But that’s all I did, dwell on the thoughts. I didn’t call, text, or reach out to any of them—only to Dad.
“Jane and Peter took the kids away for a few days.”
“Is she strong enough for that?”
I hesitated. “She said she was.”
“Why didn’t you go?”
“I said something I shouldn’t have and I upset her. It’s such a mess, Dad.”
“I’m going to drive up. Let’s go to dinner.”
“No, it’s four hours. Jane’s not even here. Wait till she gets back.”
“You’re worth the drive, Lizzy. I’ll see you soon.”
Now I waited in the small alcove at Palace Kitchen, one of Tom Douglas’s famous restaurants. I didn’t want to talk at Jane’s house—I didn’t even want to return to Jane’s house.
I saw Dad walking down the sidewalk before he noticed me. His shoulders were slightly slumped, and I accepted the weight—I had added yet another burden to our fragile family. We sat down, and I found I had nothing to say. After far too many moments of silence, I asked, “Did you talk to Jane?”
“Of course not. I’m not getting in the middle. This is between you girls.”
“Dad, you’ve always been in the middle. You could at least call her.”
“Not anymore. Maybe that was part of the problem. You never needed me there, and I certainly never helped. If you did something wrong, you need to fix it.”
Oblivious to my annoyance, he opened his menu and reviewed the dinner choices: three different types of beef, two pork preparations, and two chicken choices. Food was always a gift to Dad, and he thoroughly enjoyed every offering. He thought my mom’s cooking was as close to heaven as he could get here on earth.
I watched his eyes flicker from one choice to the next, and my anger abated. I thought yet again about Cecilia’s comment on perspective. How clearly had I seen my dad? Who was he in his own right versus who I constantly tried to construct? Or who I wanted him to be?
“If I were you, I’d go with the pork tenderloin.”
“Why’s that?”
“Coal-roasted kale rabe, garlic and chili with pickled ginger, and caramelized ham broth . . . What more can I say?”
“It does sound good. I had mashed potatoes and meatloaf at the station last night. Perkins was on detail. It was not very appealing.” He chuckled, and I knew he had probably secretly relished every bite.
“I can imagine.” I laid down my menu. We sat there looking at each other, each waiting for the other to begin. I dove in. “My stitches come out Tuesday. Then I’ll head home.”
“Was it all bad?”
“Not all. I made some friends.” I smirked. “Lost some, too, but it still wasn’t all bad.”
“And Jane?”
“I thought it was better, and at times it was, but we’re too far apart.” I spread my hands across the table. “We are who we are, Dad. You may have been in the middle because without you Jane and I can’t connect.”
“Why not?”
“We’re too different. There’s too much between us. We’d never choose each other as friends, and as adults that’s what we need to be.”
“No, you don’t. Remember what I told you? The love needs to be stronger than the like. We’re family.”
“I know you want to believe that, but it doesn’t always work.”
“It does if you make it; it’s just not always easy.”
“Well, I’m going to disappoint you, because I don’t have the energy.”
Dad put his menu down and mimicked my posture. “You never disappoint me. Whatever you say or do, I love you.” He paused and studied me. “Do you know that?”
“I do.” I leaned back in the bench. “And I’m sorry, Dad. I was wrong to leave for New York like I did, and I stayed away too long . . . I didn’t know how to come back, how to stop feeling angry with you for stuff beyond your control.” I pressed my lips together, gaining courage. “I missed Mom and I couldn’t handle that. I still miss her.”
He nodded, up and down, up and down, up and down, and I got the impression he was weighing our years of estrangement and my endless quarrels with Jane.
“What are you thinking?”
“About how much I’ve missed you and how much you look like your mother. You’re beautiful.”
“Dad . . .” And the tears started.
Chapter 34
MONDAY MORNING ARRIVED, AND I PADDED AROUND the kitchen, feeling lonely. There was no point in making oatmeal, no point in making breakfast at all. I held my coffee and leaned against the counter as I did every morning in New York, but it felt different.
