Chapter Thirteen #2
“Dylan’s bedroom ceiling caved in when the rain was at its worst,” I explain, and it’s an explanation my parents either accept or ably pretend to accept without prying for details.
“I knew this place was one strong wind from collapsing,” my mom says.
“We saw the state of the carriage house,” my dad adds. “And the back porch. Roof still needs replacing, too. I thought you said you were fixing the place up. Improving its value.”
“It’s a slow process,” I say. “Everything takes time and money.”
My parents exchange one of my least favorite looks. She didn’t do what we told her to, and now look at the mess she’s gotten herself into. It’s approximately 70 percent disapproval, 30 percent gloating, maybe 60/40, though it fades as my mom runs a hand along a curling wallpaper edge.
“There’s only so much you can do with a place like this.
” She rubs her fingertips together, frowning at whatever residue coats them, or whatever she thinks coats them.
“I told my mother to sell it so many times, to let someone tear it down and build a nice, modern home with big picture windows and proper insulation, maybe even put in some condos to take advantage of the growing rental market, but she was just as stubborn as you are, Philippa.”
My teeth grind at her lack of sympathy for my grandmother’s connection to this house, or my own, and yet, I can’t help but take the comparison to my grandmother as a compliment.
“Did you want to stay and visit?” I ask. “Or do you need to get back to Portland?”
“I’m not sure.” My mom looks to my dad for direction.
He shrugs in reply. “I could use a cup of coffee before hitting the road.”
“Ooh, yes, coffee,” my mom says. “Or a latte if you can whip one up.”
“Excellent idea,” my dad says. “Make that two.”
“The power’s out,” I say. “And neither Dylan nor I drink coffee, so we don’t have any.”
My mom reels at this. “You don’t keep anything around for guests?”
A breath of laughter escapes me before I can stop it. “What guests?”
My parents exchange another look, this one light derision mixed with befuddlement.
With their busy social lives, they’ve never understood my quieter lifestyle or my inability to accumulate and maintain close friendships the way they do.
Also, I’ve lived here for four months now.
My family hasn’t exactly been knocking down my door to come say hi.
“How about a glass of water?” my dad asks.
“With lemon, if you have it,” my mom says. “Lime would do, if you don’t.”
We don’t have any lemons or limes, but I fetch two glasses of water and meet my parents in the living room, where my mom is now complaining about the cold and damp, perched on the edge of the super-creaky armchair as though she doesn’t trust it with her full weight.
She’s still wearing her trench coat, likely as a signal I haven’t made my house warm enough or welcoming enough.
My dad nudges the mattress out of the way so he can take a seat on the sofa, where he examines a patched joint on the sofa’s woodwork like the master carpenter he isn’t.
I let them make themselves as comfortable as possible—though that’s clearly not comfortable at all—while I crumple newspaper to start a fire.
The house has three fireplaces, but only this one works, and I haven’t even begun to explore the cost of getting the other chimneys cleaned and repaired.
Once the fire’s going, I grab a third glass of water and sit down between my parents to hear about what the Shermans are up to these days and the potential plans for holding a wedding on their Belfast property.
I’ve never met the Shermans or seen their property, but I listen and ask questions, grateful that for a few blessed minutes, we’re not discussing my failures.
“It’s such a large property,” my mom says. “Riley and Emil can invite anyone they want and include all four of you girls in the wedding party. Unless you can’t make it because of your new job?” She asks this like an offhand question. She means it like a direct challenge.
I hear a creak on the second-floor landing. Not a strong one, but one I wouldn’t hear at all unless Dylan was moving around up there, maybe doing some tidying after taking a shower.
“I have two interviews coming up,” I say, a statement I’ll make true as soon as I can access my email and send replies to yesterday’s inquiries. “I have four other applications out, all good possibilities, but I might not know anything for a while.”
My dad’s sandy brows inch up. “Meanwhile, your tenant has to sleep on the floor in the living room, you need a new roof you can’t pay for, your garage is a junk heap, that ridiculous boat is still rotting away down at the dock, and you can’t even spring for a coffeemaker?”
