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David opens the door of his motel room like he’s stepping out of a theater in the daytime. Dazed, squinting, a little hungry.
“Patrick? What are you doing here?” he yawns. “It’s 7:00.”
Patrick’s hair is lighter than usual outside in the hazy morning sunlight.
“It’s 8:00, actually. And I know it’s early, that’s why I brought you this,” he lifts his hand and offers a hot cup of caramel macchiato, skim, two sweeteners, and a heavier than normal sprinkle of cocoa powder. “And this,” he brings up his other hand. In it is a small brown paper bag with a large, chocolate chip muffin.
David takes his treats and moves to let Patrick in.
“Okay, but that still doesn’t answer my question. Why are you here? Do we have somewhere to be? Or… ” he peers into the paper bag in his hands. “Is this… another olive branch?” He asks with a mock-innocent smile.
"This is definitely not another olive branch, David,” Patrick says. “We already resolved that the other week.” There’s a familiar tightness in his voice.
“So, then…"
“So then… I, uh…” He tucks his hands into his pockets as his eyes drift tentatively toward Alexis, who’s still asleep, burrowed in what looks like three layers of blankets, and then to the connecting door where Johnny and Moira are very much awake on the other side. David follows his gaze.
His grin widens. “Patrick Brewer, are you… are you here for…” he raises a suggestive eyebrow and saunters closer. Something in him stirs as he thinks about his boyfriend, up early on his day off, so eager, so full of desire that he just had to rush over here as soon as possible just so he could get his hands on --
“I’m actually here to see your mom.”
Oh. Wait.
“... What?”
David takes a step back. “... I’m sorry… you’re here -- my mom? ”
“Yes, David, your mom. She asked me to help her make a spreadsheet today.”
David takes another step back, trying very hard to parse all the words that Patrick had just said.
“Ew, what?” Alexis groans from her bed, speech slurred with sleep. “Patrick’s helping mom with her sheets?”
"Um,” David tilts his ear toward Alexis but is still staring dumbfoundedly at Patrick. “Spreadsheets? I think… is what he said."
"Mm, okay, that's somehow worse," Alexis mumbles into her pillow.
Patrick shifts his weight to his left and presses his palm into the TV stand. He looks at David and cocks his head upward, waiting with amused patience.
“So, you…" David starts. Patrick nods, encouraging him to continue.
“You will be here, today, with my mom. And I will be at work. And you will be here. On your day off. With my mom. Just the two of you. Making spreadsheets. ”
Patrick presses his lips into a short, thin line and nods. “That pretty much sums up the day’s events, yeah."
David swallows like he just downed a tablespoon of cough syrup and walks away toward Alexis’ side of the room.
“And so then these are… conciliatory breakfast treats, I’m starting to realize,” David holds up his hands, coffee in one, chocolate chip muffin in the other.
Patrick shrugs, a guilty smile on his lips. He walks slowly closer to David.
“Mmkay, well. Just so you know,” David shimmies the muffin out of the paper bag and takes a big, intentional bite, “Going forward, if you’re trying to get in my good graces I actually prefer chocolate donuts ,” he says through a mouthful of muffin.
Patrick steps in just a little bit closer. “Noted,” he says with a smirk and he reaches out to brush off a crumb from the corner of David’s mouth.
“So when is this bizarre Tuesday morning hang with my mom supposed to take place?”
And then, just like that, never one to miss her cue, Moira cracks open the door and peaks her head through.
"Well hello, Patrick," she chirps. "I thought I heard your voice."
…
Patrick stands fixed in front of Moira’s wig wall like he’s standing on hallowed ground. Each wig hangs impeccably against the muted, chipped paint like relics of a past lifetime, the mirror with a permanent smudge on the upper right corner the grand altarpiece. The lamp on the left casts a celestial glow over everything and even the half-used box of tissue at the end of the table seems divine.
Should he kneel?
