9

I hurry down the stairs and discover Mia has gone outside; she’s standing on our front lawn, the phone pressed to her ear. She is probably driving the babysitter crazy with her check-ins every few hours. I know I’d want to smack her. Maybe that’s why Claudia is on drugs, to deal with Mia’s incessant calls.

I walk into the kitchen and note the time on the round clock tacked to the wall above the back door. It’s five o’clock. A perfectly acceptable time to enjoy a cocktail, I realize. I look around the simple kitchen, getting my bearings again after not being here since last summer. Everything is in place, thanks to Mia and the cleaning crew she called. I notice the bill on the counter.

Written in barely legible script are the instructions: “For spring opening and cleaning. Please send payment immediately. Thank you. Betsy.” I pull an image of Betsy from my mind, and see a woman with missing teeth who smells like an ashtray. She and her crew do a good cleaning job, despite her personal toxic scent. I haven’t opened the cottage before, but imagine it must be a messy job. The place has been closed up tight since the end of October. All kinds of bugs and grime and who knows what had accumulated, I’m sure. A distasteful job, far below anything I would ever consider doing for a living. How is it that some of us are housecleaners, and some are executives? There’s the universe again, bestowing brains and looks and charm on a chosen few of us, the lucky ones.

I open the cupboard and pull out a cocktail glass and then another for Mia. I’m going to wave the white flag, so to speak, with a vodka tonic. I open the refrigerator. It’s empty. We haven’t been to the store for limes, or anything else. I realize I should offer to go. I pull open the back door and step onto the driveway, walking around the house to find Mia. Her back is to me, and she’s still on the phone, her head tilted to the side, bending into the phone in her hand.

I quietly walk up behind her. She doesn’t know I’m here.

“I’m so glad. That is perfect...Yes, Mom, I’m fine,” she says, and as I wonder why she’s speaking to Phyllis, she turns and screams, dropping her phone into the grass. “Paul! Why did you sneak up on me?”

I hold up my hands, shocked by her outburst, and the fear in her eyes. I have no idea why she is so jumpy, but attribute it to our earlier tense talks. I need to calm her down, get our best day ever back on track. She needs a drink. I watch as she bends down and picks up her phone.

“Mia—” I begin, but she holds her hand out to stop me.

“Mom, I’m fine. Paul just snuck up on me, that’s all,” my wife says into the phone. A moment passes. I wonder what Phyllis is telling her daughter. “Good. Yes. I’ll call you tomorrow. Thank you again.”

She pushes the End button and then she looks at me. “What were you doing? Why were you sneaking up on me?” she says. I see panic in her eyes.

“Calm down, honey,” I say, taking a step closer to her, wanting to pull her into my arms. She steps back, shoulders at her ears, eyes wide and unblinking.

“You scared me,” she says. She has folded her arms across her chest, like a coat of armor.

“Obviously. I was just coming out to ask if you’d like a cocktail. And, if you’d like lime, I’d be happy to run to the grocery. I’d be glad to get anything you need,” I say. I want to tell her to remember that I am her knight in shining armor, but I don’t.

“Yes, that would be lovely. I have a whole list of things we’re missing. And did you transfer the money? For the boys?” she asks. She seems to be calming down now. Her eyes aren’t as wide or wild.

“Done,” I assure her. This is a lie. But I will handle it as soon as I go back inside. “Where’s the list? I’ll just be gone for a little while. Unless you want to come with me?”

“No, I’ll stay and finish getting the cottage in order. The list is on the table by the front door,” she says.

“Okay, I’m on it,” I say, turning to walk back toward the house. I pause and turn back to face my wife. I’m suddenly concerned. It is odd that she would be speaking to her mother on a Friday evening. Typically Phyllis and Donald’s social life wouldn’t allow for any type of evening chitchat. They appreciate cocktail hour more than most. I study my wife and I say, “Hey, is everything okay with your mom?”

“Yes, she’s fine.” Mia blinks, breaking eye contact, and then bends at the waist, eager to pull what must be a weed out of the garden bed that edges our house. I know soon she will be planting pots of bright red geraniums to complement the bright red door of the cottage. The garden beds will be filled with white flowers: daisies, hydrangeas and other varieties that I cannot name. Some magically appear and some Mia plants, carefully digging holes and tucking in the flowers as if they were little kids ready for sleep. By midsummer, her gardens, our gardens, are always the talk of Columbus. I know that will be the case here, too. She still doesn’t look at me, concentrating on her weeding. Her hands are covered in wet, smelly dirt. I sniff.

I haven’t moved. She stops weeding, stands up straight and says, “My mom and I were just touching base, you know.”

She tosses that refrain, “you know,” onto the end of her sentences when she wants the conversation to end. Something she’s clearly hoping for as she continues to ignore me while managing to yank out almost everything within reach. I wonder if she may be pulling out some perennials, but I hold my tongue. She knows gardening like I know sales. I decide to let the issue of this conversation with her mom go for now. I feel confident Phyllis is under my control and that she has been loosely under my spell since the first pillbox.

“Good. Glad to know Phyllis is well. I hope you gave her my best. I’m off to the store,” I say and walk away. I’m not going to let Mia’s strange behavior bother me anymore. We’re going to have the best night ever together. That will smooth over any of the tension left over from the drive.

It’s probably due to her new diet restrictions. Ever since she found the holistic doctor, she’s been even crabbier. She started a few months ago with our general practitioner. He had diagnosed my wife as just a stressed-out mom, after ruling out lupus, and then ulcers. Maybe it was general fatigue, he’d told us. So many busy moms suffer from it. He sent us home, telling Mia to get more sleep each night. Brilliant diagnosis. On her own, Mia found some quasi-medical practice that believes in “holistic” medicine. She’s been getting IV drips of vitamins once a week, eating vegetarian, drinking water out of glass bottles, but still, she doesn’t feel well. Poor Mia. Nothing seems to help her constant stomachache and general nausea. I’ll make sure she has a very nice meal tonight.

Back in the kitchen, I pour myself a shot of Tito’s vodka, tipping it back quickly. A small shudder runs through my body as the alcohol hits my system. I walk through the house and find the list on the table next to the front door, as Mia had instructed. There’s a lot more than limes written in her precise and elegant penmanship: cheese, crackers and grapes. Coffee for the morning. Bread and peanut butter. Water in glass bottles. Lettuce and apples, organic. Mia’s favorite cereal and milk. Jam for the croissants. Well, she won’t need that. It’s not that long a list, I suppose. Nothing compared to what she fetches from the grocery store for the boys and me each week. I will handle gathering these items with pleasure, I tell myself and put a smile on my face.

As I back out of the driveway, I realize the car still holds the aromas of our drive. It smells of Mia’s new organic body lotion, lime-and-coconut scented, and my spicy aftershave. There is a hint of sweat in the air, and the smell of pepperoni pizza grease, from the slice I couldn’t finish and took to go, now waiting for me in the refrigerator. And there is one other scent I register as I wave to Mia and turn the corner, watching her and our cottage disappear in my rearview mirror. It’s the smell of my boys, the distinct blend of stinky sweaty soccer gear and after-bath freshness.

Briefly, I wonder if I should have included them this weekend, made them part of the plans. No, it’s fine. They’re the future, the symbols of my immortality. They’re fine back home with Claudia.