“We’ll see if they stay down.” Patrick wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. “They’ve been sneaking into my room at night to sleep at the foot of my bed.”
Clara placed her hand over her heart and inhaled sharply.
“How can you drink hot tea?” Patrick asked, indicating her mug. “It’s ninety degrees outside.”
“It’s your air-conditioning. I’m not used to it. I’m cold.”
“Would you like me to get you a blanket?” Patrick mindlessly worked to untie a knot from a piece of ribbon.
“There, right there.” Clara set her tea down on the coffee table. “Everything out of your mouth is a criticism.”
“I offered to get you a blanket. That was me being nice! You’re an uninvited guest in my home. I want you to be comfortable.”
“That’s not you being nice, that’s you thinking it ridiculous that I could be cold in the California desert.” Clara crossed her arms and rubbed her bare biceps; yoga had been paying off, her arms were the one thing she didn’t hate about her body.
“When I have a criticism, you’ll know it.” Patrick loosened the ribbon just enough to slip a finger through and finally make waste of the knot. “Besides. I’ll bet you had a choice thought when finding that tea bag. A constant comment, if you will, about my lack of selection.”
He’d read her completely. “How do you only have one kind?” she asked.
“Because I’m not a hundred years old.”
Clara rubbed her cold feet to bring circulation to her toes. “When did this start?”
“What start?”
“Why are we like this with each other?”
Patrick looked down at the untied ribbon he’d twirled around three fingers. He held them up like “scout’s honor.” “Look at this. Am I my mother’s son? Am I going to reuse this ribbon? Of course not. I’m never going to reuse this ribbon. So, what am I doing?”
Clara smiled. “You know one time I caught her hanging a wet paper towel over the windowsill to dry?”
“You’re kidding.”
“Swear to god.”
To avoid this destiny, Patrick unspooled the ribbon from his fingers and tossed it in the trash. Clara reached for her mug and held it tight in her hands. It said yaaaasss in bold letters. Patrick regarded it with an expression somewhere between bemusement and horror. “You have it all wrong, you know.”
“How so?”
“Greg was the smart one, you were the crusader. I was the trivial one and you treated me accordingly. It’s okay. I’m not making a big deal out of it. But that’s how it was.”
“Well, what do you want? We had different interests. I wanted to change the world, and you were interested in . . .”
“Surviving it.”
Clara rubbed her temple. Either the cold air was giving her a headache, or she was suffering jet lag. She took a sip of her tea, which had already cooled. “Where’s your microwave?”
“You don’t hear me, do you. Every conversation we’ve ever had, you don’t listen. Not really. You look at me. Your mouth stops moving. But the entire time, you’re just waiting until it’s your turn to talk again.”
“I’m not sure you’re aware of this, but the problem with the world is not that women don’t listen to men.” Clara marched her tea into the kitchen and Patrick followed in pursuit.
“You’re doing it right now!”
“Am not.”
“Are too!” It was amazing to Patrick how quickly siblings could devolve into the language of childhood. “If you were really listening you would have said, ‘I’m sorry you feel that way, Patrick. That must feel devastating not to be heard. It was never my intention to contribute to your feeling that way . . .’”
“We’re not actors, Patrick. We don’t all follow a script.” Clara held her breath, failing to stop an impending hiccup. “You want to know what it’s like to not be heard? Try being me. Or any of the rest of us when you’re around. Or not around! All anyone wants to talk about is Patrick. Do you know what that’s like? As soon as anyone finds out we’re related, they’re no longer interested in me. They’re only interested in you.”
Patrick opened the microwave drawer that pulled out from under the counter. “I’m sure that’s very frustrating. If it’s any consolation, I’m sick of hearing about me, too.” He hit the button to reheat.