“Oh, do have a seat, Patrick,” Moira gestures toward the chair.
She brings over the laptop and places it down on the table.
“Now, I have the computer here, which, if I recall correctly from our prior exchange at the store, is necessary for the genesis of today's spreadsheet,” her voice rises as she lowers herself onto the chair across the table from Patrick. “Also, Mr. Rose has fortuitously left his portfolio behind this morning, and I’m sure he wouldn’t mind us borrowing a few pages of his stationery should you feel the need to do any manual recording.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Rose," Patrick smiles at Moira. She sighs cheerily and places her hands on the table, her bracelets clinking together softly.
Patrick turns to look back at her wigs. “So, how should we start?”
They start in a rather unusual way, with Moira making them some tea and asking him, between cat-like sips of her Earl Grey, "So, Patrick, what is your favorite season?"
The question catches him off guard, lips pursed over his cup of tea. She's staring back at him with bright, anxious eyes, one manicured nail tapping steadily against the side of her cup.
"Uh, I guess I would say summer," he answers, sipping from his mug. "I'm a big baseball fan, so it's nice to have all the games going, and the weather is perfect for me to play a little ball of my own."
Moira smiles and nods. She glances down quickly at her lap then back up at Patrick. "And how is your job at the Rose Apothecary?"
"Fine... " he says dubiously. He watches her mouth fine to herself as her eyes dart quickly back down below the table.
"And your daily exercise routine… ?"
"You know, Mrs. Rose," he says politely. "We don't have to do this. I'm perfectly fine just working on this spreadsheet for you without any of… that." He gives her a sympathetic, reassuring smile.
"Oh, very well then," she pulls out her index cards from under the table and throws them and all subtlety away.
Patrick puts his tea aside and slides the laptop in front of him. He clicks open an Excel workbook. "So, I was thinking we can start by just going through each wig one by one. We'll start with this first column here -- ” another click, “ -- and list them by their... by their names?" He hesitates. "I assume they all have names." He tries to remember the ones he's heard David mention.
Moira smiles proudly. "Well of course they all have names, dear. And I’ll have you know I only bestow the best upon my babies.”
"Right, so," he double-clicks. “In this first row, we can start with… " He looks up at the wall and eyes the first wig on the left.
"Oh! Yes!” Moira stands up and claps her hands together. She walks to retrieve the long-haired, dark brown wig on the far left, cradling it delicately in her hands. When she takes a seat back down at the table, Patrick scoots his chair closer and angles the laptop toward her. She plucks at the strands of hair while he begins to type.
“So this is…”
“Lorna.”
Lorna, Patrick types. "And then here --” he clicks twice while Moira plucks “-- we can start making more columns. Now each column can be a different category. So these will be all the different ways you want to organize or identify each wig."
Moira’s focus fades in and out. “And how many of these balusters can we make?" she asks.
"Uh, we can make as many columns as you'd like. They could be anything. We could start with their location on the wall here, which nail they belong on. Then maybe... color, length, style, care, packing instructions... uh, events you've worn them to… "
Moira places her hands down on the table with an eager thump. "Well aren't you just a wellspring of clever propositions, Patrick? I do like that last one you suggested. Let’s start with that one."
Patrick opens his mouth to object, to tell her that maybe they should start with a more basic descriptor, but Moira is staring at him with wide eyes that tell him this is not up for discussion and he figures he can always reorganize everything later, so that’s how he ends up hearing the story about the time Moira ended up at Grace Jones’ 40th birthday party wearing Lorna out for the first time with nothing else but a dark green leotard and five-inch snakeskin heels.
…
Outside the sun is beginning to move higher into the sky as the morning presses on. The sunlight diffuses softly through the curtains and throughout the room. They’ve made it through two-thirds of the wigs when Moira picks up the next one off the wall: a jet-black bob cut to fall just below the chin.
“Magdalena,” she coos as she takes her seat. She picks at the ends which are turned upward into a flirtatious wave.