I pushed away and ambled into the living room. The light danced through the windows, the warm walls burnishing to saffron as the sun peeked from behind the clouds. I could see Lake Washington over the house across the street. The water looked dark and deep, the sun throwing diamonds across its surface.
I contrasted it with the shallow, dull waters I’d played in for so long—taking care of a cat I refused to name, a staff I never embraced outside my own needs as their boss, friends I kept at an affectionate but cool level . . . even Paul, who now hinted at a desire I couldn’t fulfill.
But now I was in deep, way over my head. There were Nick and Matt, Kate and Danny, and Peter with his starched-up vulnerability, and the secret knowing that if Jane would look up, really look up, she’d see him. She’d see me—always waiting, never pulled in.
This desire to connect scared me—for, as I curled in to the couch, I recognized that I’d always held it close, secreted it away because I knew there was more behind this want, this need—and it could sink me. My mind drifted to my last birthday. I had concealed the day away, hoping no one would find out. I realized as the sun flashed across the room that I had done that to escape disappointment. What if someone had known but still found it unworthy of celebration? What if, in fact, I really didn’t matter outside my cooking? Each day I justified my life through purpose.
And now it felt like a burden and an awful lot of work. I sensed that this shift in perspective was like the fairy dust floating around me that needed light to illuminate it. One strong burst of wind or one quiet, true thought would make it clear and I could be free. I chased the thought, wanting it and fearing its illumination simultaneously. My phone rang.
“Elizabeth, it’s Tyler. I called to say thank you. I ate. I ate everything. I gained two pounds this week.”
“You did? That’s fantastic.”
“Can you make more? I know these meals were because you felt bad, and you shouldn’t have, but they were everything I didn’t know I needed.” Tyler’s voice was light—pure, dancing, and clear.
“I can make a couple, but I’m heading back to New York in a few days. Are you at the Infusion Center this week?”
“Tomorrow as usual.”
“Jane switched days, but I get my stitches out tomorrow. I’d love to bring you a few dishes.”
Tyler was silent.
The light around me dimmed as I absorbed his disappointment. “I wish I could do more, Tyler.”
“I wasn’t thinking that at all. I was thinking how incredible you are to help me out like this. You hardly know me and . . . I can’t tell you what this means.”
“Really? It’s been good for me too. I’ve enjoyed it.”
“Can I do anything for you?”
“Thank you. That’s such a nice offer, but I’m fine.”
I hung up the phone and looked once more around the room, thankful I’d been able to help, thankful he’d called. Thankful. It was something. A true thought. I took a last sip of my coffee and, without thinking, dialed Nick.
He answered before I mustered the courage to hang up, so I rushed out the words. “Hey, Nick, it’s Elizabeth. Tyler ate. He gained weight.”
“That’s great.” But it didn’t sound great. Nick sounded subdued.
“I’m sorry. You’re busy.” I lowered my phone to disconnect the call and heard a yell.
/> “No, hang on . . .” There was muffled talking, then silence. “I’m so glad to talk to you. It’s been a rough few days.”
“Where are you?”
“Home, but I needed to step out of the kitchen. Rebecca was around all weekend.”
“How’d it go?” I heard the tension and coolness in my voice and tucked my lips in, as if to tamp it down. This was about Matt. And he needed a mother.
“Pretty good. They built a Lego castle; we went to the zoo, took him downtown to a movie and out for dinner, read books, went to the park. Tons of stuff. He was slow to warm up and hasn’t said much, but he seems okay. Right now he’s eating breakfast.”
“It’s Monday. Why isn’t he at school?”
“Spring break.”
“Forgot that. Jane’s family is gone for a few days.”
“What have you been doing? Have you been alone?”
He sounded like he’d missed me. I savored it a moment before answering.
“Dad drove up last night and we had dinner. He drove back home this morning because he’s volunteering at a school.”
“That was short.”
“It was, but I’m glad he came. We had a really good talk.”
“What are you doing now?”
