Patricia hovered behind him.
“See? It does that little jerk.”
“I see it.”
“Is it the motor?”
“No.”
“Is it expensive?”
“I don’t know yet, Mom.”
She went inside to make coffee.
I waited until the kitchen door shut.
Then I stared at my husband.
He glanced over his shoulder. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“Claire.”
I lowered my voice. “You were informed ten minutes ago that you don’t need anything from them, and now you’re on your knees fixing something they need from you.”
He looked at me briefly.
Then he turned back to the sensor.
“Hand me that screwdriver.”
That was Mark.
For the twelve years we had lived twenty-five minutes from his parents, he had been their first call for almost everything.
When Richard had cataract surgery, Mark drove him.
When Patricia needed a colonoscopy, Mark used a vacation day.
When hail damaged their roof, Mark handled the insurance adjuster because apparently dealing with insurance companies was another family responsibility that had skipped his sisters.
