“Mother, I would ask you to get me a glass of ice water, but you never do it properly.”
“Whatever. I am fairly certain I am capable of putting water and ice in a glass, but if your continued belief in my incompetence means that I am not asked to get you glasses of ice water you are perfectly capable of getting for yourself, then I am fine with being thought incompetent.”
“It’s this kind of spirit that has made our country what it is, Mother. Nobody cares about doing anything properly anymore; everyone is content to be thought incompetent if it gets them out of responsibilities.” She pulls a glass out of the cupboard and sticks her nose into it to sniff at the air within its confines, “This glass smells funny.”
“Stop sniffing the glasses. The glasses smell like glass.”
She puts the glass she is holding into the sink and chooses another one, sniffs at its empty cylinder of air, “This one smells funny as well.”
“What does that even mean? It’s glass. It’s clean . . . maybe it smells like dishwashing soap?”
She places that glass as well in the sink, “Nope. It smells of something unsoaplike . . . it smells of unease.”
“How exactly can a glass smell of unease?”
“Seriously, Mother? You think I don’t know unease when I smell it?”
“Stop rejecting all of the glasses for no good reason. Running them through the dishwasher again is not going to change anything. You’re being ridiculous.”
“Mother, I cannot drink from a container of unease.”
“Listen, Maj. Whatever is in the glass will be displaced by the liquid with which you plan to fill the glass. The gas of unease will be forced out and into the room, leaving you with a glass of pure ice water.”
“Mother, do you ever just listen to yourself? Do you ever just stop to think about what you are saying?” She shakes her head, “The unease has infiltrated the glass itself, or the unease coats the glass. Or perhaps the glass itself has gone bad. Unease is not a gas, Mother . . . where do you come up with these things?” She sniffs at another glass, “This glass is unacceptable as well.”
“Use a plastic cup, then.”
She sighs, “No need to go all haywire, Mother. I will make this uneasy glass do.”
“Whew.”
After rinsing and drying the uneasy glass, Maj steps to the refrigerator, which dispenses both water and ice (either cubed or crushed). She narrates as she accomplishes the task of getting ice-water, “Here’s the thing most people don’t realize . . . one has to have layers. First a layer of crushed ice and then a layer of water just to the point where the ice begins to float and then another layer of crushed ice and then another layer of water and then another layer of crushed ice and then another layer of water until the glass is filled. Look, Mother . . . a perfectly layered glass of two states of water . . . solid and liquid. Layered perfection. It’s a shame no one around here but me appreciates a truly well-done glass of ice water. Mother, I spilled a little bit of ice on the ground but the dog is cleaning it up and so there is no need to concern yourself and now I need a straw so I will just put this ice water down on the counter and get myself a straw and then walk back to the water and stir the water gently with the straw so as to maximize the coldness without unduly transforming the ice into water because I do want the ice-to-water ratio to be perfect and then sip through the straw . . .”
“Oh my god, Maj. We have talked about this a bazillion times. Stop narrating every tiny detail of your life. You are driving me insane.”
“Mother, I am not narrating the tiny details. I have made an effort to comply with your wishes . . . I am not even narrating the tiny details. The tiny details are all in my head, completely unspoken.”
“Seriously?”
“Seriously, Mother. This is me all secretive about my goings-on.”
“Geez.”
She continues talking, “Alright, but now that I have this straw, I am not getting the full enjoyment of the perfect ice, and so I believe I will throw this straw in the garbage and just drink the water without a straw, being careful to mind the ice because I do hate it when you tip the glass and then the ice just clings together and so you tip a tiny bit more thinking it will be fine and then a tiny bit more and then all the ice comes crashing down against your face in a mini-avalanche of humiliation should anyone be watching and really someone should look into the harbored hostility of ice because there is no way this is accidental . . . it happens often enough there has got to be ice-intention and . . .”
“STOP TALKING.”
Maj turns to me in surprise. “Goodness, Mother . . . I am not even talking to you.”
“You are filling my space with talking, Maj. Stop.”
“Fine.”
Kallan cavorts through the kitchen, texting on her cellphone as she goes. Without once looking up from her phone, she opens the cupboard, extracts a glass, walks to the refrigerator, fills the glass with ice and water, drinks, rests her used glass in the sink, and then bounces out of the room.
Maj stares after her sister, “That girl is insane, I believe.”
I stare at Maj, “Yes, I believe there is insanity as well.”
“Whatever, Mother. It is not insane to appreciate things as they should . . . AIAIEAEAEAEAEEEE! I HAVE BEEN SLASHED AND RIBBONED!”
“What?”
“I HAVE BEEN TONGUE-CUT AND ICEPICKED! DON’T JUST STAND THERE, WOMAN! I AM BLEEDING PROFUSELY!”
“You cut your tongue on water?”
“MUST YOU ALWAYS BE SO SNICKERY? YES . . . I CUT MY TONGUE ON ICE SHARDS! I AM BLEEDING EVERYWHERE!”
“You’re not bleeding everywhere. It’s a tiny cut. Stop dabbing at it with a paper towel, and it will stop bleeding.”
Maj takes a break from dabbing at her tongue,“THAT’S THE EXTENT OF YOUR MEDICAL INTERVENTION? WHOLLY DISSATISFACTORY, WOMAN! WHOLLY DISSATISFACTORY!”
“Drink some ice water. Cold will help.”
“Oh, I know you are kidding me right now. THE ICE WATER IS THE EVIL-DOER! I AM NOT INVITING THE EVIL-DOER INTO MY MOUTH TO REVEL IN HIS EVIL HANDIWORK!”
“Whatever, Maj.”
She runs screaming from the room and up the stairs, presumably to examine her wound in the bathroom mirror.
Mark walks into the kitchen, “Geez, what’s all the yelling about?”
“Something about reveling evil-doers and icepicks and ribboned slashings and profuse blood.”
He looks at me as he opens the cupboard and takes out a glass, “Huh.” He lifts the glass to his face and sniffs at the air within its confines. He puts it down and reaches for another glass, which he also sniffs, “These glasses smell weird.” He turns to hand it to me, “The glasses smell odd lately, have you noticed?”
“Babe, the glasses do not smell odd.” I take the glass and sniff at it. The space within smells as it always does . . . of nothing but empty.
He shakes his head, “No, I definitely smell something. It’s like the glass has gone bad or something.”
Oh . . . my . . . god.
