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Show Motherlunge a novel 83 Suddenly I missed him. I wanted to be back in his house in Supernal, pajama-bound, watching the sky steadily shed snow on the roofs and fences, on the disappearing ground. I wanted to sit at the kitchen table and do the crossword with him, taking drags off of his filterless cigarette. "So listen, Thea. Pavia hasn't told you yet, but you're going to have to bring Mom home." One, two, three seconds passed. My mouth was an open hole in front of my face; she had outmaneuvered me again somehow, without even meaning to. "No fucking way. " I glared toward Pavia, who was loading the dishwasher. "No. Anyway, I have to work. There's a module I have to get out the door." "A what?" "A learning module! For nurses! On pressure sores!" "Bullshit." Walter dryly inhaled from his cigarette. "Take a few days off." "Why not Pavia?" Then, recklessly, "Why not you?" My father laughed, which started another coughing spasm. "Your sister's pregnant. And you know that I don't do that." I did know that. Over the course of thirty years of marriage, much like the body moves to contain a staph infection by creating a hardened mass of tissue over the insult, Walter had managed to wall himself off from Dorothy. He gave her money and talked to her on the phone and drove her to the doctor and grocery store. He stayed married. He wouldn't do more. "You're up," he said. "And look, Thea. Don't bitch about it. It'll only be five days." |