“You may or may not be aware, Patrick, but I let David borrow Magdalena for Halloween one year. You know, he had a full panoply of well-curated apparel at his disposal, yet for some reason he insisted on going as this... moody songstress donned in the most unflattering, slouchy, oversized clothing you can imagine.”
Patrick thinks briefly about the slouchy, oversized clothing David wears now and smiles to himself.
“Should we, uh, should we make a column for this?” he asks.
“Oh, no. No, that was a one-time affair that needn’t be memorialized anywhere outside of the dark recesses of one’s mind...” she shudders.
“Are you sure, Mrs. Rose? You may lend her out again.”
“Ha!” Moira cackles. “Can you imagine? No, that won’t be happening anytime in the foreseeable future. In fact, it was precisely this incident with David that made me vow never to loan out any of my babies ever again. We had to chop off almost a foot of Magdalena’s hair once he returned home from his festivities. The amount of glitter and -- oh! -- the stench of cigarette smoke in her hair… it was nearly unsalvageable ,” she mourns.
Patrick laughs quietly.
“But look at her now,” she marvels, playing with the cropped wig. “Fit for a queen.”
They run through the rest of the columns on the spreadsheet without a hitch. Patrick is finishing up cross-referencing Magdalena’s packing instructions with that of the other two bobs on the spreadsheet when he notices Moira standing up slightly on her toes to pull down the next piece off the wall: a mid-length, straight-haired, bright copper wig. She walks gracefully back to the table, quietly humming an unrecognizable tune.
She sits back down and slowly inspects the wig in her hands.
"You know, this particular one reminds me of someone," Moira starts, running her fingers gingerly through the smooth, reddish-brown strands from root to tip, a curious tone in her voice, an unreadable expression on her face.
Patrick looks at the copper hair in front of him. It reminds him of someone, too. His stomach knots and he prays to the almighty wig wall they're not thinking of the same person.
But one look into Moira’s eyes and he instantly knows they are. His palms begin to sweat instinctively.
"What was her name? Rebecca?" she asks.
"Rachel,” Patrick answers plainly.
"Rachel, yes. And she was your… fiancee?"
With over an hour of conversation with Moira now under his belt, Patrick thinks he’s actually able to detect a hint of apprehension in her voice.
He sucks in a short breath. "She was."
Moira nods. "David filled me in, but only sparingly."
Their cups of tea in front of them are ice cold now, opened packets of sugar strewn haphazardly across the center of the table. The cursor on the computer screen blinks impatiently.
Patrick feels himself tensing, reactionary, a familiar thing he knows all too well from the past couple weeks. The knot in his stomach hardens and he moves his clammy palms from the tabletop to the hard denim of his jeans. He wants to be annoyed with Moira. In fact, maybe he is a little. Maybe she was only in this for the gossip. Maybe she just wanted all the salacious details, another story for the spreadsheet. (Sophia: worn once at a barbecue when my son's boyfriend's secret fiancee showed up unannounced and dismantled their entire relationship for a week.)
But she doesn't ask for any details.
"Life rarely ever goes the way we plan," she says instead, carefully placing the wig down on the table. She stands, extends her arms outward and surveys the motel room like she's greeting a congregation. "I mean, just look at me," she says with a quiet laugh and a distant smile.
Patrick thinks he caught something else there in her voice, too, a slight strain almost too soft for him to hear.
"But," her smile widens, naturally. "Aren't we better off for it?" And now there's something entirely different in her voice, something warm, carefree, and it seems to surprise even her.
Her eyes gloss over their table, up toward her wall of wigs, and Patrick follows her gaze. He looks across the room toward the door connecting her room to her children’s then back to the laptop and their cups of tea. He’s suddenly reminded about all the cups of tea David has brought him, all the cups he’s forgotten, and his mouth curves into a smile.
"I would certainly say so," he answers.
