Over morning OJ, granola, and a hangover the metric weight of King Kong, Dad comes into Oma’s kitchen and gives me the parental once-over. I can only imagine what a washed-up sad sack I look like this morning, what with my frizzed-out braids, bloodshot eyes, brains smoking from the holes of my ears.
He sits down beside me and his steady, measured presence pulls at my scratchy lids, my limbs crying out to curl up against him and sleep for a hundred thousand years. Even so, I still can’t shake last night’s lingering jazz of possibility.
“Well, Daughter,” he says, pouring us each a steaming cuppa joe. “Didn’t know you were joining the sleepover party. We could have painted each other’s toenails and talked about makeup.”
I chuckle, shovel in a spoonful of crunchy goodness. Miles walks in, plunks down on a stool, and picks up a bowl and spoon.
“Y’know, Louie,” Dad says, rubbing his face. “I don’t think it would kill you to call, like ever. Tell me where you’re at, what’s going on, everything’s okay.”
“Yeah, Louie,” Miles says, spitting milk. “It wouldn’t kill you to call.”
Dad takes a breath. “Luce, you smell … And look at you…,” he groans. “I get that it’s graduation and all, but c’mon, kid, pull yourself together. We got ourselves a family crisis on hand.”
My brother nods. “A family crisis.”
“Miles, can it,” Dad says, and Miles looks at me, giggles.
I look hard at Dad’s creased-around-the-edges eyes, study the small scar at the crux of his chin. He watches me warily me from behind the heavy bags under his bloodshot eyes.
“What?”
“Where’d you get that?” I say, pointing my dripping spoon at his chin. “I never noticed it before.” Miles leans in, too, takes a good look.
Dad furrows his brow, sits forward. “Louie, are you feeling okay? I mean, besides Oma—”
“Dying?”
He sighs, closes his eyes.
Dad frowns, shakes his head. “We need to talk about college, Lu. And the partying. And Marta. Mart’s home now. The house is getting full. And Mom. You need to call your mom.” His voice trails off, falls quiet, and he presses a thick, shaking hand to his eyes. A tear rolls slowly down his cheek and Miles puts a small palm on Dad’s thick shoulder.
I look at him and realize I haven’t even tried to absorb what he’s going through, losing his mother, his last living parental. An emotional infant, I believe, were Marta’s words. And it occurs to me again that life, it’s ticking on by, all the time. My insides melt and I want to say or do something to help, but before I can get my act together and be a decent human, Dad stands and heels it to the bathroom, Miles close behind. And I’m too late. To give him a hug or tell him how sorry I am. Anything.
I get up, do a gaggle of dishes, and then Zoë’s buzzing my speak, reminding me (though she doesn’t need to) that the Pennies’ toaster is tonight and neither of us are gonna miss it if it’s the last flippin’ thing we ever do. She says she’ll swing by and we can hang for the day, and just as I’m making my not-so-stealthy escape, Marta, looking both well rested and well read, comes sauntering in the front door. I brace myself.
The Cousins are piling in, too, Auntie Julie’s little girl, and Auntie Kay’s twin boys. Uncle Edgar, Kay’s husband, is already getting going on a round of early morning Republican Cross Fire with any left-minded fishy chump enough to bite the lure. And my sister-Jack, no doubt wake-and-baked out of her skull, is eyeing the bait with red-eyed interest.
I slink by the crowd at the door, dodging the free-flying political shrapnel. Between breaths Marta shakes her head, hissing disapproval at me like a slow-deflating tire.
“Be right back, Jacks,” I lie and hop down the steps, snag my spin, and start heeling on foot up the hill. Not a moment too soon, Zoë and Gideon are pulling up beside me, Zoë tweaked because I gave such lame-o directions to my Oma’s and she got lost three times.
I apologize and load my bike on her rack, settle into the back seat. Up front, Zo and Gid talk low, some major heart-Jack drama boiling in their ever-simmering pot, both of them giving me and my sick-old-person aura a wide berth. I still haven’t really spilled to Zoë what’s going on, just how serious it is. It hasn’t felt right. Or real. I think maybe saying it out loud will make it true, so I don’t say anything at all.