Our Little Secret(43)
“Okay, Mom. I’ll be there . . . soon. I just have to help out here for a few more days.”
“If you must, Angela,” she continued quietly, “although I’m not sure it’s healthy.”
I wasn’t clear if she meant for me or for her, but either way I didn’t hurry to move back in with my mom. I couldn’t. I didn’t want to be her caregiver or look after her while she went through her melodramatic upheaval. She was milking it: she’d been the one to leave Dad. If anyone needed company, it was more likely him. But Dad was a dog that had been hit by a car: he’d limped to the coast and wouldn’t emerge until he’d gotten past the worst of his injuries. And in the meantime I had a new family. I was a godmother to Olive now. It was something I was getting good at.
“You’re nesting,” Freddy joked every time we spoke or he drove up to Cove to take me out for dinner. “Two’s company, you know, or are you unfamiliar with the age-old adages?”
Of course I wasn’t at HP’s house all the time in those weeks. Work kept me at the office weekdays from eight thirty until four, and on the weekends Saskia was always rushing off to mommy groups or playdates or teach-your-kid-to-be-amazing-at-everything sessions. I did spend a few Friday nights in New York with Freddy, listening to jazz in his apartment and eating food so elaborate he must have ordered in. He asked me questions about HP but never seemed to care about my answers, glazing over as he opened fresh bottles of wine.
Freddy and my mother might have wanted me out of the Parker house, but the longer I stayed, the more comfortable I felt there. HP, Saskia and I ate dinner every night in their echoing dining room, a twinkly old chandelier hanging over our heads. Olive was squared away to bed by that point in the evening. The table could easily seat ten, so each meal felt a bit like a board meeting, but still, it was something. Saskia would pop up from her chair to put on new iPad playlists that she’d compiled during the day. She liked songs that made me think of seventeen-year-olds road-tripping to California in a convertible. I’ve never felt so buoyed while eating. Saskia’s mood seemed to dull whenever HP and I joked and laughed together. He’d whip side dishes down the table towards me, making some in-joke or other. Her grimaces were momentary, however, and she regrouped with new conversation starters, as if she had cue cards hidden in her lap.
“If you were a color, what color would you be?”
“Do you believe in magic?”
“What is the happiest moment of your life so far?”
They were questions straight out of a Grade 9 sleepover. Eventually Saskia ran out of prompts, so the subject at dinner conversation rarely strayed from Olive—what she said that day, what new milestone she’d reached, what she had for breakfast. Since there was only so much I could absorb of Olive’s daily successes, I began to bring photographs to the dinner table, just to change the pace. I unearthed a steady stream of classic shots from Grade 11 parties and grad, mostly to get HP smiling. It was like a mini high school reunion every night. We laughed out loud at the ridiculousness of our old Halloween costumes or the height of Ezra’s hair during his teenage years.
“Who’s the girl?” Saskia responded to just about every photo she looked at.
“I gave up counting,” HP said, “and so should you.”
“He doesn’t discriminate very well,” I explained.
“He didn’t,” Saskia said.
I scanned the credenza for more wine. When HP went to help Saskia carry dishes back into the kitchen, he punched me on the arm, unseen by her. I could hear Saskia in the kitchen as she dropped cutlery into the sink, the pitch of her voice a mosquito-whine, until finally HP came back and told me to quit it with the photographs.
“It makes her feel left out,” he said.
That night I stuck all the pictures into a photo album. It was probably a mistake to leave it on the coffee table in the living room.
Shortly after that, Saskia invited Ezra over for dinner. The inference was that he hadn’t come over in a while.
“On a Friday night?” HP asked when he heard of Ezra’s invitation. “You’re brave.”
Saskia spent the whole afternoon cooking a vegetarian dish made with red peppers that she kept calling capsicums. By the time Ezra showed up it was past 8 p.m., and he’d brought a guest with him. From the look on Saskia’s face, he’d not mentioned he was going to bring anyone. Saskia scurried to lay another place at the dining room table.
“Uh-oh,” said HP when he opened the door. Both Ezra and the woman he’d brought had that sloping gait of alcohol and afternoon sun. Ezra’s youthful good looks were a little the worse for wear, sure, but she looked mid-forties. The closer she got, the more of a squint she developed. All but three buttons of her shirt were undone.
“We late?” Ezra licked his teeth. HP held the screen door open for them. “Thanks, buddy. Sorry, we got sidetracked.”
“Ezra!” Saskia arrived at the door again and stood behind HP and me. “I’m afraid you’ve missed Olive, she’s already—”
“You’re looking ravishing, Saskia. Tidy as always.”
“Are you hungry?” she asked. “You look like you could use some food.”
As she walked back towards the kitchen, she raised both eyebrows at HP, like it was him that was wasted.