It’s not weird that Sheila’s place at the dinner table is empty. It’s been empty since the middle of July when she left for her pre-college band geek summer camp.
I mean, I’ve already spent the better part of three months eating dinner across from Ghost Sheila, and gotten to the point where I could deal with it, no problem. So dinnertime is one of the times that feel normal.
But sometimes, on Saturdays, we go out for dinner. So we’re sitting with our buzzer in the steakhouse lobby, grazing on peanuts and vaguely watching the Notre Dame game. No one says it, but it’s our first dinner out since Sheila died. That’s not really significant, except that every first is significant.
“What is everyone looking forward to this coming week?” Mom says, in a bald attempt to sound normal. Dad and I stare up at the screen.
“It’s not their day,” Dad says, after the Irish fail to convert fourth and inches at the fifteen-yard line.
“Weird they didn’t take the field goal,” I agree. “They can’t put a scoring drive together today to save their lives.” It’s just an expression, of course, but my head buzzes afterward all the same. To save a life. To escape death. So many things we used to say without thinking land differently now.
Mom sighs and tosses a handful of peanut shells to the floor, too hard.
“What, honey?” Dad flicks his gaze away from the screen.
Mom smiles, tight. The buzzer goes off and we walk to the hostess stand.
A light-brown-skinned, college-aged girl smiles and greets us. “Sanders, party of three?”
Dad bursts into tears.