Georgie, All Along (16)

“Dad,” she groans. “I’m here with—”

“Oh, Georgie,” comes Shyla’s voice. “Wait, where is she? Why can’t I see her?”

“It’s a voice call, Mom.”

“Let’s put you on video!”

Georgie sets her elbows on the small island countertop and presses her fingertips against her forehead. Maybe she’s got a headache coming on, too.

“Listen,” I say quietly, and she raises her head. I’m almost mouthing it. “I’ll get out of here. It’s no big deal.”

“No,” she says, to me and to her mom.

Shyla’s forgotten about the video call, though; she’s plowing right ahead. “Did your dad tell you about Kizzy? She teaches pottery! And she’s taught a lot of folks who’ve got hands like mine. I’m taking a class tomorrow!”

Georgie’s face softens, and my stomach flips. I can’t remember the last time I ate, so I’m sure that’s the problem.

“That’s great, Mom,” she says, and I can tell she means it. Pretty much everyone around here knows that Shyla has rheumatoid arthritis, a condition that’s gotten bad enough in recent years that her hands don’t always work all that well anymore, not to mention some of the difficulty she has getting around sometimes.

“This Kizzy, she makes all sorts of things,” Paul says. “Yesterday we happened to get a pipe—”

“Dad,” Georgie says sharply, and I guess she doesn’t want him talking about smoking in front of me, though that’s no secret, Paul and Shyla’s fondness for a little herbal remedy, and I’d never judge. “I’m at the house,” she says, trying to lead him, I know, but he doesn’t get it.

“Been a while, right? How’s it look to ya? You see the new yellow on the door?”

“Yellow was always your favorite, Georgie,” Shyla chimes in.

“I’m not . . . alone at the house?”

I’m not real sure why Georgie’s playing a guessing game here. I like Paul and Shyla a lot, but they’re pretty scatterbrained, and it’s clear what’s happened here—one way or another, they forgot they double-booked the place, and I don’t think Georgie’s leading statements are going to get them anywhere.

“Paul,” I say, to keep it moving. “It’s Levi Fanning.”

There’s a long stretch of silence, and I can imagine Paul and Shyla looking at each other inside that busted RV.

Then Paul says, “Well, shit!”

He doesn’t say it like he’s mad at himself about it; he says it with a laugh behind it, and I’m pretty sure that noise I hear is him slapping his leg once in that way he’s got, like when Carlos told him he could get lumber for fifteen percent cheaper if he’d be willing to drive all the way out to Greenport, or when I showed him he can deposit checks from his phone.

“Right,” Georgie says.

“Huh!” Shyla says, a how did this happen? huh.

“Didn’t y’all go to school together?”

Georgie’s given up on the fingers against her forehead; at this point, she’s got her palms pressed into her eyeballs.

I decide to field this one for her. “I’m a few years older than Georgie.”

“Right, right,” says Paul. “Oh! You went to school with Ev—”

“Dad,” she says again, harsher this time, like me talking to Hank back there in the living room. I guess she doesn’t want him to bring up my brother, either. I wonder if she dated him; I know Evan got around in school. “Can you . . . explain?”

“Well, the thing is, On My Mind”—“Georgia on My Mind,” and even I hate that one—“you only mentioned you were coming a few days ago, see?”

Georgie shakes her head in disagreement, maybe joining her mom in forgetting that this isn’t a video call. But she doesn’t argue. Instead she says, “Yeah,” but with her hands over her face her voice sounds muffled and nasal.

“And last time Levi and I talked about him staying was . . . when was that, Levi?”

“Last week,” I say. Paul and Shyla stopped by with a key on their way out of town.

“Ages ago! Guess my wires got crossed in the meantime! You know how planning for a trip can be! Heck, how was your drive, Peach?”

“Long,” she says, deadpan, as if she means more than the drive. I’m pretty sure she means this call.

“Paul, I’m gonna find a hotel,” I say.

“Oh, you can’t do that!” says Shyla. “What about the plants?”

I kind of want to press my palms into my eyes now, too. “Well, your daughter is here now, so . . .” I trail off, waiting for her to pick up the thread.

Shyla laughs. “Oh, right. Where’s my head! Georgie, can you keep an eye on the plants?”

She sighs. “Sure, Mom.”

“I’m sure sorry for the confusion here,” says Paul. “I put you both in an awkward situation, didn’t I?”

He doesn’t know the half of it. I’ve seen his daughter in a state of undress, and my dog’s worn a pair of her underpants.

“It’s no problem. I’ll get that hotel,” I repeat.

“Georgie,” Paul says, no nickname, which maybe means he’s got a hold of the gravity of the situation, “take me off speaker for a second, would ya?”