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“Christopher, enough.” He straightened to look me in the eye. “Let’s enjoy dinner with your sister, hm? You can nag me like an old fishwife later.”
“Stop snapping and growling, you two,” Dakota said. “Pogo has better manners.”
Dad’s demeanor instantly changed, a big tender smile overtaking his craggy face. “Dakota, sweetie, it smells like my favorite meal in here.”
“That’s because it is,” she said.
“You shouldn’t go to such trouble for an old coot like me,” he said. “I get by just fine at home.”
“With your microwave dinners?” Dakota shook her head. “I don’t think so. You need a home-cooked meal at least once a week.”
“I get some pretty darned good chicken and noodles over at the American Legion on Thursdays,” he said. “And did you know that Jerkers has a sloppy joe special on Saturdays?”
“I did not,” she said. “We might have to try that.”
Dad took a seat at the table, and Dakota wheeled into the open spot beside him. I transferred the serving dishes to the table.
Dad picked up Dakota’s plate. “Here, honey. I got yours.”
“Oh, no I can—”
Dakota cut off with a tight smile. Dad was already loading her plate with noodles, pork chop, and toppings.
He set down a heaping portion—far too much for Dakota.
“Thanks,” she said, voice stiff.
I wasn’t sure how Dad managed to both acknowledge Dakota had cooked this whole meal and also think she couldn’t dish up her own plate, but he’d been this way ever since the accident. Overly solicitous. Too helpful.
During her initial recovery, it had been necessary to help Dakota with more basic tasks. These days, she was fairly independent. She had physical limits and health concerns that would continue for the rest of her life—but she’d learned how to live with them.
We were both beyond grateful her days of wetting the bed and middle-of-the-night clothing changes were over. Of course, we’d hired a health aide to deal with the most personal aspects of her care initially, because Dakota didn’t want her brother up in her hoo-ha, as she’d put it. “I lost just about every shred of my modesty in the hospital, but there are some places I just can’t go with my brother, even if he does go into the medical profession,” she’d said.
I’d happily agreed that Helga should help my sister deal with catheters and other bathroom issues—of which there’d been a lot in her early months of recovery. With time, Dakota learned routines to manage her bodily functions better, but she’d never have full control of them as she once had. Most people didn’t realize just how severely a spinal cord injury affected the body, inside and out.
“Dakota, thanks for cooking,” I said. “This is amazing.”
Dad grunted agreement. “Tastes just like your Mama’s recipe. She taught you well.”
“At least she taught one of us,” Dakota teased.
“Hey, I’m a master of crock pot recipes,” I protested. “You love my carnitas.”
“Well, I sure couldn’t do it,” Dad said. “I could never do much more than burn toast. Thank god for your mama all those years or I’d have starved.”
Like most men of his generation, he’d never set foot in the kitchen. Not until Mom was gone, anyway. I wouldn’t call myself a great cook, but Dakota and I took turns making dinner.
“Well, you really should learn a few recipes, Dad,” Dakota said. “I bet they have cooking classes. Maybe you could meet a nice lady.”
He scoffed. “I met the nicest lady. Spent my whole life with her. Your mama is all I’ll ever need.”
Dakota smiled faintly. “Well, you could make a friend, then.”
“Got plenty of friends.”
I shook my head at Dakota. She wasn’t going to win this one. Our father was stubborn.
I stuffed my mouth full of pork chop, eating far too much, while Dakota cut dainty bites and ate much more slowly.
