“She does like her pumpkin-spice pancakes.” George doesn’t write anything in his pad. He remembers everything by heart.
“You’re ordering for Mom?” I cut my gaze to Dad, weirded out and oddly touched by the gesture.
He shrugs. “Every Sunday. It’s a family tradition, remember?”
Yes. I remember us coming here every Sunday when she was alive. I didn’t think they still did that.
“You and Renn still go here every week?” I hear the surprise in my voice. Also the hurt. I have no right to be offended. They’ve been here all along, begging me to join them.
“Yup.” Renn takes a noisy slurp of his fountain soda.
“And what do you do with the pumpkin pancakes afterward?” I look between them, curious.
Renn sighs, his eyes dimming. “Look around you, Ev. It’s San Francisco. There’s always someone who’d be happy to receive a free hot meal.”
Our food arrives quickly, hot and fresh, along with cornbread and yellow, thick butter that melts on your tongue. The butter transports me to memory lane. To Mom smearing it on the tip of my nose and making a face, causing me to laugh.
I’m surprised to find that I’m more exhilarated by the memory than hurt and pained by it.
The three of us eat and slide into easy conversation. I have a feeling my dad is anxious—almost starstruck—to see me here, in the flesh. I now understand that it is possible that I have mistaken his abrasiveness and lack of responsiveness as him being uninterested, when really, he is just deeply hurt by my absence.
I try to seem upbeat, even though it is draining. I guess I’m trying to prove myself to them. That I’m worthy of their love, even after what’s happened.
Dad pays for the food, and we all drive back home. When we get inside, we notice Loki has already consecrated his new litter box with a fresh dump. He hasn’t even bothered to cover it. It just sits there, in plain sight, waiting to be acknowledged.
“So this is how you’re going to play, huh, punk?” Renn side-eyes my cat, then takes the stairs two at a time to his room. “Yo, Ever, if you want me to be on litter box duty, I’m telling you now—you’re in charge of all my laundry.”
“Like it smells better than Loki’s poop!” I yell back to him, holding the banisters.
Dad asks me if I want to have a cup of tea with him on the patio. I say yes. I know what’s coming. He is going to fill me in on the big secret they’ve been keeping from me. I help him prepare the tea, and we both take it to the backyard.
My parents’ backyard is my favorite part of their house. It’s all raised flower beds with lots of vegetables and fruit, and a greenhouse where Mom used to grow eggplants and lettuce and whatnot. The backyard is small, cramped, charming, and overlooks the Pacific Ocean. My heart thuds faster when I notice the garden looks great. I had no idea Dad had a green thumb.
We sit on two patio chairs and look at the ocean peeking through our brown fence.
Dad takes a deep breath. “You haven’t been here for six years. A lot has changed. I know you’ve changed as a person. And . . . well, so did we.”
I take a sip of my peppermint tea. So far, he is not telling me anything I don’t know, but I have a feeling that’s about to change soon.
“Yes,” I say. “Trauma and tragedy change people. I wasn’t expecting to come back and find you two in the same state I left you.”
“Were you planning on coming back at all?” he asks.
“Of course.”
“Then why did you leave?” he asks, instead of soldiering through with his mysterious news.
“Why?” I repeat dumbly. I’ve been focusing on Dom’s death, and then the mess I’ve created with Joe, so much that I’ve hardly given some thought to the fact that my family would want answers. I bailed on them. They deserve an explanation.
I sit back in my chair. “I guess I couldn’t bear the guilt. Every time I saw you and Renn, you looked wrecked. I knew I was the person who caused you all this heartache. And . . . well, I wanted to make it better for you. Every time you guys looked at me, I could see it in your eyes. That I’d caused this pain. I was embarrassed, and humiliated about what I’d done. I thought I was doing you a huge favor by removing myself from the situation.”
“Embarrassed,” he repeats. “You thought we were blaming you?”
“I knew you were.” I shift, tucking my feet under my butt. “It was written plainly on yourselves.”