This is where I lose it. The fucking coffeemaker.
“You could help pay for the roof.” I flap a hand at his Ralph Lauren wardrobe, which probably cost more than my entire month’s grocery bill. “A housewarming gift wouldn’t be unheard of, either. Something like a coffeemaker, if that’s an important staple in any kitchen.”
My tone is heated, and I instantly regret my outburst, but before I can apologize, my parents exchange their usual patronizing glances, and my irritation simmers hotter.
“Sweetie.” My mom scoots closer and sets a beautifully manicured hand on my knee.
“You know you’re welcome to stay with us while you get back on your feet.
And we can loan you the money for a car or some nice interview clothes.
” Her eyes skim my appearance, as if she thinks I attend interviews in a fuzzy cardigan and stretched-out bargain knits.
Then she gestures broadly at the room around us.
“But this? This is not a step forward. It’s a holding pattern.
And paying for a new roof for this house would be throwing good money after bad. ”
“You’re asking us to enable you,” my dad adds, as though I need a concise summary.
“I was asking you to help me,” I say. “To let me decide what’s important in my life and to support that or at least accept that my choices can be different without always being wrong.”
My mom tsks, and while it’s not a cruel tsk, it’s trivializing, and I hate it.
“We let you spend your summers however you wanted,” she says. “We let you pursue whatever career you wanted. We let you make your own decisions about your personal life.” She stops there, leaving the rest implied. The and look where that got you.
An ugly silence follows, broken by another creak of the floorboards upstairs. God, I hope Dylan can’t hear all of this, though the thought that it’s possible forces me to take a deep breath and stop letting my parents get under my skin, drawing out my worst behavior.
“You’re right. I’m sorry,” I say. “It’s my roof, my problem. I’ll figure it out.”
My apology effectively ends our argument, and my mother returns to her favorite topic of late: Riley’s wedding.
Gushing with enthusiasm, she describes how she imagines it unfolding at the Shermans’, with the happy couple reciting their vows on the dock under an archway that’s beautifully decorated with bluebells and forget-me-nots, and with the rest of us in lemon yellow or maybe a soft minty green.
Riley and Emil have been clear with my sisters and me that they don’t want a color scheme or floral theme.
They want a small, informal wedding with a few friends and family members.
No matching bridesmaids and groomsmen. No bouquets.
No cumbersome archways that need to be erected at the end of a dock.
However, neither groom is known for his assertiveness, nor do they want to disappoint their parents and future in-laws, so I can almost guarantee that at some point this spring, I’ll be buying a wear-it-once mint-green dress and enough over-the-counter allergy medicine to prevent my sneezing over a bouquet.
My parents stay for about an hour, during which time my mom tells me how badly I need a haircut and holds forth about their upcoming Mediterranean cruise, my dad texts me links for junk-removal companies and continues to express astonishment about my lack of coffee, and I tell my parents about the jobs I’ve applied for, the only subject that perks their interest.
The instant their car is out of view, I pull on a pair of rubber boots I used to wear as a teenager, wrap a wool blanket around my shoulders, and trudge down the steps carved into the steep, rocky bank to the dock, where the Zephyr’s Revenge II is indeed rotting away.
Or maybe she’s not rotting, exactly, but the lower part of her hull is coated in barnacles and seaweed, the deck desperately needs sanding and varnishing, and the lack of masts and usable sails feels metaphorically resonant, given my parents’ critique about my holding pattern.
I know a few things about boats, thanks to my research on the history of piracy and the sailing classes I took during my summers here, always looking for an excuse to be out on the water.
My grandmother loved being on the water, too.
She was so excited when she bought this ship, and she frequently let me take the wheel when she gathered a small crew to head out for a day’s sail.
I wouldn’t win any races as either a captain or a crewmember, and I’m not great at docking without the help of a motor, but I can judge the trim of a sail, tie knots, direct a crew, and navigate a course that makes good use of the wind.
I’ve been giving the house all of my attention since I arrived, but the boat could use some love, too. Unless, of course, I sell her.