on the desk, watching it go around and around in a sparkly blur, until finally the conference call ends.
As I put my phone away, I hear the front door open and my father’s heavy footsteps, followed by kitchen cabinets banging shut and rummaging in the fridge. He was gone when I woke up, and I wonder if he worked the early shift again.
I walk down the short hallway that connects my childhood room to my father’s, brushing my fingertips along the floral wallpaper adorned with my school photos and tacky watercolor prints of Texas Hill Country, listening to the floorboards creak under my bare feet as I descend the stairs.
“Morning, baby girl,” my father says when I enter the living room, his eyes glued to one of those lifestyle food shows on the television. “A little birdie told me you’ve agreed to participate in the Upper Crust.”
He’s settled on the couch with his feet propped on the coffee table, a remote in one hand and a half-eaten jelly Danish in the other. I notice some of the raspberry filling has stuck to his cookie duster—my father’s nickname for a mustache. His hair is a little mussed. He’s wearing his usual uniform of a plaid button-down and faded jeans. Taking up space on the cushion next to him is a box of grocery-store-brand doughnuts.
I lean on the arm of the couch. “Let me guess. You spoke with Sullivan Grace.”
“Sure did. I knew you’d come around.”
“You didn’t give me much of a choice,” I say as my father polishes off the jelly Danish. “Not exactly a balanced diet, Dad.”
“Nonsense. Sugar and trans fats, the breakfast of champions.” He rubs his stomach. “Frosted, glazed, or powdered?” he says, offering the box to me.
“None of the above.” I place the doughnuts on the side table, next to a glass of milk using a fishing magazine for a coaster, and flop down beside him. “I fixed myself some toast earlier.”
“Fair enough.”
“Were you at the diner?”
“For a bit,” he says. “Then out running errands.”
“Maybe you should cut back on your hours,” I say, studying him, taking in his droopy mustache, baggy eyes, creased skin. “You’re looking really run down.”
“Don’t I know it? Why else do you think you’re taking over the Spoons?” He smiles and the grooves around his mouth deepen. “Doc says me and my bum knee need a nap and one of those therapeutic massager chairs.”
I nudge his side. “Maybe one will show up under the Christmas tree this year. But don’t get any ideas. You know I’m only here temporarily.”
“We’ll see about that, baby girl.” He pats my shoulder. “We’ll see.”
He turns up the volume on the television and drapes an arm across my shoulders. I snuggle up next to him and rest my head on his chest, the outline of his bones sharp against my cheek. We watch in comfortable silence as the show’s host travels around New England, eating his way through local mom-and-pop joints.
Even with the television blasting, the room feels quiet, relaxed. Nothing like Chicago, where my office phone rings nonstop and the incessant sound of honking seeps through the windows at all hours. And though I would never admit this to my father, I miss Dallas and the way I can be in the middle of downtown and smell fresh air. Five years in Chicago and I still haven’t gotten used to the stink of exhaust that permeates the streets, or how in summer the wind off the lake blows the odor of dead fish, or the scent of garbage that piles up during an epic snowstorm.
At one point during the show, the host is at a deli in Boston, attempting an extra large bite of a meatball sub, but instead of a mouthful of Italian deliciousness, he gets nothing but sourdough bread and marinara sauce because all of the meatballs have fallen out the sides and rolled down his shirt. My father laughs as if this is the funniest thing he’s ever seen, but soon his laughing morphs into a loud and mucousy coughing fit.
Worry clenches my stomach. I rub
As I put my phone away, I hear the front door open and my father’s heavy footsteps, followed by kitchen cabinets banging shut and rummaging in the fridge. He was gone when I woke up, and I wonder if he worked the early shift again.
I walk down the short hallway that connects my childhood room to my father’s, brushing my fingertips along the floral wallpaper adorned with my school photos and tacky watercolor prints of Texas Hill Country, listening to the floorboards creak under my bare feet as I descend the stairs.
“Morning, baby girl,” my father says when I enter the living room, his eyes glued to one of those lifestyle food shows on the television. “A little birdie told me you’ve agreed to participate in the Upper Crust.”
He’s settled on the couch with his feet propped on the coffee table, a remote in one hand and a half-eaten jelly Danish in the other. I notice some of the raspberry filling has stuck to his cookie duster—my father’s nickname for a mustache. His hair is a little mussed. He’s wearing his usual uniform of a plaid button-down and faded jeans. Taking up space on the cushion next to him is a box of grocery-store-brand doughnuts.
I lean on the arm of the couch. “Let me guess. You spoke with Sullivan Grace.”
“Sure did. I knew you’d come around.”
“You didn’t give me much of a choice,” I say as my father polishes off the jelly Danish. “Not exactly a balanced diet, Dad.”
“Nonsense. Sugar and trans fats, the breakfast of champions.” He rubs his stomach. “Frosted, glazed, or powdered?” he says, offering the box to me.
“None of the above.” I place the doughnuts on the side table, next to a glass of milk using a fishing magazine for a coaster, and flop down beside him. “I fixed myself some toast earlier.”
“Fair enough.”
“Were you at the diner?”
“For a bit,” he says. “Then out running errands.”
“Maybe you should cut back on your hours,” I say, studying him, taking in his droopy mustache, baggy eyes, creased skin. “You’re looking really run down.”
“Don’t I know it? Why else do you think you’re taking over the Spoons?” He smiles and the grooves around his mouth deepen. “Doc says me and my bum knee need a nap and one of those therapeutic massager chairs.”
I nudge his side. “Maybe one will show up under the Christmas tree this year. But don’t get any ideas. You know I’m only here temporarily.”
“We’ll see about that, baby girl.” He pats my shoulder. “We’ll see.”
He turns up the volume on the television and drapes an arm across my shoulders. I snuggle up next to him and rest my head on his chest, the outline of his bones sharp against my cheek. We watch in comfortable silence as the show’s host travels around New England, eating his way through local mom-and-pop joints.
Even with the television blasting, the room feels quiet, relaxed. Nothing like Chicago, where my office phone rings nonstop and the incessant sound of honking seeps through the windows at all hours. And though I would never admit this to my father, I miss Dallas and the way I can be in the middle of downtown and smell fresh air. Five years in Chicago and I still haven’t gotten used to the stink of exhaust that permeates the streets, or how in summer the wind off the lake blows the odor of dead fish, or the scent of garbage that piles up during an epic snowstorm.
At one point during the show, the host is at a deli in Boston, attempting an extra large bite of a meatball sub, but instead of a mouthful of Italian deliciousness, he gets nothing but sourdough bread and marinara sauce because all of the meatballs have fallen out the sides and rolled down his shirt. My father laughs as if this is the funniest thing he’s ever seen, but soon his laughing morphs into a loud and mucousy coughing fit.
Worry clenches my stomach. I rub
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