A morning person.
This shit’s going from bad to worse.
“Can I get some coffee, please?” There’s a desperate note in my voice that I don’t like but am helpless to remove.
He falls over himself getting it to me as quickly as possible. He almost knocks a box of cereal over in the process. His calf muscles flex as he reaches up to grab a mug from the top shelf. His back dents and ripples too. It catches me off guard because he was such a weedy little kid when he was fifteen. Aside from theI’m babyblue eyes and the over-eager smile, it’s hard to reconcile this Luke with that Luke at all.
He offers me a tub of yogurt, I decline, and as I sit down to inhale my coffee, he tucks into his. He lifts the foil lid slowly. Overly-carefully. Then he sets about scraping it clean with his spoon and when that’s not enough, he licks it with a broad stroke of his tongue. I try not to look. It’s like driving past a car crash. You know you shouldn’t look; you know it’s going to be disturbing, but for some reason you can’t help it.
“Are you ready for breakfast?” he asks as soon as I set my empty mug down.
“Haven’t you just finished eating?”
“That? Nah, that was my first breakfast. Plus, it’s Saturday today.” He looks at me kindly, as if I’m very sweet but a bit clueless.
I’m finding it a real challenge to keep up, so maybe I am. Clueless, that is. Fuck knows I’m far from sweet. “What does that mean?”
“Pancake Saturday, bruh! Your dad makes the best pancakes ever.”
What now?
He cannot seriously mean to tell me my dad’s making pancakes. Pretty sure I’ve never seen my dad manage more than getting a piece of fruit out of the fridge. Against my better judgement I allow myself to be dragged across to the main house. Believe it or not, I’m met by the sight of my dad cheerfully, and competently, flipping pancakes. Rachel has her hair down, jutting off to one side in a tangle, and is wearing a fluffy white robe. She’s perched on a kitchen stool, nursing an Ayurvedic beverage, and Ella Fitzgerald is accompanying this image of domestic bliss.
The fuck?
My dad’s face lights up when he sees me. He sets down the spatula and gives me a firm back-of-the-neck squeeze. “How’d you sleep, Jess? Feel a little more human?”
“Not really.”
“Ah, it takes a few days. We can take it easy and hang out at home until you’re feeling better. Might be a good idea to spend some time at the pool.”
“Yeah,” agrees Rachel, “spending time outdoors is the best thing you can do to get your body clock back on track. Sunlight helps you adjust.”
“Maybe we should all go for a run?” suggests Luke.
I’m trying to reserve judgement on this guy. I swear I am. My dad’s married to his mother, there’s nothing anyone can do about that. We have to get along, but if he’s going to go around saying dumb shit like that in my presence, I can’t see myself being able to be around him for any length of time. I really can’t.
My dad arranges the stack of pancakes on a large platter and sets it down on the kitchen island for us to tuck in to. Luke all but drowns his pancakes with maple syrup. His entire plate is drenched in it. My dad and Rachel have theirs with mixed berries and an amount of syrup commonly associated with normal people. Just to prove to myself that all this is really happening, I pick up a pancake with my fingers and bite into it.
Well, fuck me.
Luke was right. My dad does make good pancakes.
I look over at my dad. He’s going gray but he’s kept most of his hair. He has more of a tan than he used to when we lived in LA. He’s in better shape, too. His eyes are clear and sparkling. Blue-green like the ocean, but not stormy like they used to be. He watches Rachel as she eats. His happiness, contentment and purpose in life all hang in the balance.
“Mm,” she sighs, “I think these might be your best yet.”
He smiles like a man who has just reached Nirvana.
Who the hell is this man and what has he done with my father?
“How about that run?” says Luke when he’s finished his meal.
“Uh, no, thanks. I’ve got to unpack.”
“Rain check!”
Oh, shit.
