“Winters never texts.It’ll be a software update I don’t need, or a federal bulletin that doesn’t concern me.Last week, I got woken up at three a.m.because some guy bought a top-of-the-range hunting scope with a stack of fake fifties in Eureka, California.Anyway, Sundays are ours, remember?”
Catherine smiled again, this time genuinely.“Yes.Ours.I like that.Even if you’re depriving me of your dishy neighbor.”
“Dishy?”
“Ok.Hot.”
“Mother, please don’t say hot.”
“If you stop calling me ‘mother’.”
“Deal.Anyway, you’ve only met Mike twice.”
“Three times.”
“Yes, I’m forgetting the time you ambushed him outside Whole Foods and forced him to come to dinner.”
“You said you had fun.”
“We did.But I don’t really know him.Not after, like, four dates.”
“I knew your Dad was a keeper after one,” Catherine said lightly, then caught herself.The air changed, just slightly.
They went quiet again.The wordDadhad a gravitational pull neither of them could quite resist, though both had learned to orbit it carefully.
Catherine broke the silence by busying herself with the oven timer.“So,” she said briskly.“How’s therapy?”
Kate gave a short laugh.“That’s quite the segue.”
“I’m your mother, darling.I’m allowed.”
“It’s fine.”
“Fine,” Catherine repeated.“You always say that.But you never elaborate.”
“Because there’s nothing to elaborate on.”
“Kate.”
Her mother’s tone — gentle, but anchored — had the effect it always did.Kate found herself exhaling, laying down the knife again.“It’s… it’s like work,” she admitted.“It’s hard work.I usually leave feeling worse than when I went in.”
“Which means it’s working,” Catherine said, not unkindly.“You’ve never been one for easy fixes.”
“You sound like my therapist.”
“She sounds like me, you mean.”
“Deep.”
They shared a small, wry smile.
Catherine went back to stirring.“Does she still have you keeping that dream journal?”
Kate made a face.“Unfortunately.”
“And?”
“And it’s nonsense.”
