“You know other kids. They’re afraid of anyone who is going through something . . . different. It will sort itself out.”
“What about your kids?”
“What about my kids?”
“Don’t they spend time together?” Patrick asked. He hadn’t really grown up around cousins, but shouldn’t they be forced to be friends?
“They’re teenagers.”
An image was emerging of Maisie and Grant as loners, just like him. Perhaps he couldn’t be a guardian to these kids, but, cousins be damned, as their uncle he could be a friend. “Wait, did you say Darren agreed you could take the kids? Or you should.”
“What difference does that make?”
“It makes a difference to me.” Patrick felt himself growing redder. People whispered and glanced in his direction.
“Calm yourself. Your voice is doing that squeaky thing. Remember when you first learned to answer the telephone and people would call you ma’am?”
Patrick nodded at some asshole who was staring at him. “Don’t change the subject.”
Clara continued. “You have this vision, Patrick, of playing some role. Of stepping in like you’re some glamorous Uncle Mame.” She chuckled. “Uncle Ma’am.”
“Have you discussed that with Darren, too?”
“You’re not Rosalind Russell. And it’s not what these children need.”
“Then why do I look so natural with a long cigarette holder?” He held his hand up to mime just such a thing.
“You don’t look natural, you look like you’re going to skin someone’s dog.”
Patrick used to like having a sister. It gave him permission to indulge in the activities he longed to do—color, weave, make paper bag puppets, play dress-up. They could play together, under the umbrella of her interests. When his father suggested he go outside, Patrick could rightfully say Clara was his playmate, she was older—she set the agenda. But she eventually moved on, wanted to do other things. As a teenager she liked reading and, it seemed, just about nothing else. She read a book by Alice Walker about female genital mutilation in Africa and refused to speak to a member of the opposite sex for a month. She read Simone de Beauvoir and fumed about the patriarchy to any male in earshot—even if he were four years her junior. Patrick thought his coming out would restore their relationship; if the problem was straight white male privilege, he no longer identified with the trifecta and now had his own history of oppression. Yet somehow she took his lack of attraction to women as yet another affront to the sex.
“They just lost their mother, Patrick.”
The kids lost their mother, Greg lost his wife. Why didn’t anyone acknowledge his loss? Or remember that he knew Sara first? If it wasn’t for him bringing her into their lives, he would be the only one of them at this goddamn service.
Patrick jumped up and down like a swimmer before entering the pool, like a boxer about to enter the ring. His heart raced with dread and adrenaline. “Yeah, I’m going to do it.”
“Do what?”
“Take the kids.”
“Patrick!” Clara put her hands on his shoulders to hold him to the ground. “Look at me. This isn’t a joke. We’re not deciding on who gets a lamp. They’re children, I’m a mother. I can give them what they need.”
Patrick glowered. Darren had two teens from a previous marriage who spent just about all of their time with their actual mother, a conspiracy theorist who jarred her own jams.
“A stepmother is a mother!”
“I’m not arguing that, those kids should be with you all the time.”
“Thank you.”
“At least then they’d be vaccinated.”
“Stop it.”
“Remember your wedding? I was bit by mosquitoes but convinced I had mumps.”
Clara pursed her lips. “Maisie and Grant have needs, Patrick. Emotional needs. They don’t even understand what has happened to them yet.”
“Of course they do, they’ve been living with this possibility for years. What they need is some fun. What they need is a change of scenery. What they need is to laugh and be silly and be kids.”
“And as the world’s oldest child—”
Patrick stopped her. “What they don’t need is someone trying to take their mother’s place.”
“I’m not trying to . . . Is that what you think?”
At that moment, Maisie and Grant ran full-speed between them, the younger chasing the older and failing miserably at catching her.
“Watch for cars!” Clara hollered instinctually as they ran away.
Patrick looked down over the top of his sunglasses.
“Oh, give me a break. That’s not mothering them, that’s just plain being responsible.”
“If you say so.”
“They are being strong right now because they’re surrounded by everyone they know and love and because there’s been something for them to do every hour of the day. But people are going to go back home, and they will stop being the center of attention and there will come a time, in a few days or a few weeks or a month, when the reality of their situation hits them and they’re going to look to you for meaning. And then what?”
“I can give them all the attention they need, thank you very much.”
“Wait until they find out they’ll be competing for your attention with you.”
Patrick took a few steps away as this new plan solidified in his mind. He could tell them about their mother. Not the mother they knew, but the woman he remembered. Under a cluster of nearby maple trees, his parents were engaged in conversation with Sara’s, the four of them huddled in a tight mass. Other family milled about, friends hugged, whispering secrets. Everyone sharing memories of a different Sara no doubt, but he knew the real one. And now so could her kids. He turned back to his sister. “Clara, I’ve got this.” He removed his sunglasses entirely to show her he meant business.
“Please. You’re terrified.”
Patrick shook his head.
“You’re not fooling me. You’re not that good of an actor.”
Greg emerged from the crowd, slumped, like he was experiencing a heavier gravitational pull. Patrick put his arm around his brother’s shoulders as Clara looked away. The problem with three is that it’s always two against one.
“I’m going to do it. What you asked.”
“You’re kidding,” Greg replied. His eyes brightened for the first time in days.