thirty-two
My alarm goes off, and before I can sit up, Danny’s vise grip stops me.
“Nope. Stay. I was having dreams that I’d like to make come true.” His raspy, tired voice is endearing and enticing, but I still have to get up.
“There are fresh blueberries from Mary Ann that need to become oatmeal-yogurt parfaits,” I whisper. “And Alex and I are doing these cool waffle egg sandwiches with a spicy maple butter and a bunch of other dishes.”
He loosens his hold a bit and rolls his head onto my chest. “Okay, fine. Those sound fantastic.”
I keep him close for a few minutes, listening to his breathing, appreciating how sweetly he embraces me in his half-sleep.
“I feel much better today.”
He murmurs, “I’m glad.”
The question that I want to ask is difficult, but I think it’s an important one. “When was the last time you talked to your mother?”
Immediately, I feel guilty for asking himnow—when he’s not really awake, when he’s vulnerable.
Then again, maybe that is exactly why I’m asking him now—because maybe he’ll be honest.
His body tenses slightly, but it’s enough for me to notice before he whispers, “It’s been a while.”
“You can talk to me about her. About anything. You do know that, right?” I cradle him against me, trying to make him feel safe.
“I know that.” Yet he hugs me tighter.
“Or about your father. If you wonder about him.”
“Sometimes, I do,” he admits, his voice quiet, his vulnerability apparent. “I asked my mother about him once when I was a teenager, and she mostly avoided answering. Said it didn’t matter. That only the two of us mattered. And that was the end of that. I knew then that it was something I shouldn’t bring up again.”
“I’m here if you decide it is.” I give him a squeeze. My hands stroke through his hair over and over before I move to leave and let him dream again. “Sorry, maybe I shouldn’t have brought this up so early in the morning.”
But then he pulls me back in and adds, “The truth is that she really doesn’t know who my father is. She clearly had a number of one-night stands. Whoever’s DNA I have isn’t a father in any meaningful way. It’s not like she had any kind of a relationship with him, so it’s more on par with…I don’t know.” He thinks for a bit before he responds. “Not sure kids born from a sperm donor or kids who are adopted always want to find their biological parents. Some do, and some don’t. I think I’m in thedon’tcategory.”
What he says makes sense. He is more settled about this than I thought, and I’m glad. I can hear his breathing slow as he begins to drift off again.
Right before he falls back asleep, he clenches me even closer. “This week is going to be cool. Smashing out kitchen cabinets? My kind of fun.”
“And I’ll love watching you crash and rebuild,” I say so softly that I’m sure he can’t hear me, but despite that, maybe he does. Maybe I don’t have to say a word for him to know what I’m really telling him. “Sleep, baby.”
When he’s fully out again, I ease out of bed, tuck him in tightly by wrapping the sheet and duvet around his body, and tiptoe downstairs.
This is one of the last mornings that I’m going to see my house as it is. My difficult, tiny kitchen as it is. The outside changes have been easy to take, but the inside ones that are coming up might be harder. Ones I want and ones that need to happen, but ones that will also strip away part of my childhood. This house will not look as it did when I grew up here, but it shouldn’t. I know that now.
This is the last brunch that I’m going to be able to cook until the one when my mom is here, and I want to get it right. A worthy send-off to this kitchen in which I found myself.
When Alex arrives, I have him start cooking off waffles and frying bacon—which will both be easy enough to reheat in the oven later—while I put together the green chili and cheese casserole. Given that it’s mostly layers of cheese, mild chiles, and heavy cream, I figure that it’s got to be a crowd-pleaser. Then, together, we mix butter with local maple syrup, cayenne, cinnamon, and a pinch of salt. The only last-minute thing we’ll have to do is fry up a bunch of eggs, top those with cheese, and then assemble the sandwiches—waffle, maple butter, egg and cheese, bacon, second waffle. These are going to be messy and fantastic—of that, I have no doubt.
“We have two no-bacon requests,” I remind Alex.
“Yes, two no-bacon and one extra-bacon.”
He’s right. At least one of us remembers.
While I sort of regret that Paul created the brunch sign-up sheet because I don’t like excluding anyone, it was definitely necessary. There’s only so much Alex and I can handle. Maybe the new kitchen will make things easier.
When the coffee is brewed, the orange juice pitchers are filled, and the new outdoor tables are filled with hungry friends, I pick up the casserole dish. “Ready?”
