Apples Never Fall

“Thanks, Mum, although I guess they’d pop more if my eyes were blue. You should dye yours blue.”

“Narelle is in charge of my hair, and I don’t think she’s keen on blue.” Her mother stifled a yawn. “Why are you here, anyway? Where’s Savannah? Where’s your dad?”

Savannah before Dad.

“Savannah is making you soup, and Dad is asleep in front of the television.”

“He has this idea in his head that he never naps,” said her mother. “He just ‘briefly closes his eyes.’ Will you please pass me my hairbrush?”

Amy got up and passed her the heavy silver embossed hairbrush that had always sat on her mother’s dressing table since Amy was a child. Her mother had received it when she won a district tournament as a teenager, back when “brush and comb” sets were common prizes for female competitors, while the men got cigarette cases. Amy still coveted that brush. It looked like something a princess would use.

“You visited the hospital. You didn’t need to come again.” Her mother used swift movements to brush her hair back into its smooth white bob, so that the frail old lady vanished, to be replaced by Amy’s trim, senior citizen mother, wearing a long-sleeved cherry-colored jersey. She threw back the covers to reveal her vulnerable little legs in tracksuit pants. “Have you seen Brooke? How do you think she’s coping with this separation? I couldn’t tell when she visited. Do you think Grant left her for another woman?”

“No,” said Amy. “But I think he’ll move on to someone new with lightning speed.”

“Do you remember when Brooke was a little girl?” said her mother. “And every year she fell in love with a new boy in her class?”

“I do,” said Amy. “She was very cute.” Brooke used to write love letters to boys. It was hard to imagine now.

“I was just thinking about that,” said Joy. “For some reason. She used to be so passionate, and then it felt like growing up just … flattened her. Those damned migraines.” She frowned and put a hand to the side of her mouth and whispered, “I feel like Grant kind of flattened her too.”

Amy put a hand to the side of her own mouth and whispered, “Me too, Mum.”

“We might get her back,” whispered Joy.

“We might,” whispered Amy.

Joy’s eyes danced, and she spoke again at her normal volume. “Anyway. Thank you for coming. I know how busy you are but you don’t need to worry about me because I’ve got Savannah!”

“Yes, you do,” said Amy, deflating.

“She’s doing everything! I don’t need to lift a finger. I’m treating her to a shopping day tomorrow to thank her.”

“A shopping day.” Amy shuddered at the thought. “That’s nice of you.”

“It’s not nice of me! It’s the least I can do for her. Do you know—I can’t remember the last time I cooked a meal?”

She said this as if it were something to be marveled over.

Amy couldn’t remember the last time she herself had cooked a meal either, unless heating up leftover Uber Eats in the microwave counted. Brooke had mentioned that their mother was obsessed with the fact that she didn’t have to cook anymore.

“It’s like she’s had this secret loathing of cooking all these years,” Brooke had said. “Once Savannah moves out we’ll have to do something about getting her help.” She’d paused. “If Savannah ever moves out.”

“How much longer do you think Savannah will be staying for?” Amy asked her mother.

“Oh, gosh, we’re not even thinking about that right now. I need her,” said her mother. “For example, who would have cooked for your father when I was in hospital?”

As if that—her father’s dietary requirements—was the most significant thing about her hospital stay.

Amy said, “Well, I guess we would have. Or he could have got takeaway, or he might even have cooked for himself.”

“Very funny,” said Joy. “Anyway, I’m sure she will want to be on her way soon. I don’t want to take advantage of her. She’s doing so much now that I feel like we should actually pay her some sort of a wage.”

“Like a live-in housekeeper?” said Amy.

“Imagine that,” said her mother dreamily.

“The thing is, if you were employing a live-in housekeeper, you would get references, so I’m just thinking—”