27. Pond

“Is it supposed to be that colour?”

“I don’t know Jess, Dad didn’t exactly leave an instruction manual for it,” I snap back. 
“Alright, Jesus, I just don’t want the fish to die,” she retorts. 
I push my index and middle finger against my furrowed brow and scrunch my face in frustration.
“Sorry,” I sigh, “I just don’t know what we’re going to do.”
“We’ll figure it out,” she says calmly. I don’t know that we will, but I appreciate her trying to comfort me.
I stand up and flick the slimy water off my hand as best I can then take a step back. The pump is definitely not supposed to be doing that. We stare at the pond in defeat. The water that used to flow in a nice rounded stream is shooting like a helicopter propeller loaded with tiny machine guns. 
“Have I…made it worse?” I ask guiltily.
I can feel Jess suppressing laughter as she leans into me.
“I mean, I didn’t actually know that a pond pump could do that,” she chuckles.
“Fuck,” I sigh. She puts her arm around me.
“It’ll be alright, we’ll get a man to come out,” she rubs my arm. 
I resist the urge to say no but I know when I’m beat. 
“Rach, no offence but your hand absolutely stinks,” Jess continues to chuckle.
“Sorry,” I pull away from her. She leads the way back to the house. When we make it inside Mum is knitting another chunky blanket from the batwing chair in the corner of the living room.
“Any luck with it?” she asks, keeping her eyes fixed on the thick cotton. 
“We’re going to have to call a man,” Jess reports, “Oh, and Rach’s got gangrene.”
“What?” she looks up from her wire-framed glasses. I obligingly hold my hand up on my way toward the sink.
“Oh,” Mum rolls her eyes and gives Jess her that’s-not-funny-young-lady face.
I run my hand under the warm water and scrub at the pond scum that’s fused to my fingers. The smell reminds me of all those Sunday afternoons when Dad would wander in from working in the garden and rinse the day off in the sink. He’d always use dish soap because Mum insisted he’d use up all her nice-smelling hand soap. I wash all the way up to my elbows with the vivid green Palmolive.
When I’m done, I dry my forearms and hands off with a tea towel and ask, “Tea anyone?”
“Please,” Mum answers without looking up. 
“Coffee for me, please,” Jess says next, staring at her phone. I flick the kettle on and begin collecting the mugs. The hand-potted one with a bee on it for Mum, the red one with a bumpy texture on it for Jess, and the Magic Mountain Merimbula ‘04 mug for me. I watch Mum and Jess while I wait. They both have the same expression on their faces when they concentrate. I always found it comforting that they looked alike. It made sense. 50/50. A daughter for each parent. Now it’s lonely.
“There are three different pond blokes in our area, should I schedule whoever is cheapest?” Jess asks.
“What are the reviews like?” Mum ponders. 
“Uh, the best I can find is four stars,” Jess replies. I hear the kettle click so I focus on the task at hand. It’s strange to me how normal this all feels. Three of us are tackling something Dad would know how to fix in a snap. I spoon a bit of sugar into each mug and spill a fourth teaspoon onto the bench out of habit.
As I wipe the sugar into my hand and dump it into the sink, Jess and Mum resolve to hire the four-star bloke. I bring them their drinks then return with mine, settling into my usual on the spot next to Jess. As they coordinate which day will work best I stare at the empty armchair next to Mum and think about what Dad would say about letting another man tend to the pond.