I place the paper down on the kitchen table at Dad’s spot, careful not to brush it against the canary yellow place-setting. The struggle of scrubbing ink stains out of fabric never makes for a good start to the day.
My father and older twin brothers, James, and Lewis, enjoy their pancakes, bacon, and eggs more than the nectar birds outside like to sing, so I try to have everything ready before they wake up during the work week.
My hands know the routine better than my mind most days and making breakfast and setting the table occurs somewhat seamlessly, bringing me to five a.m. when the alarm clocks will wake them up.
The flask of coffee is full, and I steal the first cup before placing it on a hot mat in the center of the kitchen table.
“James, Lewis, get up, men,” Dad shouts down the hallway. Lewis is most likely already up and dressed, but James has always been the slower of my brothers. He enjoys his sleep and will seize every free second before prompted out of bed—even at twenty-two years old, which is absurd.
“Morning, kiddo. Thanks for cooking up this swell breakfast.” Lewis is the hungriest of us all and always the first to take a seat at the table. “Do you have any wild plans today?”
I sometimes answer this question three separate times in the morning because there isn’t much else to talk about when we do the same thing every single day. “Who knows where this day will take me after class.” I’m sure the tell-all smirk along my lips does little to hide the truth from Lewis, who often proves to know me better than anyone else in this house.
Despite Dad’s unreasonable requests for me to stay out of certain areas on and off base, it doesn’t always stop me from doing as I please. I’ve become tired of reminding Dad I’m a grown woman and that I selflessly stick around to help these three guys make it through a day. Mom used to be the one to keep everyone corralled, but since she’s gone, I feel it’s my responsibility to fill in for her.
“You’re not running off to the beach today, are you?” Lewis asks in a low hush.
I glance down the hallway to see if Dad is within earshot, but the pipes are whining so he must be in the shower. “Last time I went to the beach, a lieutenant came to escort me back to base. It was humiliating. Surely, you haven’t forgotten. It’s hard to understand what Dad’s issue is with the radius of my freedom, but something needs to change. I need to live my life.” A sigh expels from my lungs, highlighting my constant frustration of living in this house. “After all, there isn’t much stopping me from leaving the island once I finish my nursing classes.”
Lewis quirks his lips into a smile as he stabs his fork into the stack of pancakes. “We both know you’re going to stick around to watch over Dad, and besides, you must realize his only reason for the strict rules is to keep you safe. The world isn’t a friendly place right now, and you are his only daughter.”
“Morning,” James mutters, scuffing his feet against the rusty-brown linoleum tiles. With the palms of his hands pressed against his eyelids, he groans to make a point about his distaste for being awake so early. I don’t recall a day when this family has slept in, but it’s clear James needs more sleep than the rest of us.
“Good morning, sunshine,” I reply. “Coffee, orange juice, pancakes, bacon, and eggs?” I sound like a radio advertisement for a diner.
“Thanks, Elizabeth,” James says with a curt partial smile.
I dish a serving of eggs onto his plate and stab a fork into the pile of sizzling pork. “I’ll give you some extra bacon. Maybe that will perk you up,” I say.
“No, no bacon.”
No bacon. Okay.“Goodness, well, what about pancakes?” I continue.
“Yes, please.”
I don’t need to ask if he would like coffee. The answer is always a firm “yes.”
“Here you go.” I place his plate and mug down.
“Thanks.”
With a long glance at my moody brother, I ponder why he seems grumpier than usual today. He looks disheveled. I reach over and yank at a strand of his dark, wavy hair, finding it curl over the top of his ear. “You need a haircut.”
“Uh-huh.” I can’t tell if James needs my reminders, or if it is his intention to wait until the day before he would get into trouble with his officer, but I try to spare him the reprimand like Mom used to do.
I place Dad’s dish down onto the table just as he makes his way down the hall. He likes to shower, shave, and dress before eating. Sometimes he’s still chewing his food on the way out the door.
“Elizabeth, gentlemen, good morning,” he addresses us. The sternness on Dad’s face is a permanent fixture. His eyes appear alert, even if he’s tired. His jaw is rigid—the look of a person who shows no sign of humor, and his dark hair is slick with grease to ensure no strand is out of place. Most people might see an unloving man by the looks of his cold facade, but I know better. I’ve become proficient at unmasking his feelings through other cues. His chest rises and falls when he’s struggling internally, and his anger becomes clear during long held breaths. When he’s distressed, his exhales are slow and deliberate. And though it doesn’t happen often, when he’s nervous, he huffs and puffs as if running a race. The only part of him I cannot decipher is when he’s at peace because I don’t believe he has felt that way since Mom was here.
“Good morning, Dad,” I’m the first to respond.
“Morning, Sir,” the twins echo one another.
For only a few brief moments, the four of us consume the food I made before the first fork pings against a glass plate. The scratching squeal from the wooden chair against the floor is next, and the dish clambering against the sink basin is the last in the sequence that will repeat twice more over the next five minutes.
“Elizabeth, your necklace,” Dad says, walking away from the sink. The sound from his shoes clicks and clacks against each tile as he walks across the house toward his small work area. He retrieves a stack of paperwork and returns while skimming the front page.
I pinch my fingers around the golden Star of David, wishing Dad would stop asking me to hide who I am: a Jewish woman living in the United States during a time when other countries are at war. I don’t see why I should act as if the war is in our backyard. The United States is not involved. Jewish people are not in grave danger here, and I shouldn’t have to feel fear for who I am.
