How to Bake a Perfect Life - Barbara O'Neal [18]
She nods, tugging the sleeves of her sweater down over her hands. “I can put on my shorts.”
“Perfect. Let me change my clothes and wash my face. I’m starving.”
The morning is so gorgeous it would be a shame to get in the car, so we walk the three blocks to the main tourist drag, and take seats on the patio of my favorite local café, Bon Ton’s. Katie asks for milk when I get coffee. She reads the menu with great concentration, her hand moving over her concave belly. “What are you having?” she asks.
It occurs to me that, unlike me, she didn’t grow up in restaurants and might be afraid to spend too much. Nothing on this menu will break even my tiny budget. “The works. Eggs, pancakes, orange juice, all of it. Do you like bacon, sausage, any of that?”
“Kind of. Bacon, especially.”
“And are you a hash-browns-and-toast kind of person or a pancakes girl?”
“Pancakes.”
So we order a massive spread, and when it comes, Katie eats and eats and eats, until her tummy is a small round ball under her too-big shirt. She falls back and puts her hand over it. “That was so good.” She burps and slaps a hand over her mouth, laughing. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay.” I sip my coffee, eyeing her long hands and feet. “You must be getting ready to shoot up.”
“My mom says I might be six feet.”
“I believe it.” Oscar is well over that. Thinking of him puts a knot in my chest. I am going to have to tell her about him. First, though, shopping. The child desperately needs a few things.
We get the car and head over to Target, which opens early, and pick up a small assortment of shorts and T-shirts, a pair of jeans and a sweater for evenings.
I’m discreetly assessing where she is in puberty. Soft golden hair under her arms, a little fur on her lower legs. She’s wearing a basic training bra and it’s doing the trick, so we get a couple more. A part of me shudders away from the idea of her growing breasts in that cesspool where she lived before—all the predators and dangers.
Thank God her mother was arrested. I hope that someday Katie is relieved, too.
When we finish at the store, I drive to a local park and get out, buying us both root beers at a stand. We amble over to a park bench and sit down. “My brother will be bringing Merlin in a couple of hours, and I’m personally going to need a nap before that, but I wanted to talk to you.”
Her knuckles go white around the can. “Is my dad dead? Is that why you’re being so nice to me this morning?”
“No! Oh, no, honey.” I capture her other hand, clasp it between mine. “I would never do that, keep something so important from you.”
Her eyes are exactly the same color as the Afghan girl in the famous photo, that green of new leaves. She searches my face suspiciously and frowns, tugging her hand out of my grip. “What, then?”
“It is about your dad. Sofia called last night, and he is injured badly. He has some pretty serious burns, and”—I can’t seem to help taking in a breath—“he’s lost most of his right leg.”
“But he’s alive.”
“Yes,” I say, and repeat it so she’s sure. “He’s alive. Sofia said he’s in a coma, but that can be a good thing when someone has been so badly injured. It gives the body a chance to heal.”
She stares at me for a long time, then asks, “Is his face burned?”
“I don’t know, Katie.” This is the second time she has asked this. “We can find out.”
Tears well in her eyes, and her mouth pulls down at the corners. “When can I talk to him, do you think?”
“Probably not for a while, but you can email him, and you can email Sofia, too, and she’ll keep you posted. Does that help?”
“Yeah.” She brushes her hair out of her eyes. “Can we go home now? I want to be there when Merlin gets there, so he won’t be scared.”
It’s my habit to nap in the early afternoon, to make up for rising so early, and by the time I make it to my bed this afternoon, diving into the piles of pillows and covers, I’m wiped out. Milo hears the bedsprings and leaps up to keep me company. I’m out in three seconds.