A comfortable silence falls over them. Patrick moves his finger idly over the mousepad.
“Let’s save this one for later,” she says suddenly, throwing him a flashy smile.
Before he can even question her, she’s walking the copper wig back to the wall and hanging it up on its pin. She pulls down another one, a dark brown wig, cut into the shape of a short, coquettish bob. She’s humming again, that same tune, a little louder now and Patrick thinks he recognizes the rising pitch of the melody but he can’t quite place it.
“Oh, Mrs. Rose, we already did that one, I think,” he looks down at the computer.
“Yes, I’m aware, Patrick,” she says sweetly. “I just wanted another look at this one.” She runs her fingers through the short tresses.
“Do you want to know why I named her Edith?” she continues, playing with the heavy row of bangs at the front. “Mr. Rose and I were in Paris when I wore this wig -- oh, don’t transcribe this, please,” she says when she notices Patrick typing. Her thoughts seem to escape her for a moment, then she resumes. “Have you heard of a rousing little French number called ‘La Vie en Rose?’”
That’s it. The unfamiliar familiar tune.
Patrick nods. “I have. Edith Piaf,” he says, making the connection. “Nice choice, Mrs. Rose.”
She puts the wig down gently on the table. “And what about the very sumptuous remake by one Louis Armstrong?”
"I've heard of that one, too, yes."
"Well of course you have, the distinguished music aficionado that you are."
There's a pause and Patrick wonders if that was the end of their conversation.
She leans back in her chair. "While we were in Paris," she begins, toying with her tea cup on the table. “I put on Edith here for the first time and performed that very song for Mr. Rose -- Louis' version, that is, John was hardly the Francophile at the time. I practically had to fight him tooth and nail to get him to go with me to Paris in the first place. Can you believe that?”
“Wow,” Patrick says through a short laugh. “That must have been quite the show, Mrs. Rose.”
“Oh, it was. My personal favorite,” she looks down at her lap. There’s another long, settling silence. “But, it was actually quite small, not much of an audience at all,” she tells him softly, almost like she’s fearful of someone overhearing. “Smaller than the performance you put on for your David, in fact."
Patrick's heart skips unexpectedly hearing the words, your David from Moira’s mouth.
“It was our first time in Paris together, Mr. Rose and I,” she says, then lets out a laugh. “Yes, there we were on but our third date, traipsing up and down the Champs-Elysees.”
Patrick’s eyes widen and he nods, trying his best to look surprised.
“The night was oppressively warm. We had just finished a dinner cruise and John and I were making our way along the Seine River when we approached a darling little trumpeter. I looked over at John and just knew right then and there what I needed to do,” Moira grins at Patrick. “Oh, I know what you’re thinking, Patrick. It certainly was a very maudlin display of emotion, but chalk it up to all that Parisian wine.”
They both laugh.
“And that --” she continues with a tap of her finger against the table top, her voice lower, “was my very first live performance.”
Sitting there, her eyes shining steadily, she seems smaller, almost childlike, and then Patrick sees for the first time a line between the Moira that he’s known for the past five months and the Moira that he’s getting to know now.
“That’s a… beautiful story, Mrs. Rose,” he says earnestly.
She nods, and there’s a glint in her eye as she looks across the table at Patrick with a small smile. She eases herself slightly forward onto her elbows.
“You see, Patrick, we often ruminate just a little too much on all the different ways life could have gone that we lose focus of the things that made us who we are.”
Patrick nods and presses his lips together in an attempt to form a response. He’s suddenly all too aware of his hands, poised awkwardly above the keyboard, and he considers running his fingers through the brown wig in front of him. He wrings his hands together instead, clearing his throat on an exhale.
