Chapter Fifteen – The Breakfast
Houston, Texas
Friday, April 6th
Aromas of food wake me up early Friday morning. I bury my head further into my pillow and close my eyes tightly, hoping to recapture the comfortable sleep that I have just been pulled from. My stomach betrays me, though, because soon enough it starts to rumble, feeling empty. The smells of eggs and bacon cooking rouse my senses again and I can’t help opening my eyes.
The light from my window blinds me, making me wish I had the ability to make it go away, to make it dark. Still, the sun keeps moving upwards and I rub the sleep away from my eyes as I shake my legs out from under the covers. My feet feel cold on the tiled ground and, although I wish I had carpet or a rug to walk on instead, I know that once summer sets in I’ll be grateful for the tiles.
I stand and pull at the t-shirt I’m wearing, deciding I will eat first and get changed later. I step out of my room, leaving my bed covers a mess, and make my out into the hall. Glancing at the open kitchen from the hallway, I see Dad standing over by the stove, scrambling eggs while he hums to himself. Usually I have a quick bowl of cereal and maybe some toast before I leave for work. Every once in a while, though, Dad gets into these weird moods where he’ll get up early in order to go to the store for bacon, eggs, hash browns and fresh juice; for that one random morning, we will feast until we can hardly move.
It always makes me think of Mom when he does it since it was something she used to do for us when I was little. Dad said it was her weekend specialty and that she used to play music really loud that would wake Dad up while she cooked. It was one of the few times she was always happy. I don’t remember the breakfasts she used to cook, but Dad always tells the story and now, when I see him cooking breakfast, I think of her.
“Morning.” I smile at Dad as he notices I’ve been watching him and then make my way over to the fridge where I grab a carton of milk and take several long gulps out of it before putting it back on the door’s shelf. I close the door just as Dad places a plate piled high of greasy food on the wooden table that is an island in the middle of our kitchen. I grab a stool and sit down then pick up a fork and dig in.
Dad places his plate next to mine and laughs as I inhale my food rather than tasting it. I can’t help that I feel starved in the morning or at lunch or at dinner. In fact, I’m mostly always hungry.
“Slow down, you’re going to choke on that if you’re not careful.”
I force myself to chew at least three more times than I think necessary, and as my plate empties, I finally start to slow down.
“So, I should be able to get down to the site today, see how it’s all moving along.”
I nod, inwardly disappointed he’s coming. The guys already resent me for being the boss’s son, but sometimes I feel like they start to forget. Dad visiting is always a big reminder that I’m there because of him. It doesn’t matter that I work harder than any of them, that I always volunteer for the jobs they don’t want to do or that I’m the first to arrive and last to leave. To them, I’ve been given a free ride because Dad owns the construction company.
“Perhaps we can do lunch?”
“Sure.” I hope to mask my reluctance as I quickly eat the last few mouthfuls on my plate. “Thanks for breakfast, Dad.”
I stand up and place my plate in the sink, glancing at the time on the microwave before rushing back to my room to get ready. I had hoped to mention moving out at breakfast, but have chickened out again. It isn’t because I don’t want to move out or because I think Dad will be angry at me, either; it’s because I hate to worry him.
Mom had suffered with depression and he had been unable to help her. I do have memories of her, however I can’t remember her being sad. I never feel that she is troubled when I think back to her. When I was six-years-old, we found her dead. She took a bunch of pills and locked herself in the bathroom. Dad never forgave her for doing that, for giving up. He never forgave himself for not stopping me from seeing her like that, either.
It wasn’t his fault, none of it was. He loved her, I remember that. He still does love her. He just worries that the trauma of that day has stuck with me, that even after all these years, I might somehow fall into a depression like she had and he will lose me, too. Keeping me living at home is his way of keeping tabs on me. Even at twenty-two, he thinks I’m too young to be living alone. It’s another sore point with the guys I work with.
After I have brushed my teeth and tried to flatten my dark brown hair down—since it always seems to look messy—I leave quickly, grabbing my jacket off the floor of my bedroom. Wearing my usual blue jeans and black t-shirt, I poke my head into the kitchen, seeing Dad reading over the newspaper.
“Dad…” Just say it. Say I found a place and I’m moving out.
“Yes?” Dad looks up from the article he’s reading when I hesitate.
“See you at lunch.” I again chicken out. As I grab my keys off the table by the door and leave, I promise myself that at lunch I’ll do better.
Taken By Surprise Page 30
