Cost. Roxana Robinson

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       FIVE

      During the spring, Julia had called Harriet one Sunday afternoon. Harriet was sitting at her kitchen table, wearing blue-and-white-striped flannel pajamas and a gray sweatshirt, extra large. Her bare feet were hooked over the chair rung, and she was frowning intently at her laptop. With one hand she was stroking a small seal-point Siamese that had draped his front end—he was paralyzed in his hind end—around her ankle.

      Harriet's kitchen was small and full of too-bright light from the plate-glass windows. One side of her building faced the Schuylkill River, though not Harriet's side. Her apartment looked out over the low dark-red grid—brick and brownstone—of nineteenth-century Philadelphia. She was on the twelfth floor, high above the urban hum. The cars and people below her windows seemed small and remote, miniature copies of real life.

      The kitchen was white and minimalist, but not stark: dirty dishes sat in the sink, and on the counter were pots, jars, an open jar of peanut butter, a loaf of bread, and a sprawl of mail. White metal chairs stood haphazardly at the table, which was piled with green folders. Over the plate-glass windows was a thin coat of grime, like a scrim.

      In front of Harriet was a mug of tepid coffee and a stack of folders. One, marked “Biscuit Patterson,” lay open. Harriet was scrolling through an article on canine lymphoma, and when the phone rang, she picked it up without looking at it, still scrolling, as though the aural and visual parts of her brain were unconnected.

      “Hi,” Julia said cautiously, “it's Jules.”

      They rarely called each other.

      At the sound of her sister's voice, Harriet felt something tighten inside her. Impatience began its rapid drumbeat.

      “Hi,” Harriet said crisply. “What's up?”

      At the sound of her sister's voice, Julia felt something clench inside her. Tension began its ratcheting twist.

      “Not much,” Julia said. “I just thought I'd see how you were doing.”

      “I'm fine,” Harriet said without inflection. Her tone, the self she presented to her sister, was smooth and impenetrable. “Any news?”

      “No news. All day, sick animals. All night, grumpy boyfriend.”

      “What's wrong with Allan?” Julia asked, glad of the diversion.

      “Permanent bad mood,” Harriet said. “Projects are being canceled, budgets are being cut. It's not a good time to be an architect. What's up?” she said again, still scrolling.

      “I'm actually calling about Mother and Daddy,” Julia said.

      “What about them?” Harriet's tone was slightly challenging.

      “I think we should talk,” Julia said. “About what's happening.”

      “‘What's happening’?” Harriet repeated, irritatingly She opened a new screen on blood chemistry.

      “Just that they're having kind of a hard time,” Julia said. “They won't be able to go on indefinitely where they are. I think we need to start thinking ahead.”

      “Why?” Harriet asked.

      “They're getting older,” Julia said. “At some point they won't be able to manage.”

      “I know they're getting older,” Harriet said, “we all are. But they can manage now.”

      “Not very well,” Julia said.

      “I think they do fine,” Harriet said, “and I see them all the time. They're perfectly chipper and happy. They go toodling around and see their friends—I think they're fine. They don't want to move out, you know.”

      “I know that.” Julia disliked Harriet's proprietorial reminder that she lived so close—she didn't think, actually, that Harriet saw them much more than she did—and she disliked the patronizing “chipper” and “toodling.” “But I just had a talk with their doctor.”

      “And?”

      “He's doing some sort of neurological assessment. He thinks they should move into one of those places. A home.”

      “Oh, for God's sake,” Harriet said. She looked up from her screen, leaned down, and scooped the cat, Paley into her lap. He purred, closing his eyes and raising his head against her hand. “He has to say that so he won't get sued. They're just getting older. Of course they're forgetful. I'm forgetful. It doesn't mean we're all non compos mentis.”

      There was a pause. Paley began kneading his paws against Harriet's thigh, piercing the thin flannel, reaching her skin. Carefully she shifted him onto the heavy sweatshirt.

      “No,” Julia said reasonably, “but Mother keeps canceling her appointments, and saying she wants to change doctors.”

      “Because their old doctor retired. People are always nervous about choosing new doctors. They're afraid they'll make a bad decision. They're always anxious about it.”

      “Right. But Mother keeps changing her mind. She's mailed her medical records all over the Main Line. We don't even know where they are now.”

      “She told me about that,” Harriet said. “I actually don't blame her. One doctor was only there on Tuesdays, so if she went in any other day she'd have to see a stranger. She tried another doctor, but he was away when she came for her first visit, so she saw someone else, and it kept happening, each time she went in he was away and she'd see someone else, and it finally turned СКАЧАТЬ