I flinch when he pummels his fists against his thighs and starts spinning in place.
Fuck.
I don’t know what to do. I walk toward him and reach out, but when he flinches and turns away, I can tell that’s the wrong move. He doesn’t want physical touch.
“You did do a nice thing, and I’m not angry. Hang on. Give me a minute,” I say. “I have to think.Youhave to think. Let’s give each other some space.”
He settles some.
So, after I’ve brewed my coffee and had half a cup on the deck by the creek—and when I’m less of a horrible monster—I peek around the corner and call out, “You’re right, Alex. I shouldn’t have yelled. I’m sorry.”
Alex meets me outside and sits at least six feet away. He avoids eye contact and clasps his hands tightly together. “Okay.” He rocks forward and backward over and over.
I can see how that’s soothing for him.
“Oh, deer,” he whispers.
“Yes,oh dearindeed. We have a situation on our hands.”
“No,” he continues in a whisper. “Deer. A real deer. In the water.”
“What?” I look up.
He’s right. There are two actual deer not far from us, casually drinking from the stream. It takes me a minute to remember that the male is called a buck and the female a doe. They are so peaceful, and I freeze, not wanting to scare them away. We used to have a family of deer that visited my own family a long time ago. I can’t help but feel like this is a sign.
“I found some recipes the other day,” I share casually while trying to keep my voice steady. “One’s from my grandmother that’s called a Dutch-oven pancake. Maybe that would work?” I glance tentatively his way.
His hands relax a touch. “Yes. Okay.”
“I remember. Yes. That’s also called David Eyre’s pancake because David Eyre was famous for it. It’s a puffy thing you bake in the oven, and you serve it with confectioners’ sugar, jam, or lemon juice. Or all of those.”
“That sounds delicious. I’d love to make this.” But then I realize something and drop my head into my hands. “Shit. I can’t do that for this many people. You need a certain kind of pan. Like a cast iron skillet or whatnot, and I’d have to have a bunch of those and a bigger oven.” Now, I’m rocking, and I can see how it does help.
“Eggs. You like eggs. People like your eggs. That is a brunch food.” Alex is gazing at the creek and the rushing water.
“But I can’t only do stupid scrambled eggs for this group. Not with Jackson and Nicole there. This needs to be more impressive. And individual omelets take too much time.”
Alex balls his fists up again. “Scrambled eggs are not stupid. Eggs are not stupid. Do something with eggs!”
The deer flinch, so I control my response as much as I can. “Okay, fine. Fine.”
Alex drops from the porch and walks up and down by the creek, somehow not scaring the buck and doe, while I stew and try to come up with a plan in order to not humiliate myself.
Google saves me. YouTube saves me. Mary Ann saves me when she replies to my text about picking up more breakfast sausage because I only had enough for Alex.
So, brunch is doable.
“Alex! Alex!” I’m finally smiling today.
If he didn’t hate hugging, I’d wrap him in a bear hold, but instead, I wave my hand and beg him to follow me back to the kitchen, where I start rifling through the fridge and hurl ingredients onto the counter.
“Okay, green peppers, tomatoes, goat cheese, butter. Your beloved eggs. Well,ourbeloved eggs, I guess. And cream. Oh, and pass me an onion from the counter, please.” My satisfaction when I face him cannot be contained. “We’re making a big ol’ frittata! Two of ’em. I can do that. And hash browns! My friend, you’re now on potato duty. I’ll show you how. I saw a grater somewhere, and I read that you don’t have to peel the red potatoes, but for fuck’s sake, don’t cut yourself, okay? We don’t need a trip to the emergency room.”
“No,” he agrees. “I would not like that.”
“And I have fresh fruit that we could cut up.”
He says nothing but nods.
