I nod and then consider my words carefully. “It’s been nice. A little awkward at the beginning each time, but I guess that’s to be expected.”
“Why do you think you didn’t reach out sooner?”
“I guess I hoped she would. Although since I’ve been talking with her recently, I’m remembering more and more times that she did reach out in the beginning, when they first split, and I blew her off or sat on the phone giving one-word answers. Fifth grade me was even quieter and more sullen, if you can believe it.”
She hits me with a real smile that eases the earlier tension. “You were a kid. She still should have kept trying.”
“Yeah,” I agree. “I’m finding the more I talk to her the less resentful I am about it. I’m not saying I agree with it or even that it’s erased all the hurt, but with time I’m hoping we’ll be able to hash it out. It feels too soon for that now.”
“The older I get the more I realize parents screw up just like us.” She takes her next step closer to me and bumps her shoulder against my arm. “I’m proud of you. I know it couldn’t have been easy.”
When we get back, she changes clothes, and I wash my hands and up my arms and my face. It’ll have to do until I can shower tonight.
Settling at the kitchen counter, I take out my algebra homework. Lacey is pulling food from the refrigerator and pantry to make dinner.
I’m understanding the class a lot better now, but with Lacey moving around, it’s hard not to give her my attention instead.
“What are you making?” I ask, setting my pencil down and temporarily giving up on focusing on anything else.
“Manicotti.”
She has spices and measuring cups, mixing ingredients together I’ve never heard of and definitely never used.
“I’ve never had that.”
“You haven’t?” She looks up from where she’s chopping onions on a wooden cutting board.
“We don’t do a lot of cooking unless you count heating up food in the oven.”
She giggles.
Dad and I keep it simple. We have three or four mealswe rotate and keep easy things like protein bars and stuff for sandwiches so we can grab things quick.
“Can I help?” I ask.
“Really?”
I nod and she thrusts a mixing bowl at me and then hands me a measuring spoon and a jar of Italian seasoning.
“Add half a teaspoon in here. I’m going to grab the ricotta cheese.”
I fumble my way through as she instructs me to add the rest of the ingredients. Then she mixes it and stuffs it into big tubes of pasta, then covers it all with a sauce.
“Want to do the honors?” she asks as she opens the oven.
I put the dish in on the middle rack and she shuts the door with a wide grin on her face. “Now we wait.”
We take a seat back in front of the counter on stools right next to each other. Making a meal like that was oddly satisfying, but I still don’t feel like doing algebra.
“How often do you make dinner like this?” I ask.
“A few nights a week.” She shrugs like it’s no big deal.
“Does your dad cook?”
“Sometimes,” she says almost defensively. “He works late, and I don’t mind.”
For all her talk of accepting our parents’ mistakes, I think she feels her dad’s absence more than she’ll admit.
