Fourth Comings_ A Jessica Darling Novel - Megan McCafferty [85]
I glanced at my dad, who was watching her retreat.
“I think there are leftovers in the freezer,” he said with a note of resignation. “I’ll put them in the oven while you get settled upstairs.”
“Get settled,” I said pointedly.
“Settled,” my dad said. “Right.” And then he laughed for the first time all day.
fifty-five
I needed to wash off the hospital germs, so I took a long, hot shower in a stall so pristine I could’ve eaten my dinner straight off the tiles. I’ve lived in the city long enough that I can’t help but look at all available space in terms of its NYC market value. As I scrubbed my legs, my torso, my arms, I noted that the stall is roughly the size of the Cupcake, and could easily be advertised as a $1000/mo studio on Craigslist.
I got out, dried off, and got dressed in the same T-shirt and cutoffs from the day before. The smell of browned cheese and crispy crust wafted upstairs and my stomach rumbled in hunger. It dawned on me that I hadn’t eaten all day, which, as you know, is very unlike me.
On my way down the hall, I passed by my mother’s bedroom. The door was ajar, so I gently knocked before pushing it open. She was seated in front of her computer, wearing the cashmere sweatpants that Bethany had bought her last Christmas. The matching hoodie was hanging off the back of her desk chair, and she was wildly fanning her tank top with a bunch of receipts.
“Hey, Mom,” I said. “Are you okay?”
She clutched the papers to her chest and jumped, causing her reading glasses to fall off her nose and swing from a gold chain around her neck. “Oh, Jessie! You scared me! I’m not used to having anyone around when I’m working.”
“Dad’s around.”
“You know what I mean,” she said.
“Actually, I don’t.” Mom was sort of panting, and her face was flushed pink. “Are you okay?” I asked again.
“I’m just hot,” she gasped, wiping her brow with the back of her wrist. “I’ve been having hot flashes for five years now. Enough, already!”
And before I could say, “Oh, menopause,” I was assaulted by the horrible shriek of the smoke alarm.
BEEEEEEEEEP! BEEEEEEEEEP! BEEEEEEEEEP!
Mom grimaced and covered her ears, but didn’t move from her spot in front of the computer.
BEEEEEEEEEP! BEEEEEEEEEP! BEEEEEEEEEP!
I raced downstairs to find my dad wildly waving two pot holders over the scorched leftovers on the cookie sheet. I slid open the back door to let in more air.
“Don’t worry!” he shouted over the continuous din of the alarm. “It happens all the time!” This explains why my mother hadn’t moved. “Damn sensitive smoke detectors!”
And just when I thought I couldn’t take another second of noise, the beeping stopped. My dad, in the meantime, had chiseled around the blackened cheese and put two slices on my plate. They weren’t inedibly burnt, just slightly overcooked. But at that point I was so hungry that I would’ve eaten the spatula.
Dad opened the refrigerator, reached in, and grabbed a brown bottle of light beer.
“Want one?” he asked.
“Dad! You spent the whole day in the hospital! You shouldn’t be drinking beer.”
“Athletes replenish fluids with beer all the time,” he replied, gesturing with his bottle opener made out of spare bike parts. It was another gift from the same Christmas as the cashmere tracksuit, only this one was from me. My mom hated it on sight and had tried to “accidentally” throw it out on numerous occasions.
“Alcohol is a diuretic.”
“Lighten up, Jessie.” He took a deep, satisfying swig. “It’s light beer, which is mostly water, anyway.”
I was aware of how totally uptight I sounded. I wondered what my dad would think if he knew his daughter had recently gotten drunk on whiskey right in the middle of the afternoon….
“Want one?” He held a bottle out for me, then quickly retracted it. “Or are you more of a wine person, like your mother?”
I knew that this was not a question of choosing beer over wine. It was about siding with one way of life over another. One parent over another. And if I had any