“Tyler called for a couple more meals, so I’m going to make those and bake a cake for the Infusion Center. Sort of a good-bye gift.”
Nick paused. “Can we come help? I’ve got some work this morning, but with Matt out of school it’s a light week.”
“What about Rebecca?”
“I don’t want to even think about her right now. Can we come over?”
“Of course.”
Within minutes the doorbell rang and my lonely morning evaporated. Matt charged through the door, anxious to see Kate and Danny.
“I’m sorry. They’re all at a water park for a few days. It’s just me.”
“That’s okay.”
He passed me and headed to the kitchen. Nick shrugged. “Totally nonplussed.”
“That’s good.” I motioned to Matt, who had already left the hall. “Maybe he’ll talk while cooking. That’s where my mom and I talked most.”
“You two seem to have some connection, so I don’t doubt it. He hasn’t opened up to me at all.”
We trailed Matt and sorted the ingredients into piles around the counters. I pushed a recipe in front of Nick.
“Why does he get to make the cake?”
“He’s my favorite.” I winked at Matt and showed him how to grate coconut and chocolate. “You can have a taste, but try to leave some.”
When I turned back to Nick, he’d started chopping the vegetables: onions, mushrooms, carrots, celery, and broccoli.
“The recipe says Chicken Potpie, but these are more vegetables than I remember. I thought it was chicken, sauce, and peas.”
“Not anymore. And this one won’t have a sauce either. I’m keeping it simple, with cilantro and only a touch of honey and olive oil as a binder.”
“Yum.” Nick stopped chopping.
“Don’t worry, I’ve already manipulated the recipe in my head. We’re making two. One for you—hence the broccoli. Tyler’s won’t have that.”
“Really?”
“I figured you’d like it.”
I reached over him to help Matt and was surprised by a kiss on my cheek. Matt looked up at me and scrunched his nose. I mimicked his expression. Both of us were asking each other, What’s he doing?
“Thank you.” Nick stood staring at me, oblivious to Matt’s and my interplay. “How’d you know?”
“I told you before, it’s not rocket science. You like warm food, nothing sharp, and clean tastes, like everything else about you. Tyler reads Hemingway, too, and that’s where I got the idea for no sauces and drier, more direct fare. The honey came from you, but it works for both. What’s with Hemingway, by the way? Is it a guy thing?”
Nick resumed chopping. “I guess, disregarding the suicide part and some of the general disillusionment, we want to be him: larger than life, fisherman, hunter, bullfighter, go to war, come out alive, and be forward, direct, no fluff.”
I studied Nick, appreciating no fluff, directness, and the fact that he was standing near me. My mind flashed back to the day I’d stepped within his arms and showed him the proper chopping motion. A blush crawled up my neck.
He glanced over and smiled as if remembering too. “Am I doing this right?”
“You had a good teacher.” I flicked my hand toward his knife. “Stay focused.”
He laughed, but instead of returning to the carrots, he laid the knife down and stepped toward me. I froze as his fingers brushed my cheek. “I love it when you blush. And you’ve got flour all over you. Do you know that?”
I scrubbed at my face.
“You made it worse. Stand still.” He took a dish towel and brushed away flour on my chin and cheeks. “You must be a mess in your kitchen.”
“I’m not. My coat and apron are always spotless,” I whispered, still standing very close.
“Do I make you nervous?”
“No . . . A little,” I admitted.
“Good.” He kissed the tip of my nose.
I felt, rather than saw, Matt staring, so I stepped back and dotted his nose with flour as well. The three of us worked together for almost an hour before Matt grew bored. By that time the cake was in the oven and the pies almost constructed, so we sent him to the basement to watch a movie while we cleaned the kitchen.
“Why didn’t you go to the Great Wolf Lodge too?”
I held up my wrapped hand. “But it was more than this. They need time together, without me . . . Jane and I had a fight, and then suddenly she wanted to leave. I think she didn’t want me to go home.” I scrubbed a spot on the counter. “That’s new, but we still can’t seem to get past our ‘mutual inconveniences.’ ”
“Your what?”
