Olive Kitteridge - Elizabeth Strout [105]
The morning was hot. She sat in the backyard, on the beach chair. She had dressed before the sun came up, and had climbed the stairs cautiously, not daring to turn on any lights. Her panty hose had caught on something in the basement and she had felt the little series of runs in them. She crossed her legs, bobbing a foot, and as it got light, she saw the runs had spread up over her thick ankles. Ann appeared first, seen through the kitchen window, holding the baby on her hip. Christopher came up behind, touched Ann lightly on the shoulder as he reached past her. Olive heard Ann say, “Your mom’ll take Dog-Face to the park, and I’ll get Theodore ready, but I’m letting him sleep a little later.”
“Isn’t it wonderful when he sleeps those extra minutes?” Chris had turned around and was running his fingers through Ann’s hair.
Olive was not taking Dog-Face to the park. She waited until they were both close enough to the window, and she said, “Time for me to go.”
Christopher ducked his head. “I didn’t know you were out there. What did you say?”
“I said,” Olive responded loudly, “that it’s time for the damned old lady to go.”
Praise Jesus, came from the upstairs deck.
“What do you mean?” asked Ann, sticking her neck toward the window, at the same time the baby’s foot kicked over a carton of milk on the counter.
“Shit,” said Christopher.
“He said, ‘Shit’!” Olive called up to the deck, and nodded quickly when the parrot squawked, God is king. “Yes, indeed,” Olive said. “He is indeed.”
Christopher walked out to the backyard, closing the screen door behind him carefully. “Mom, stop it. What’s happening?”
“It’s time for me to go home. I stink like fish.”
Christopher shook his head slowly. “I knew this was going to happen. I knew something would trigger things off.”
“What are you talking about?” Olive said. “I’m simply telling you it’s time for me to go home.”
“Then come inside,” Christopher said.
“I guess I don’t need my son telling me what to do,” Olive said, but when Chris went back inside, murmuring to Ann, she got up and joined them in the kitchen. She sat in a chair by the table; she had hardly slept, and felt shaky.
“Did something happen, Mom?” Ann asked. “You weren’t going to leave for a few more days.”
She’d be damned if she was going to tell them how they’d let her sit there and dribble stuff down herself; they’d have treated their own kids better than that, wiped the mess off. But her they let just sit there with butterscotch sauce all down her front. “I told Christopher when he first asked me here that I’d stay for three days. After that I stink like fish.”
Ann and Christopher looked at each other. “You said you’d stay a week,” Chris said, warily.
“Right. Because you needed help, but you weren’t even honest enough to say that.” A fury was rumbling up through her, ignited further by their sense of conspiracy; how Chris had stroked Ann’s hair, the look they had exchanged. “God, I hate a liar. No one brought you up to lie, Christopher Kitteridge.” From Ann’s hip, the baby stared at her.
“I asked you to come visit,” Christopher said slowly, “because I wanted to see you. Ann wanted to meet you. We were hoping we could just have a nice time. I was hoping that things had changed, that this wouldn’t happen. But, Mom, I’m not going to take responsibility for the extreme capriciousness of your moods. If something happened to upset you, you should tell me. That way we can talk.”
“You’ve never talked your whole damn life. Why are you starting now?” It was the therapist, she realized suddenly. Of course. That foolish Arthur fellow. She ought to be careful, this would get repeated in a therapy group. Extreme capriciousness of your moods. That was not Christopher’s voice. Good God, they’d