Page 45 of Thursdays at Orange Blossom House
‘We’re at John’s, Mum. We’re going to have lunch.’
Patricia can see that John has stopped at his front door. Their father is still walking towards it; he’s so used to his wife being confused that he probably hasn’t registered what’s happening.
‘What’s going on?’ John calls.
‘Nothing,’ Patricia responds. ‘We’ll be there in a second.’
She catches up to her mother, the coleslaw tucked under her arm. ‘Mum? It’s all right. We’re at John’s.’
Sometimes, when her mother is hovering between remembering and forgetting, her face looks like a blank slate: no expression, no light in her eyes, everything still. Sometimes she isn’t recognisable. That’s how she looks now, with her fists still clenched by her sides.
‘I don’t know him!’ she shrieks. ‘Who is he!’
John strides towards them. ‘What’s going on, Patricia?’ he says as he blows past their mother. ‘Get her inside.’
‘I can’t get her to do anything,’ Patricia says softly. ‘She’s an adult.’
‘She’s bloody well not behaving like one!’ John makes a face like a disgruntled handyman who’s been told the hardware store doesn’t have the screwdriver he wants. ‘How have you let it get like this?’
‘I didn’t let it get like anything, John. Her brain is doing whatever it’s doing. We can’t control it. And why is it my responsibility anyway?’
‘You’re the one living with her.’ He juts his close-to-nonexistent chin in her direction.
‘So is Dad.’
‘He shouldn’t have to worry about this.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because it’s a …’ He rolls his neck like a fighter limbering up. ‘It’s a …’
‘Oh, you were so close to saying it’s a woman’s job, weren’t you?’ Patricia can feel her top lip curling while she keeps an eye on her mother, who now appears less tense. ‘How convenient for you all that it’s the women who have to do everything.’
‘Stop whingeing – you’re living rent-free.’
Is that what it is, she wants to say. Because it certainly feels like she’s paying some kind of price. Instead, she takes a breath, as she does when confronted by an angry teenage boy in one of her classes.
‘When did we stop being friends, John?’ she murmurs so their mother can’t hear. ‘Was it when you became a selfish moron? Or were you always like that and I just had to grow up in order to realise it?’
She can see the surprise in his eyes. She can feel the surprise on her own face. It’s unlikely that many people call him on his bullshit, but today she’s in the mood for it.
‘I, uh …’ He frowns. And swallows. ‘What’s the real problem, Patricia?’
What’s the real problem?How can he not know? Maybe because she hasn’t told him. But why should she have to tell him? Why can’t heseethat it’s hard to take care of two adults as well as yourself?
She straightens her shoulders and stares at him. ‘The real problem is that I’m exhausted. It’s not just the housework. It’s the worry. I worry about them all the time, John – about Mum especially.’
His frown deepens. ‘But I thought you wanted— ’
‘John?’ their mother says, holding out a hand like she’s about to lead him across a busy road.
His gaze moves away. ‘Yeah, Mum. I’m here.’
Their mother takes hold of his arm, and Patricia turns back to retrieve the mayonnaise from the Esky in the boot.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
‘Honestly, Cecilia, there is really nothing more for you to do.’ Grace Maud gestures to the spotless kitchen bench that matches her spotless floor, cupboards – and the rest of the house, for that matter.