“Yeah, I, uh, I did a lot of that when I first moved here. Ruminating,” he looks at Moira with an awkward smirk. She’s quiet, her eyes politely encouraging him to continue. “Thinking about what it might have been like if I had, you know, maybe tried to tough it out with, uh, with Rachel... or something," he stutters then sighs loudly. “I had really hoped that that was going to be it. That for some reason, I don't know, getting engaged, marriage, all of that would make everything better. But, that's not what happened at all," he laughs sadly.
"Sometimes it can be hard to separate hope from expectations," Moira says.
"Yeah, but the stupid thing was, deep down inside, I always knew what was going to happen."
"And what, may I ask, was that?"
"That I'd end up running away."
He recalls suddenly the dirt-speckled view out of his windshield that summer morning. The hot, sunbaked road in the foreground, the scene from the side of his window a flipbook of endless trees and gas stations and tiny strip malls. He wonders if the Roses had the same view when they drove into Schitt’s Creek a year or two before. Moira’s wigs - Lorna, Magdalena, Edith - all packed tightly away in their respective airtight, temperature-controlled containers in the back of their van. His guitar nestled into the backseat of his car, baseball bats clanking together in a bag on the floor. Both of their past worlds distilled into a single receding point in the rearview mirror.
“You know, Patrick,” she interrupts his thoughts with a gentle hand on his arm. He looks up at her and sees something unfamiliar. Her eyes are startlingly thoughtful.
“You can run away whenever and wherever you want, but you cannot run from the person that you are. Because he will follow you as sure as night will follow day.”
Patrick looks down at his hands for a moment and smiles. “Thank you, Mrs. Rose,” he lifts his eyes to meet hers. “I know that now.”
“And I am certainly glad that, out of all places, Patrick, you chose to be here.”
He laughs softly. “Well it’s definitely a very… special town, that’s for sure.”
She smiles. “I wasn’t talking about the town.”
Patrick blushes, warmth spreading up around his cheeks to his ears. Unsure just what to say next, he directs his gaze back to the computer and resumes typing.
They sit in a comfortable silence for a minute and Moira watches him with care.
"You love him," she says then, seemingly out of nowhere, all pretense removed. It’s not a question, but an observation. Someone with a well-trained ear may have heard a very specific drop in the timbre of her voice.
“I do,” he responds easily.
She nods slowly, satisfied, then leans in closer over the table.
“Don’t worry, I won’t tell him,” she vows with a whisper. She grins and places a single finger over her bright red lips.
He chuckles. “Thank you, Mrs. Rose.”
"But maybe you ought to soon?"
"I will," he promises.
...
Johnny arrives back at their room in the early afternoon to retrieve his portfolio just as Moira and Patrick are finishing up. There were only a few pages of stationery missing.
“He even furnished the spreadsheet with these miraculous little things called micros --"
“ -- Macros, ” Patrick corrects.
“Macros,” Moira repeats. She’s pointing dramatically at the computer screen with the tip of her fingernail. Johnny squints down at the laptop.
"Moira, you already have a spreadsheet,” he says. “Christine made you one back in '09, remember?"
"Yes…” she demurs. “But that one doesn't have the macros, John. Are you listening?" she shouts. Johnny sighs and removes his jacket, heading toward the bathroom.
Behind his back, Moira walks toward her vanity and places a hairpin down on the desk like a Sunday offering then straightens up an off-kilter wig. Francine, Patrick mentally recalls. He notices just then that Moira is no longer wearing her shoes. Her stockinged feet pad across the dreary carpet with a relaxed ease. She turns to him, her smile warm, conspiratorial, and gives him a quick wink as he shuts the laptop cover.
Singing peacefully to herself, she nods as Patrick gets up to leave. The afternoon sun edges harshly at the curtains. He hears the faucet turn on as she refills the electric kettle. He opens the door just a crack and then stalls for a moment, sunlight pooling at his feet as he listens to the sweet sounds of Moira’s voice rising distinctly through the motel room, seeping outside, evaporating in the afternoon sun like holy water. Give your heart and soul to me, and life will always be la vie en rose.