“It makes baking fun for me, and so I figured we could use some this morning. I’m trying to bond with your family, okay?!” She smacks my shoulder, her hand lingering for a second, giving me a slight squeeze.
There is a playful look twinkling in her eyes, her lip tuckingback into her teeth again, her fingers running through my hair as she cleans away the batter.Huh, that’s new.
I smirk down at her and ask, “Did you pick the song?”
She shakes her head, looking over at Jerrica, who’s busy whisking eggs. “Jerrica picked the clean version thankfully.”
I chuckle, and before I can overthink it, I grab Olivia’s shoulders and pull her into a hug. “Luke!” she squeals as pancake batter squishes against her light-pink tank top and matching pajama bottoms. I take my nose and trace the side of her jaw, leaving a trail of batter on her creamy skin. She lightly shoves me away, looking down at her messy clothes, and huffs in frustration.
My family laughs, their eyes lingering on us for a moment, before they return to cooking breakfast. I look back at Olivia and realize that I’ll never be able to look at pancakes again without imagining the dusting of freckles across her cheeks, the plump curve of her lips, the way her eyes dip to my mouth and back up to mine. The movement is so fast that I’m not sure if I imagined it.
“There’s your payback for pouring pancake batter all over me.” My voice sounds a bit like scratchy sandpaper that’s scraping against the fine line of our friendship that I’m desperate to buff away.
Everyone goes back to their tasks, and I take another step away from Olivia. I give her an apologetic smile and shrug my shoulders, as if saying I’m messing with her, because I am. Olivia shifts on her feet, and I can tell by the way she’s staring at me, arms crossed, she’s itching to say something.
“I’ll go get cleaned up,” I say, pointing a thumb over my shoulder, and book it out of the kitchen.
After showering and putting on some clean clothes, I make my way through the house and follow the smell of bacon and coffee.
“Luke.” Everything in me freezes at the familiar voice. A voice that’s raspy and weaker than I remembered but familiar all the same. “You came.”
I turn to face my dad, and my hands start to tremble, so I shove them into the pockets of my jeans. My heart is beating in my throat in a way that I haven’t felt in a long time.
He’s sitting in a wheelchair, and a nurse is standing behind him with a kind smile on her face as she pushes him closer to me. I want to tell her to stop, to not push him any closer, but instead, I clench my jaw so tight I might break a molar.
The first thing I notice is how thin he looks. His facial structure is hollow, and his clothes appear to hang off his body. His skin is pale, a mixture of snow and ash. His salt-and-pepper hair hangs loosely down his jaw. He looks nothing like the man who I used to fear. Yet that same fear somehow still clings to me.
“It’s good to see you,” he says with a tired smile.
“Is it?” I ask through gritted teeth.
I stand there in silence for a long while, my father and I in some sort of stare-off. The nurse frowns as her eyes sink to the floor. Some people are uncomfortable with silence. Not me. The silence between my dad and me is something that’s familiar.
I’m trying to think of something to say, but I keep asking myself,is it even worth it?Right now, I don’t think it is. My words never mattered to him before. Why would they now?
I let out a shaky breath, feeling like the shards of my past are piercing through me. I had hoped this would be easier, that I could say, ‘Oh, hi, Dad. I’m sorry you're dying, so I came to fix things between us. Let’s forget all about that time you beat me so badly I couldn’t get out of bed and go to school the next day.’
“I, uh…I’ve been wanting to talk with you,” he finally says, breaking the silence.
“About what?” I stare into the black pits of his eyes.
“This cancer for one.” He waves an arm around his body. “About a lot of things, really.”
“Yeah, well, you’ve had my whole life to talk about things, and you never did.”
His brows pierce together, making it seem like my words were a blow to him. “You’re right. There were many times within the past few years that I picked up the phone to call you, but I let my doubts get the best of me.”
And when he did finally call you, you hung up on him and never gave him a chance, my subconscious reminds me. I shake the thought away, finding it harder to let go of the anger inside of me. It’s the one thing that’s protecting me right now.
“Luke, there you are—” My grandmother stops mid-sentence, halting in her place, her eyes moving between my father and me.
“I’m going to get some fresh air,” I announce, turning to leave. I grab my jacket, ignoring their calls for me to wait, and let the door slam behind me.
It’s freezing outside, but it does nothing to cool down the boiling in my veins. The promise of snow is lingering in the air, and my breath puffs out in large clouds. I’m not sure where to go, just that I need to walk away from my family and clear my mind.
I don’t know what I expected out of my first encounter with my dad. After praying last night, I figured Jesus would take the wheel and put the right words into my mouth. That he would cleanse my heart of anger and help me find forgiveness. It’s never as easy as we hope for, is it?
I asked you for some help, God. Where were you?
