“I know.”
“Sorry,” I repeated, defeated.
He put his right hand on my knee, and when I contorted my arm at the elbow so that I didn’t hit his hand on my lap as I typed, I felt him roll his eyes at me and move his palm back onto the wheel.
“Bunny! My Bunny is home!” My mom ran into the front hall as soon as we opened the door. A savory waft of a roast in the oven and the smell of something sweet with cinnamon reached me even before she did. They immediately calmed me, and I put my bags down and leaned into her embrace.
“The house smells amazing!” I shut my eyes as I breathed in. When I opened my eyes, my heart sank. Absolutely nothing had changed in the house I grew up in. The same floral tablecloth was draped over the Formica table. The same crocheted pillow declaring “Home Is Where the Heart Is” occupied the best seat on the reclining chair. I suppose I had never noticed how outdated the decor was until I had my own adult apartment to decorate. And somehow the house felt as though it had shrunk, the walls closing in on me.
I started to feel warm and pulled at my collar. “Is it hot in here?” I tugged at the bottom of my shirt to fan my torso.
“Probably a little, because of the oven. I’ll open a window.” My mother continued to chatter as she made her way to the window and allowed a bit of cold air in. “I’m making Brussels sprouts, jalapeño cheddar corn bread, green bean casserole, cranberry orange chutney, ham, and turkey, of course. Sam, your mom is bringing a vegetable tartlet and two pies. Aunt Sue is bringing the salad and fruit salad. What am I missing?”
“How should I know?” I said, more sharply than I’d intended.
My mom’s face fell, and she dropped her hands to her sides.
I was struck by a feeling of guilt. “I mean, I just got here! Can I just do a little work, and then we’ll do a full rundown of the menu?”
“Sure! The computer is all set up for you in the basement.”
“I have mine.” I slid my Klasko laptop out of its cover.
“The Wi-Fi is down, actually. The last storm knocked it out. We’ve been meaning to fix it, but they keep giving us a six-hour window for an appointment! Who has that kind of time to sit around? Just use ours.” I stared at my mother. I certainly didn’t have that kind of time, but I didn’t quite know what else she was doing with her days.
“Mom, I need my computer to be on the internet. I have files saved locally—” I breathed in sharply and put my forefinger to my temple. “Does your computer have an LAN connection? Is it only the wireless that’s down? I guess I can use yours if it’s connected,” I said, figuring that I would only need to redo the work I’d done in the car if I couldn’t connect my laptop.
“There’s no internet,” she repeated robotically.
I looked to Sam for help. “Maybe there’s a twenty-four-hour Starbucks,” he offered. I cocked my head to the side, waiting to see if he’d laugh. He wasn’t joking. I had grown accustomed to high-speed printers, double-wide computer screens, and ergonomic office chairs. Working from my parents’ home was bad enough. I refused to be punished by sitting in some random Starbucks in the Connecticut suburbs because my parents had yet to enter the twenty-first century. There had to be a solution, but obviously I would need to come up with it myself.
“Jesus Christ.” I took out my phone and walked into the house, leaving them by the door. I began to compose a mental list of everything I’d need internet for over the weekend. Item 1: Everything. “I don’t even know how you people function,” I grumbled.
My mother followed me as I paced around the house, looking up the number for our corporate help desk.
“Klasko & Fitch technology help center. This is Arthur. How may I help you?”
“Hi, Arthur. This is Alex Vogel in the New York office. I’m in Connecticut, a couple hours outside the city, for the holiday, and I don’t have Wi-Fi.”
“What are they going to do about it?” Sam asked, more to my mother than to me, and she nodded, as if I was being ridiculous.
“Oh, you’re able to send a messenger with a Myfi? By eleven is perfect.” I gave Sam an exaggerated wink.
“No. I didn’t know that was possible . . . Yes, I have it here . . . No, I’m calling you from my personal device, my work phone is in my hand . . . okay . . . okay . . . okay. Now what? . . . Really!? I had no idea. You’re a genius. Hold on, let me see if it works.” I opened my computer and put my phone next to it.
“What are you doing?” my mother whispered. I hated when she whispered just because I was on the phone, as though her question was less intrusive that way.
“I’m using my work phone as a personal hotspot. I didn’t realize I could do that.” My mom nodded, pretending to understand, then busied herself offering Sam food.
“I’m in! Four bars. Thanks again. You’re the greatest. Have a very happy holiday.” I hung up with a smile.
“Phew!” My mother sighed. “What can I fix you for dinner? Sam’s going to have salad and chicken.”
“I’m not hungry,” I said, not looking up from my screen. In truth, I was starving, but few things gave my mother as much pleasure as feeding people, and denying her that pleasure was a way of punishing her for my own frustration about the internet. “Where’s Dad?”
“He’s in the cellar, picking some bottles for the weekend. He’ll be up in—”
As if on cue, my father entered the room carrying a crate of wine, which he shoved onto the kitchen island before enveloping me in his arms. I buried my head in his chest and took a deep breath.
“What is it?” My father pried me off of him and looked at me. I immediately noticed the fraying of his collar, as well as his ill-fitting jeans and mismatched socks. Though I wished they didn’t bother me, I cringed slightly.
“Nothing! I’m just tired. My brain hurts.”
Back at my laptop, I kept my eyes laser-focused on my work so I didn’t have to see the sideways glances Sam and my parents exchanged as my mom threw together dinner from a mixture of leftovers and whatever she had on hand. I wanted a fresh salad, something light so I wouldn’t get sleepy while working, or maybe a piece of fish, but she placed store-bought chicken cutlets and lettuce drenched in ranch dressing before us. Sam and my father’s forks nearly collided as they both reached for the chicken, but I excused myself from the table without having any.
“I’ll make you whatever you like!” my mother called after me. “I just didn’t have the energy to cook another whole meal with thirty people coming tomorrow!”
“I said, I’m just not hungry,” I called over my shoulder. I needed to make an excuse to get back to the city, to civilization, after dinner tomorrow. I could not possibly spend the weekend there. How had I ever spent eighteen years there? The lively conversation between Sam and my parents tapered off to faint whispers, undoubtedly about me. When I logged on to the Klasko system, I had forty-one missed emails, all of them regarding Peter’s deal.
I closed my computer at a decent hour—midnight, I think, though I had forgotten to look at the clock on my screen. Ever since I’d moved out for college, I could never remember which clocks in my parents’ house were set to which time. Some of them hadn’t been turned back an hour for daylight savings, some were set fifteen minutes ahead to encourage my mother to be on time, and some seemed to run slow. When I wrapped up for the evening, all I knew was that it was late enough that Sam had already gone to bed in my old room. I made my way quietly up the staircase in the dark house, avoiding the creaky step with the graceful hop-over I had perfected so beautifully in high school that no amount of beer consumption would cause me to land on it. Nonetheless, my father came out of the master bedroom and met me at the top of the stairs.