mom. How are you?” I sound too brisk. “Want to do speakerphone?” No one can say I don’t try.
“Your father has disappeared.” She’s vaguely amazed. “I wonder where he went.”
“Maybe he climbed out of the window.” Slid down the drainpipe. Jogged away. I take a second to close my eyes and rebalance all the mixed-up feelings I’ve got right now. It’s the sensation of being repelled, then clutched too tight. This is why calling home is always a chore on my list, rather than something I want to do.
“Well, that’s very creative.” Mom is bland about the situation between me and my dad. For all I know, she hasn’t noticed it.
I think of a topic. “How’s the young mom with the new baby—what was her name? Are they still living with you?” I can’t count how many haunted-looking strangers have sat at our dinner table and slept in our basement emergency accommodation. There’s always a fold-out sofa bed made up with fresh sheets and a towel folded on the end. Charity begins in the home, after all.
“Oh, Rachel and Olivia. You would have loved this baby, Ruthie. She was the sweetest little thing. Barely a peep out of her all night.” Softer, she adds, “Even though that baby was so quiet, the house feels silent now.”
“When did they leave?”
“Last week. It was rather sudden. Rachel left us a voice mail on the office phone, though.”
That’s a lot more than most people do. Most are grateful for the assistance given, but once they’re on their feet, they keep walking. I know that’s how it’s always been, but my mom’s hurt and I’ve got an indignant how rude building up inside me. “Sounds about right.”
“It’s a good thing she’s left,” Mom reminds me, choosing to ignore my bitter tone. “Thanks to how generous our congregation is, they’ve both made it across the country to her grandmother’s place. I can rest easy.”
Until the next one knocks on the door during a midnight rainstorm. Mom gave a piece of herself that someone else took. I have no idea how she replenishes herself. I don’t think she even lets herself have a bath and a nostalgic TV show. As I ponder that, she moves on.
“How’s life in Providence?”
“Nice and quiet.” As soon as I say this, I see Teddy walking down the path to the office. “I mean, actually, there’s been a few interesting things happening while Sylvia’s away.” My parents have known Sylvia for years through the church.
“She must be having the time of her life. I’ve been checking the mailbox every day. Remember when she went to Tahiti?” Mom probably still has that Tahitian church postcard on the fridge and it’s been years.
I press refresh on my in-box. “I haven’t heard from her, either, and she hasn’t been replying to my work updates. She swore she’d be online every day. Maybe there’s something wrong with the cruise ship’s internet.”
“You know what Sylvia’s like. She’ll reply when she can.”
I wince. I do know Sylvia. “Anyway, we’ve got a couple of temporary staff here. They’re my age. It’s been pretty fun, having them around.” I write on a Post-it: CHECK REC CENTER. I stick it on the back of my hand.
“Wowee,” Mom says with real excitement. “That sounds like new friends. You won’t know yourself, Ruthie Maree.”
“One lives next door to me now. He’s my age, he’s pretty nice.”
“A boy.” She’s doubtful. She still thinks of me as fifteen years old, not twenty-five. “Oh, I don’t know about this, Ruthie.”
“It’s completely fine. He’s the son of the owner.”
“As long as this boy doesn’t come inside your place,” Mom says slowly, turning the concept over in her mind. “Then it should be all right.”
I picture Teddy leaning on my bedroom doorframe with a smile on his mouth. He’d curl up on the end of my bed if I let him. If I disappoint her, too, then Dad again, who am I left with? “No, of course not, Mom, he’s just a worker here. He’s not my friend or anything.”
