Pug Hill - Alison Pace [98]
My mother sighs. She walks over to the coffeepot, empties it and rinses it. I grab a dish towel and go stand next to her. She gives me the coffeepot to dry, and I return it to its place in the coffeemaker and go back to sit down on the stool. Mom heads immediately to the coffeemaker and lifts up the back of it, the part where you put the water in.
“It’s important to leave the back open for a while so the water can dry out properly,” she explains, “You don’t ever want to get mildew in your coffeemaker.”
“No,” I say, but in agreement, nodding my head as if no is yes and there’s really no difference between the two. As I do so, I realize that she’ll tell me things like this all the time, like how often one needs to bring their knives in for sharpening, or how to care for your coffeemaker, and it doesn’t matter in the least that I never cook in my apartment and that I rarely make coffee in it either. What matters the most I think is that she still wants to teach me things, even if sometimes those things might be that I’m not good at matching my foundation to my skin tone. All these little lessons, I think, as she spins the part of the coffeemaker that holds the filter out to dry, too. There’s something about these little lessons she’s always given. It’s these little pointers, I sometimes suspect, that keep everything in place.
I look at the coffeemaker and I think about this thing with Darcy, this worrying over her that my parents do. It has something to do, in a way, with leaving open a coffeemaker, and I understand the trip to Canyon Ranch a little more. I don’t know very much about being a parent, but from what I’ve learned from coffeemaker maintenance and from sisters, who after everything might go live in communes, I’m pretty sure a parent’s work might never have an end point.
“Caroline, Hope,” Dad says, walking into the kitchen with Captain at his heels, “we’d better get going.”
“Where are we going?” I ask.
“We’re going for a boat ride!” Dad says enthusiastically. “Didn’t I tell you last week we planned a boat ride?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“No, I’m sure I did,” he says, and I still don’t think so, but really why not just drop it?
“You’ll join us we hope?” Mom chimes in.
“Of course,” I say, and then she adds in, “The Gerards are coming, too.”
“Oh, no, why?” I ask. “I don’t like the Gerards.”
“Hope, don’t be intolerant,” my father says, because even though it’s completely unfounded, and in my opinion completely unjust, somehow in my family I have gotten the reputation of being intolerant. “I’ll go get Betsy’s life preserver,” Dad says, and then, “Five minutes?”
“Why are we going on a boat ride with the Gerards?” I ask as soon as Dad is out of earshot.
“I don’t know. Your father had to buy that Boston Whaler when no one wanted it and now it seems to make him happy to go on it, so we’re going.” It occurs to me that my question about the Gerards is not going to be answered.
“And anyway,” Mom adds on, “Betsy so enjoys it.” Betsy barks from the corner of the kitchen at the sound of my mother mentioning her name. Mom’s right, I mean she often is of course, but she’s right about Betsy. Betsy loves few things in this world as much as attention, a close second, however, is the wind.
I sigh and head upstairs to change.
chapter thirty-one
You’re Not Ready and You Don’t Know What You Want
I’m standing at the far end of the dock, watching as my mother approaches, carrying Betsy. Mom thinks Betsy doesn’t like to walk on the dock.
It’s windy out today, even windier down at the end of the dock. Betsy looks quite serious as she approaches. She’s often very serious about being carried, and also about being walked on a leash, two things you’d think, given her hyperactivity and propensity to screeching, would be put into use a bit more often than they actually are. Mom arrives at my side and puts Betsy down at our feet. We both shield our eyes at exactly the same time to look out at the harbor where Dad is rowing the dingy out to the moored Boston Whaler with Mr. Gerard, who now after thirty years I am supposed