Page 33 of Thursdays at Orange Blossom House
‘It’s fine, Annette, I’m handling it,’ Patricia says wearily.
‘Well, they can’t come and live with me if Mum goes funny,’ Annette says.
‘I didn’t say they would.’
‘I’m too busy for that.’
‘Of course.’
‘So are John and Peter. I mean, they’rebusy. You know?’
‘Right.’
‘I have a child who Iswearwill end up in juvenile detention if he doesn’t stop hanging out with those dreadful friends. We’re beside ourselves. I just can’t cope with anything else.’
Ah yes, the naughty nephew. First he was kicking the babysitter and now he’s off to jail. Apparently. Patricia’s interpretation is that he’s a bright kid who’s bored at school – she’s seen his type before, over and over again. He really needs to take up a hobby or three, but no one has asked what she thinks about the matter.
‘And it’s not as ifyouhave much going on,’ Annette adds quietly.
There it is.
‘So it’s perfect, really,’ she continues. ‘You being here.’
Patricia considers that word: ‘perfect’. Sandrine said something the other day about how no one’s postures are perfect, so they’re all perfect. Patricia tried to understand the idea then and failed, because it bespoke a need to think of the universe as benign – to believe that everything we do is as it’s meant to be and all is just so. That we are complete beings. Whole. That our imperfections are perfect and vice versa. She wasn’t ready to believe that she’s imperfectly perfect. It seemed too easy. But then Sandrine said something else: that a certain phase of life could be a hardsadhana. A hard practice. And that this, too, is meant to be.
So perhaps Patricia being hereisperfect. Perhaps she is perfect, and so is Annette. If only she could believe that, she might be able to let go of so much ancient angst. But she’s not ready to do that.
Instead of answering her sister, she strolls into the living room. ‘Everything all right, Dad?’
‘Right as rain,’ he says, keeping his eyes on Glenn Ridge.
Patricia nods and walks back into the kitchen.
‘Just let me know if you need anything. With them,’ Annette says, her eyes shifting around the room.
It sounds like a conciliatory statement but Patricia isn’t sure she can trust it. Their past is still in that pack ice, and spring may never come.
‘Sure I will,’ she says, then picks up the tea towel to dry the rest of the washing-up.
CHAPTER TWENTY
The version of Cecilia sitting in front of Grace Maud isn’t one she’s encountered before. She’s used to Cecilia being calm and competent; sunny of temperament and willing to ignore Grace Maud when she’s not as pleasant. This Cecilia is almost incapable of speech. She’s wringing her hands, her dress, her hair – anything she can grab hold of – and cry-hiccuping at the same time.
When Grace Maud had opened the door not even five minutes ago, not sure who could be knocking so loudly on a Sunday morning, she almost hadn’t registered that it was Cecilia and for a second thought a stranger was pushing her way into the house.
‘I’m sorry,’ Cecilia says through her tears, her face splotchy, the corners of her mouth turned down.
‘For what?’
‘For coming here.’ Sniff, sniff.
‘Did I say I don’t want you here?’
Cecilia frowns. ‘No.’
‘Then why are you apologising? If there’s something to be sorry for, I’ll let you know.’
Cecilia nods, blinks, looks towards the living room window that has a view of the front garden and the street.