“It’s from Persuasion.”
“Your favorite book.”
“Yes.” I stopped scrubbing and smiled. “I’m reading it to her while she gets her chemo. We are so like a couple of the characters in there. We can’t let our annoyances go, understand each other, or forgive each other. It’s hard to even be around her sometimes. We relate to each other best when I’m reading to her during chemo.”
“It’s your common ground.”
“We’re sisters. We should have more than that.”
Nick shrugged. “It’s a place to start.”
I leaned against the counter. “I love that phrase . . . My dad once said that the minute he saw my mom, he did everything he could to find ‘a place to start’ with her. He made it sound intentional, romantic . . . and he’s not that kind of guy.”
“You’d be surprised how intentional a guy can be when he finds someone special.”
Zing.
After a wonderful dinner, a small time of dish duty, and an episode of Jeopardy, Nick and Matt headed to the door.
“Wait, I have dessert. Take it home with you?”
Nick raised an eyebrow. “I’m not using you for the food, you know.”
“I know, but I made this with you in mind.” I shrugged. “I was bored this weekend.”
He stilled. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here with you.”
His look and slow, deep tone made his words take on more meaning than could exist between mere friends, at least in my mind. It was an attractive and desirable thought—and an impossible one. “Don’t apologize.”
I hurried back to the kitchen and grabbed a glass container of ice cream.
“What flavor?”
“Tell me when you try it.”
He held up the container, trying to discern the flavor by the color. Then he smelled it. “I know this . . . honey?”
I smiled. He closed his eyes and smelled again. “There’s something more. It’s . . . it’s lavender?”
“Very good. You sound like me.”
He smiled; then his eyes morphed to serious. “I’ve only got a few days l
eft with you, so . . . when can I see you again?”
“I’m getting my stitches out tomorrow; then I deliver this food and the cake to the Infusion Center. I can call you when I’m done.”
“I’ll take you.” He lightly touched my hand. “I was there at the beginning.”
“Yes, you were.” I let the and this is the end remain unspoken.
Chapter 35
THE STITCHES CAME OUT SMOOTHLY, AND EVEN THOUGH my hand was pale and wrinkled with huge purple-red lines over and across every finger, it worked. Stiffly and with slight pain, but it worked.
“Be gentle with it.” Dr. Wharton turned it over, looking at it from all angles. “I am so pleased with how this came out. It looks great.”
“Your idea of great is different from mine. It looks like Frankenstein’s.”
“Just wait. All this will settle down, and you’ll have only a hint of pale lines here and here.” He pointed to the worst of the slashes.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, and thank yourself too; you used a very sharp knife.”
I laughed. “I’ll have to tell my sous chef that.”
He held up his hands. “All of us who work with our hands in such precise ways know exactly where they are and how they work, which makes harming them all the more telling.”
“I was pretty angry.”
“Figured as much.”
We shook hands and he left us. Nick stood without looking at me and held the exam room door open. He didn’t speak as we pulled the food from the car and crossed the parking lot toward the cancer center entrance. His silence began to unnerve me.
“You don’t have to come. Do you want to wait in the cafeteria or somewhere, and I’ll text you?”
“I’d like to come, if it’s okay. It is, isn’t it?”
I took a breath. “Is that why you’re not talking? You’re nervous?”
He looked down at me. “A little. And your stitches are out.”
“That’s a good thing.”
“You’ll leave, and that is not a good thing. Things are so messed up right now, with Rebecca and life and . . . they feel good when you’re near.”
I opened my mouth to say something, anything, even though I didn’t know how to reply, but the elevator door opened and our moment broke. Something was wrong—a stillness pervaded the lobby. I caught sight of Cecilia adjusting Mr. Griffin’s IV bottle. She wasn’t in her protective garb, so I knew she was flushing his lines or taking his initial blood draw. She looked exhausted, and Mr. Griffin was rubbing his forehead bright red.
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