I wish I could ease the strangeness of this time for him.
“What’s your favorite food?” I ask.
Bo’s brows crinkle. “My favorite food?”
“Yep. Favorite food that’s sold in a grocery store.”
“I guess … barbecue potato chips.”
“Perfect. Let’s go.” I march down the aisle and scan for the one I want, knowing Bo will follow. When we reach the chip selection, I point to the Lays Barbeque chips. “These. Or another kind?”
“Those.” He nods. “Yeah, those.”
I grab one of the bags off the shelf. “Is the logo different?”
He glances at it, then at the tiles beneath our feet with their dull shine. “Yeah.”
“Close your eyes.”
Bo’s brows crinkle again, but he does as told. There, in the middle of the supermarket, I tear open the bag and pull out a single chip.
With a gentle knuckle, I tap the bottom of his chin. “Open.”
His lips part. I place the chip on his wide tongue.
“Chew. Swallow. Tell me how the taste is.”
Bo follows my instructions, surprisingly obedient. “Good,” he rumbles. “Just like I remember.”
I grin and still am when he blinks his eyes open and stares at me, confusion a fog in his eyes and in his aura.
“A lot will look different,” I explain. “But under the surface, past the distractions, I think you’ll find a lot of the good things are still the same.”
Bo blinks, and then he lets a hesitant smile claim his mouth before plucking another chip from the open bag and crunching down on it. I situate the chips in the kiddie seat of the cart so Bo can keep snacking as we shop.
“Any reason chips are your favorite food?” I ask offhandedly, my main focus on checking a dozen eggs for any cracks.
“Never thought about it,” Bo says. Then, after a pause, he goes on. “I think it’s because of my dad.”
That gets my attention, but I try not to show how piqued my interest is as I carefully set the eggs next to his chips.
“They were his favorite too?” I hazard the guess.
Bo shrugs. “Maybe. But I remember when my dad had some extra cash, he’d take me out for subs, and sometimes, he’d tell me I could get a bag of chips. Only if he was in a really good mood though. Guess I associate chips with my dad being happy. Which was a rare thing.”
Is he part of the reason that Bo is hesitant? Did he teach his son manners, or did he teach him to be afraid?
“What about your mom?” I stare at the rows of butter, but I can’t see them when I just want Bo to keep talking. “Did she ever treat you to some food?”Did she give you love on the days when your father wasn’t happy?
“Don’t remember anything. She left when I was four. A mermaid who said this lake was too small for her. Not sure where she went.”
“You didn’t keep in touch?” I think I know the answer before I even ask the question, but my heart aches to find some ray of happiness in Bo’s past life.
“No.”
An uncomfortable silence settles between us, and Bo doesn’t reach for any more chips.
So, of course I blurt out the first thought that comes to mind. “If it helps you feel less alone, I just want to say, my parents are both horrible. Like, truly terrible beings. I’m not sure they are capable of loving anyone other than themselves and each other.”
