It’s Thanksgiving. And three days since the incident at school. So far, my parents have said nothing.
“Want to go for doughnuts?” my dad says, entering my room.
“It’s late, for us.”
“It’s never too late for doughnuts.” He looks at his watch. “It’s just after nine.”
“Are they open today?”
“Yes. Always.”
“Okay.” I grab my jacket and baseball cap and follow him down the hall.
“Vee, we’re going.” He yells this from the front door as he opens it.
She appears from the bedroom with a bunch of clothes draped over her arm. “Not too late. I want you both to help me decide what to wear for this afternoon.”
“See you soon.” He closes the door behind us as we exit.
Linda must have the day off. There’s a new person working the counter.
“What can I get you two?” She’s older than Linda. I think. Friendly but in a much more reserved way. She has dyed, bright-red hair and matching lipstick. Her nails are painted a turquoise color.
“Two coffees, a cruller, and two chocolate glazed.” My dad orders without any hesitation.
I say, “I don’t know if I should have two.” For some reason I want to punish him, to make him feel bad.
“Take the other home for later. How are you feeling?”
“Great. Amazing.”
He swallows, looks down. Looks back up with this dumb, hopeful look. “It’s all healing. I can tell.”
“Yeah.”
“Your mother is putting all her hopes on this restaurant idea. She’s really invested emotionally.”
“You?”
The waitress appears. “Two chocolate glazed. Coffees and two crullers.” She places everything in front of us.
“I only wanted one cruller.”
“You can take the other home.” She smiles and walks away.
My dad smiles and takes a sip of his coffee. “I want the restaurant, I do, and the fact that people are helping us, well, it’s great.”
“Nervous?”
He nods while eating. “One of the cooks at work has a daughter who goes to your school.”
“Oh.”
“She was there the day of the fight.” He takes another bite and a swig of coffee.
“Oh.” I place both my hands on either side of my coffee mug and stare into it, wishing it was a portal that I could drop into. A portal that would take me away to another world, far away from this one.
The waitress is back. “You guys need anything else? More coffee?”
“Yes, please.” My dad lifts his mug to meet her coffeepot.
“You, dear?”
“No thank you.”
She hesitates. She’s studying me. Don’t do it. Don’t ask what happened to me.
“Do you mind if I—what happened, honey?” She examines my face.
“He stood up for himself.” My dad smiles at her. It’s a sad smile. I feel a tightness in my throat.
She smiles back, notices a couple of new customers at the other end of the counter, waves, and heads toward them.
I say, “Are you going to eat the second cruller?”
“You want it?”
“No. Just checking.”
“I’m sorry about dinner tonight. It’s probably best that you rest, right?”
“So you know about what happened?”
I see my mom’s face. I hear her voice as she told me she wishes I were dead.
My dad nods and says, “She just wants things to be perfect, and right now she thinks . . .”
“I’m broken.”
He stares at me. I wait for him to say something, to tell me I’m not broken, that she’s broken, she’s the one. But instead he leans back a little and reaches into the right front pocket of his jeans and pulls something out. He places it on the counter. “It’s still on the lot, but it’s been paid for. I got him down to seven hundred fifty dollars. Can you believe it?” He takes another sip of coffee.
I stare down at the keys. The key ring is a bright-yellow plastic band with Dick’s Used Cars & Trucks stamped in the middle of it in black lettering on one side. The address and phone number for Dick’s is on the other.
“He’s obviously closed today, but he’ll be open tomorrow. It’s a big day for him, the day after Thanksgiving.”
“Dad . . .” I don’t really know what I’m about to say, but I feel I need to say something.
He’s looking straight ahead. “You’re going to need it.”
“What does Mom—”
“She doesn’t know yet. I’ll take care of it. Pick it up when you want.”
As we walk into the apartment my dad announces, “We brought doughnuts!” My dad places the box on the kitchen table.
From the bathroom, my mother’s voice: “Be right out. Just drying my hair.” She comes out still wrapped in a towel, her hair and makeup perfectly done. “Both of you come here.” She’s walking toward the living room. She has three skirts and three blouses each on a separate hanger and they are all draped over the back of our burgundy velvet wingback chair.
“Which outfit?” She pulls out the first option—a black-and-white-checked wool skirt with a modest slit on one side and a black V-neck blouse with long sleeves. She holds it up to her. “This one?”
The contradictions sometimes are crazy making. She constantly berates me for not being the “right kind of man” and yet she has wanted me to style her hair and pick outfits for her since I was five.
My dad examines it and sits down on the sofa before adding, “It’s good. I like it. Classic.”
“Or this one?”
The next outfit is a camel skirt, very boxy, almost sacklike with a white cable-knit sweater on top and a paisley scarf.
I make a face and say, “It’s washed out.”
“Don’t be so quick to judge.” She holds it back up again.
“Evan’s right. That does not look good. Too blah.”
She tosses that outfit aside and gathers her last choice. She holds it up. “This is your last option!” It’s a navy asymmetrical skirt with white stitching on the pockets and around the waist. The blouse is a white, turquoise, and green geometric print with a high neck and a solid black horizontal three-inch band all around the bottom. This one is the most interesting and works best with her coloring.
“This is the one,” I say, and head to the kitchen for a doughnut. I grab a chocolate glazed and walk back into the living room. “I’m going to bed. I’m tired. Have a good time.”
My mother smiles at me. “Get rest. Don’t forget to eat when you get up. There’s a pastitsio in the freezer.” And she turns to iron her blouse.