“Not bad. I met a woman who plays cello in a rock band. She invited me to her next show.”
“Only you,” says Mom fondly.
Only Phoebe, that’s for sure. “How’s Dad?” I ask, getting the conversation back to the priority topic.
“Good,” Mom says. “He’ll be back home tomorrow if all goes well.”
“He’ll need to take it easy,” says Phoebe. “Maybe start taking those Zumba classes with you, Mom.”
I want to argue with her, but I can’t. She’s right, he will have to change his lifestyle, but I don’t want to admit it.
Phoebe stands up and stretches, causing her lace kimono-style robe—which I’m fairly sure is a negligee—to fall off her tattooed shoulder. Her style has always been eclectic, and next to her, my tidy,work-appropriate suit feels beige even though it’s navy. Her bleached brassy hair with inch-long black roots is cut in a choppy shag that reaches her shoulders and highlights her eyes. They’re the same long and narrow shape as mine and have been accentuated with liner that extends them to her temples.
According to science, it takes four seconds for silence to become awkward, and I count to eleven before Mom, used to being the peacemaker, intervenes with a detailed rundown of what’s going on with Dad. I try to listen, but I’m distracted by looking at him on the bed. At least if he were awake, he’d be more alert, but now his face is sallow and sagging, and his hair is a greasy mess. Dad is always very put together. He tucks in his shirts on weekends and throws out any sock without a match. It’s almost transgressive to see him so weak, and a faint sense of shame rises in me, like I’m seeing something I shouldn’t or that he wouldn’t want me to witness. Phoebe moves close to touch my arm. I shake it off, and she backs away with her hand up and rolling her eyes.
When Mom’s done, I ask a couple of questions, and Phoebe heaves a dramatic sigh. “Lay off Mom. She’s doing what she can.”
I don’t even look at her. “I was only asking.”
“Girls.” In the past, Mom’s voice held a slight pleading tone whenever she wanted us to get along. Not today. She’s firm as she points a finger in turn at both of us. “Enough.”
We sit—or, in my case, stand—in an obstinate silence, neither of us willing to lose by being the first to talk. This lasts until a nurse comes in.
“How are we doing?” she greets us.
Mom glances at the door, and we obey her wordless order to vacate the room. I lead the way, Phoebe’s bootheels clicking behind me.
“Why do they always have this spotted floor in hospitals?” Phoebe says, tapping her foot as we stand in the hall. “What even is this? Linoleum? Tile?”
Since she was the first one to speak, I take that as the win it is and answer her in kind. It’s easier to talk about inane things like hospital flooring than why she’s here. “It’s probably vinyl. Easy to clean and slip resistant.”
Phoebe grimaces. “Of course you’d know that.”
“There was a case study in law school that involved flooring.”
“Right.” Phoebe style, she gives the single word, that one syllable, a mocking intonation that says so much more. There’s no point confronting her about it because she’ll hide behind her usual defense.
That’s not what I said, Ari.
You didn’t have to. I know what you meant.
I didn’t mean anything. You’re being paranoid.
The silence gets to be too much, and I crack first. “When did you move to Montreal?”
“A few months ago. I wanted to improve my French, capisce?”
“That’s Italian.”
She gives me a long-suffering look. “Damn. Guess I’ve got work to do.”
Against my will, I snort. Phoebe’s superpower is that she can make me laugh with the silliest comments based on years of in-jokes. It drives me wild that she continues to know me so well this still works.
She looks satisfied, as if she’s scored a point by making me react, but I let it go. “How long are you staying in Toronto?” I ask.
Phoebe points her thumb back over her shoulder toward Dad’s bed. “Guess we’ll see.”
We stand and watch a harried nurse bustle down the hall before Phoebe says, “You never called me.”
