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She turned on the taps in his sink.
“Matka. Stop wasting Leo’s water.”
“Sorry.” She looked, at best, about thirty percent apologetic. “But don’t you think this is ingenious? I had no idea living on a boat could come with all the mod cons lol.”
I sighed. “And please stop sayinglol.”
“I’m using itironically.”
“Clementine,” Dad explained to Leo, “is hip to the kids.”
“I’m just so impressed,” Mum went on, cheerfully unimpeded. “You’ve created a beautiful home here, Leo. You must be very proud.”
He swallowed so hard, I saw his throat working from the other side of the boat. “Thank you.”
“Maybe”—Mum turned to Dad—“we should try living on a boat.”30
“We should definitelynot,” said Dad, “try living on a boat.”31
“Why not?”
“Well, for one thing, neither of us would know what we were doing. For another, we couldn’t fit the contents of our understairs cupboard in a space this size.”32
“We’d pare down our lifestyles.” The idea of Mum paring down anything was ludicrous enough that even she seemed to recognise it. “Well”—she shrugged—“a girl, or middle-aged woman I suppose, can dream. And in the meantime, we can always visit you, can’t we, Leo?”
“No,” I said. “You can’t. He doesn’t know you and he doesn’t want—”
“I wouldn’t mind.” Leo had evidently mistaken politeness for self-harm.
“And in any case,” I went on firmly, “he moves around. Because of theboatyou’re so into.”
“Well, maybe he wants to visit us, then?” suggested Mum. “Have a bath. WatchLove Island.”
I gave this the eye roll it deserved. “Nobody wants to watchLove Island.”
“Smoke our organic weed with us.” She pulled a bulging Ziploc bag out of one of her pockets, eased it open, and took a deep, gleeful sniff. “Mmmm-hmmmmm, and just look at those buds.”
“Will you—ow. Fuck.” I should have known better than to rise to my mother’s bait, especially literally. Falling back on Leo’s sofa, I clutched the ankle I’d forgotten I couldn’t stand on and wondered, not for the first time, how my mum did this to me. It was like she’dread some kind of guidebook, which had warned her that children could sometimes be a trial for their parents and decided the best way to deal with it was to be a trial for her child. Though, as it happened, my involuntary display of minor physical discomfort was enough to banish “Trolling My Offspring Lol” Mum and invoke “Someone Or Something Has Wounded My Baby” Mum instead.
She zoomed towards me like a nurturing missile. “Oh, Marius, your poor little foot, you need to be careful.”
“I’m trying to,” I muttered.
“This looks bad, paczek.” She waved Dad over. “Come and see what he’s done to his ankle, Krzysztof. It looks bad, doesn’t it?”
My dad obligingly came to give his assessment. “You do recall I’m only a doctor of philosophy?”
“It’s just a sprain.” I flicked my foot impatiently in Mum’s direction—which at least I could do now, even if it hurt.
Somewhat predictably, Mum refused to be flicked away. “You should still get it checked out.”
“I will. I’m going to.”
“And you’re keeping it up? What’s the”—she snapped her fingers—“the thing. There’s a mnemonic. Starts with R for Rest, then A? Maybe? Alleviate? Compression. And Keep It Up In The Air?”
“I’m not sure,” said Leo quietly, “that’s the mnemonic you’re thinking of.”
“Yes, it is. RACK. Rest, Something, Compression, Something.”
