Under the photo, Patricia had written with her cheerful and public tone:
“Good morning everyone who really gets up, they go to work and take care of their family instead of sleeping until noon like my daughter-in-law.”
The comments were already appearing.
Women of your church.
Members of your book club.
Old neighbors.
“Poor Nathan.”
“The young people of today.”
“In my time, we would never have done that.”
I put the phone upside down.
For eight years I had tried to convince myself that Patricia’s opinion didn’t matter.
Now he had shared his judgment on me with hundreds of people.
I cried until my chest hurt more than the fever.
When Nathan arrived home that afternoon, I handed him the phone without saying a word.
He read Patricia’s publication.
Then he went down for the comments.
I was hoping he’d pick up the keys and go straight to his mother’s.
Instead, he carefully left my phone on the table, sat next to me on the bed and took my hand.
Don’t answer, Claire. Not a word. Please trust me.
Nathan, she…
I know. I know exactly what he did.
He kissed my knuckles.
There was something different about her expression.
Easy.
Controlled.
Almost disturbingly serene.
I figured I wanted me to ignore Patricia and move on.
I couldn’t have been more wrong.
By the third night, I was finally getting better.
At two in the morning I woke up and saw a blue light seeping down the hallway.
I walked quietly to the kitchen.
Nathan was sitting at the table with a cup of cold coffee beside him.
On her laptop was an enlarged photograph of Patricia’s porch.
The doormat was sunk near the door. There was a paper bag next to him. A dark spot marked the threshold.
Next to the computer was a notebook.
Nathan had written down an hour, one address and four words:
Refrigerator. Closets. Washing machine. Towels.
Each was underlined twice.
“Nathan?”
He quickly put his hand on the notebook.
What are you doing?
“Thinking.
He partially closed the laptop.
“Go back to bed. I’ll be right away.
There was something unsettlingly quiet in his eyes.
I had no idea I was planning to wake up before dawn.
One hand touched my shoulder in the dark.
When I opened my eyes, Nathan was standing by the bed holding my coat. The keys were already in his other hand.
Dress up, honey. In silence.
Nathan, it’s not even five.
I know. That’s the goal.
Twenty minutes later, we stopped in front of Patricia’s house.
The porch light was off. Only a window of the neighboring house remained dimly lit.
“Are we really going to do this?” I whispered.
“She used our emergency key to get in when you were sick,” she replied. I still have the one he gave me years ago.
Until that moment I had assumed that Nathan had taken me there to confront her.
I was wrong.
He inserted the emergency key into the lock and opened the door slowly.
I went in behind him.
And I was paralyzed.
The entrance table was covered by a thin gray layer of dust.
There were shoes pulled near the wall.
A sour smell came from the kitchen, where the dishes were stacked higher than the sink and a dirty towel lay wrinkled in the ground.
For eight years she had tried to comply with rules that Patricia could not even comply with herself.
Nathan, look at this.
“He’s worse than he remembered,” he murmured. Go on.
Then I remembered her list.
Refrigerator. Closets. Washing machine. Towels.
I looked at him.
He hadn’t taken us there on impulse.
I’d been planning it for days.
We move quietly down the hallway.
Arriving in Patricia’s bedroom, Nathan looked at me and turned on the light.
The light hit him straight on the face.
He suddenly stood up, his hair completely disheveled on one side and his eyes swollen with sleep.
“What… what are you doing here?” he babbled.
Nathan picked up the phone.
Patricia was paralyzed.
Nathan. No.
He didn’t take any photographs.
He just kept the phone pointing at her.
“Why not?” he asked. You thought it was okay when Claire asked you for exactly the same thing.
Patricia covered herself with the blanket up to her chin.
“Keep that.
It’s almost five in the morning, Mom. Claire’s awake and you’re still in bed. Imagine what your Facebook friends would say.
“That’s not funny.
“No,” Nathan replied. He doesn’t have it.
Neither of them moved.
Then Nathan lowered the phone.
Patricia finally looked at me.
“Claire, honey…
“No,” I said. You can’t call me love now.
He was silent.
I looked down the hall behind us.
The dust.
The clothes.
The messy kitchen.
Suddenly I understood what Nathan had been preparing.
“I actually,” I said, “I have a better idea.
I sat on the edge of Patricia’s comfortable.
Go back to your post. Tell all the women who called me vague that I had 39°C of fever when you took that picture. Tell them you let them laugh at me anyway. And then apologize.
Patricia’s face hardened.
I’m not going to do that.
“Then prove you were right,” I said. Tomorrow at noon, we will both make a live broadcast from our respective houses and perform the same cleaning tasks. Refrigerator, closets, clothes, towels. Let everyone see who really practices what he preaches.
He stared at me.
What if I say no?
“Then Nathan and I will take pictures of you and this house and publish them ourselves. Everyone who laughed at me will finally know the truth.
He squeezed his jaw.
What if I accept?
I looked at his kitchen.
“Then we make it interesting. The one who loses will have a punishment. In front of everyone.
His eyes narrowed.
What punishment?
I smiled.
You will find out tomorrow.
For the first time, Patricia hesitated.
He could see the decision forming in his gaze.
I could admit I had lied about myself.
Or I could accept the challenge and prove that it was as perfect as I had been pretending to be for eight years.
He finally raised his chin.
“It’s okay. At noon.
I smiled.
I still didn’t know what losing was going to cost him.
The live broadcast began at noon the next day.
I was moving through my kitchen while Patricia appeared in a small box next to me on the screen.
“First the fridge,” someone said.
I opened mine and started cleaning the shelves.
Patricia suddenly opened hers.
A bottle fell and broke.
His kitchen looked considerably cleaner than during our early morning visit.
Clearly, I had been practicing.
But her kitchen did not agree with her.
“Good start, Patricia
.”
Forced a smile.
Accidents happen.
Then he knocked down a carton of milk.
The milk was spilled on the shelf and he soaked his socks.
“Fridge: 2. Patricia: 0”.
I looked at my flawless shelf.
Do you want me to give you a minute to reach me?
Patricia’s expression answered for her.
More comments appeared.
“Next task!”
“The top of the fridge!”
Patricia stretched her arm and spent two fingers over it.
They came back covered in grey.
“OH, MY GOD, HE HAS DISCOVERED A NEW KIND OF DUST.”
His smile disappeared.
Then came the closets.
Patricia opened one too fast and three plastic containers fell on the countertop.
