They waited in silence for the microwave to beep. When it did, Clara removed the mug, testing the temperature carefully. “Nothing productive ever comes from litigating the past. It’s the past.” She headed for the living room.
“Perhaps,” Patrick said to himself as he folded and refolded a dish towel before tossing it on the counter with disgust. He really was becoming his mother. He found Clara sitting with a dancer’s posture on the nearest arm of his sofa.
“I’m taking the kids back with me,” she announced. “To Connecticut.”
“What? Where?”
“To Connecticut. You’ve had your time with them. It’s only fair I have my time with them, too.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Look who’s not listening now.” She took a sip of her tea and it burned her mouth. “This is too hot now.” She returned to the kitchen for an ice cube, talking over her shoulder. “I think Greg would agree that’s fair. A passing of the baton.”
“It’s not a relay race.” Patrick made a sour face as he heard Clara activate the ice maker in his refrigerator door, imagining tea splashing across stainless steel.
“It’s not a marathon, either,” she called back.
“We’re kind of in the middle of something here. The kids and me.” He leaned in the kitchen doorway.
“What’s that, Patrick. Throwing parties at all hours of the night?” She set her tea on the counter to let the ice melt.
“Party. One party. They had fun!”
Clara sighed wearily. “There’s a video of the kids on the internet.”
Patrick was confused. Was someone stalking them? A fan perhaps, recording him while they were in public? “What are you talking about?”
“At dinner. You filmed them playing with their food and you put it on the internet. To remind people you exist, to gain sympathy for yourself. I don’t know what your scheme is, but I don’t like it. I don’t like you using those kids.”
Patrick was genuinely perplexed. “The cotton candy thing?”
“And that’s not even touching on their diet. Candy for dinner? Is that what you’re feeding them?”
This was like Whac-A-Mole, new charges sprouting faster than Patrick could swat them away. “Like I’m the first person in history to give a child sugar?” This wasn’t making any sense. “Clara. I honestly don’t know what you’re going on about. I took a video of them. It’s on my phone. I can show it to you.” Patrick searched the counter for his phone.
“It’s not on your phone. It’s on YouTube. And god knows where else.”
“That’s not possible.” And then, after he thought about it, “How do you know?”
“I have a Google Alert set up on your name. I’m shocked you don’t have one.”
Patrick frowned. “Why would I have one?”
“So that you know what people are saying about you.”
He stifled a laugh at the ridiculousness of the idea. “That sounds like a nightmare.” He plopped a few ice cubes into a glass for himself and poured a sip of vodka. “Look, I’m flattered you think I would even know how to post a video to YouTube.”
“So what are you saying? You were hacked by China?”
Patrick sloshed the vodka around in his glass. The sound of the ice cubes calmed him.
“And your drinking. Their father’s in rehab and you can’t not drink for a few months?”
“You drink in front of your kids, I’ve seen you do it! You think pinot grigio is a food group.”
“Their father’s not in rehab!” Clara traced the edge of Patrick’s counter with her finger, stopping just shy of the Post-it with his reset passwords that Cassie had left sitting next to a potted succulent. It wasn’t China. He was hacked by Maisie.
“You’re not taking them, Clara, and that’s final,” he said, stomping out of the room. Patrick sank into his sofa, pulling a coaster from the stack on the surfboard coffee table for his drink. It featured an old photo of a woman sporting a beehive hairdo and a caption that read love your hair! hope you win!
“Think about what they need.” Clara leaned against the bookcases on the far wall to keep her distance. She knocked a ceramic bowl to one side with her elbow, then awkwardly returned it to its proper place.
“I am thinking about what they need. You know what you told me when Joe died?”
“No, Patrick. I don’t know. What did I say?”