Page 13 of Phishing for Love
A robotic voice replies, “Heather is a purple-flowered Eurasian heath that—”
“I SAIDWEATHER, YOU USELESS MACHINE!”
I wince. Grandma’s voice rises several aggressive decibels whenever she’s at odds with Google.
“Hi, Grandma,” I call out when I enter the kitchen, leaning down to kiss her papery cheek. “Google giving you trouble again?”
My petite, white-haired grandmother glares at the offending machine sitting innocently on the kitchen windowsill bracketed by two small potted plants. “That thing has the hearing capacity of a teenager,” she mutters.
Nearly once a week, she threatens to drop Google into a bucket of water. It’s an empty threat because we all know she’d be lost without her connection to the outside world. They are the very definition of a love/hate relationship.
“I told you before, Mom, you don’t have to yell at it,” my mother says mildly. “Let me show you.” She adopts a formal tone. “Google, please tell us the weather.”
Grandma scowls. “Why are sayingplease, Joelle? It’s a machine. Manners are wasted on it.”
Google intones, “The weather today is sunny and mild...”
Watching my mom and grandmother interact, I have to laugh. Grandma’s been living with my mom and dad for two years now, ever since her husband died of a heart attack in her arms while they were out on a walk. Not wanting to live in a house filled with memories of my grandfather haunting her in every room, she gifted the house to me, deposited the equivalent sum of money into Kate’s bank account, packed up all her clothes, and took over my childhood room. My mom, of course, was thrilled to have the company. My builder dad, who’s a big softie under his gruff exterior, welcomed Grandma in, but also managed, in record time, to convert Kate’s room into a separateliving area for my grandmother so she could have her own space without taking over his TV with reruns ofDownton Abbey.
Abruptly, my mom catches sight of my ruined arms and gasps. “Tess! What happened?”
“Ash,” I say with a grimace, as if that’s explanation enough.
Last night, I tumbled down a YouTube rabbit hole, watching videos of cat owners walking their cats, as though they were dogs. Enthralled, I bought a vest harness and, in my attempt to strap Ash into it, I unleashed a monster. Anyone would think I was inflicting the worst sort of torture on him the way he twisted and hissed and howled. My forearms were scratched to pieces and a furious Ash still refuses to come anywhere near me.
“Is that my girl?” my dad’s voice booms from the living room.
“Hey, Dad,” I call out.
“Let her say hello,” Grandma tells my mom. “You can doctor her later.”
“All right,” Mom relents. “I’ll make a jug of iced tea and we can sit and chat on the back porch.”
In the living room, Dad is stretched out in his special recliner, watching one of his beloved crime dramas.
I love how warm and welcoming my parents’ home is. There’s always a pair of shoes lying around that hasn’t yet found their way into a shoe cupboard. The throw pillows are often rumpled, which means they’re not props; someone has enjoyed lying on them. A soft blanket lies across the couch, inviting you to snuggle under it. It’s a lived-in and loved home.
Dad pauses the TV and I lean down to kiss him hello.
“How’s my favorite daughter?”
He says the same thing to Kate so my ego’s not too charged. “I’m good. How’s the back?”
He grimaces. “Same as always.” A lifetime in construction has pretty much ruined his back and he lives on painkillers, heat pads, and tight-lipped fortitude.
“Want to sit outside with us?”
He nods. I brace my body and help my father to stand. I don’t comment on the flash of pain that crosses his face. He’s under the mistaken assumption that his chronic pain somehow makes him less of a man. What he fails to comprehend is the fact that his literally backbreaking career paid for our education and the roof over our heads and that will forever make him a hero in our eyes.
On the back porch, Dad settles into his padded chair, and I help my mom and Grandma carry out the iced tea and a platter of assorted sandwiches. I make myself comfortable on the chair next to my father.
“Sandwich?” I ask.
“I can help myself,” he grumbles.
“I know you can, but where’s the fun in that?”
A smile tugs at his lips. Mom and Grandma keep quiet, leaving him in my arena. We all know I can cajole him better than anyone else in the family.
