Drip by drip, this magic. Painstaking, precise, plausibly deniable. More than, really. Unbelievable. Which is why it works so well for Carly.
When the bitch her mother-in-law said things like, “But we always host Thanksgiving” or “I don’t understand how a baby can have too many toys,” Martin collapsed like wet paper.
“Boundaries?” he asked on the drive home. Being around his mother always made him condescending. “You want me to treat my mother like a houseguest, Carl? You can do that, if you want. Fine. Sure! As long as you’re polite to her, I guess it’s not my business.”
But things have shifted since those newlywed days, when the mother-in-law called once, even twice, a day to update them on parenting techniques or bad news from whatever country was being picked apart on the evening news. Mother-in-law has always been anxious, but she has spiraled lately. Old age. Even Martin recognizes it now. Has become appropriately dismissive.
When the mother-in-law howls that Carly made Martin step on a crack in the sidewalk, he laughs. “When did you get superstitious?”
When she calls to complain about Carly’s present, he says, “Mom, you wanted a kitten! Who cares what color it is?”
She says, “Carly made me spill the salt.” And he says, “Jesus, mom! It’s Thanksgiving. Can’t we stop with the drama?”
So no more drama. Just the steady drip. And Carly has been overjoyed to help the mother-in-law through this rough patch. First the back injury. Then the tumor and the scans, the medications that it seems have only increased the mother-in-law’s paranoia. Finally the mold, spreading through her condo like fear.
Well, she can’t live like that. And they have a guest room, opened graciously.
“I’d really rather not,” says the mother-in-law, when Carly calls for her from the basement. “The steps! My back has been so bad lately, and–”
“Please, Marie. This will take maybe ten minutes, and it makes Martin crazy to keep tinkering with this pipe. You know how men are. He won’t just watch a YouTube video.” She smiles conspiratorially, though the mother-in-law can’t see her. Realism. A few feet above Carly, the pipe in question drips a puddle that shines black on the concrete floor. “We can fix all his problems for him real quick. I just need you to hold the flashlight while I get this right.”
It takes her forever to climb downstairs, thump-thump with both feet on each step like a toddler. She stands with the flashlight, the beam wavering whenever a drop lands on her scalp.
“If you’re getting wet,” says Carly, “there’s an umbrella in the corner.”
Drip. One last act and the surface tension will break. Spill over.
“It’s bad luck,” whispers the mother-in-law. “Opening an umbrella inside.” She stopped screeching about things a long time ago. She’s almost pleasant now. Too bad.
Drop.
“I don’t think that’s true.”
“It is,” she mouths. “It is.”
Drip.
“Hmmmm,,” says Carly. Drop. “I think we make our own luck.”