“How about pull out a stool? This stubborn girl decided she wanted to eat in the kitchen.”
“Hi,” Priscilla said while I held out the stool for her.
“There you go. Slide right on,” Margo said, orchestrating the steps from behind her daughter.
Priscilla did as she was told, her braced arm still in limbo.
“If I turn the stool a bit, you can lean your cast on the counter,” I told her.
“Good,” she said.
“You may want a pillow to put underneath,” I said to Margo, and she sprang into action.
“Comfy?” I asked, and Priscilla nodded.
“Your mom told me a few things you like, and I got them all,” I told her while Margo opened the bags.
“Too much,” Margo grumbled, but I ignored her.
With curly fries, a grilled cheese with tomato soup, and an order of crispy Brussels sprouts with bacon in front of her, Priscilla smiled. “I love anything cheesy or buttery.”
“Butter makes everything better,” I said. “My mom used to say that. She loved sourdough bread smothered in warm butter.” The memory made me smile.
“I think this is yours,” Margo said, interrupting my reverie.
Taking in the salad with grilled steak on top, I nodded. Margo had her penne primavera in her hand and sat next to Priscilla. I wedged my stool around the corner so I could see both of them.
“Oh, shoot. I forgot drinks.” Margo jumped up.
“That’s usually my job,” Priscilla said with a small smile.
“How about you tell me where to go, and I’ll do it?” I said, but Margo was still standing. “Sit,” I told her. “Start eating and just tell me.”
She directed me to a cabinet. I poured two filtered waters, and Priscilla asked for a soda.
“Please, Mom?”
Margo acquiesced, and I found a Coke in the back of the fridge for her daughter.
Seated again, I took a sip of water and turned to Priscilla. “When I was fifteen, I broke my leg. Bad football injury. Not even high school football, just a bunch of us goofing around in a turkey bowl. You know what that is?”
She shook her head. “Sounds funny, though.”
“It’s on Thanksgiving Day when a bunch of punks get together to play pick-up football. Problem is, the ground is typically wet and it’s cold out, and there are always injuries.”
“Oh,” Priscilla said.
We were talking a little about my injury and recovery, when Priscilla said, “Aren’t punks usually music people?”
This sent both Margo and me in a fit of laughter.
“Back when I was a kid, punks were jerks,” I said. “I guess they don’t say that anymore.”
“You know,” Priscilla said, tugging out a curly fry, “my dad hardly ever talked with me about when he was a kid. I know he was adopted and didn’t like the family, but he doesn’t mention friends either.”
“Priss,” her mom warned.
“It’s okay,” I said. “Not everyone has good memories from being a kid. Sometimes the memories we make later are better.”
