The Weird Sisters - Eleanor Brown [106]
“She’s sleeping,” our father announced gruffly, making his way into the kitchen. He must have gone out already, the paper was unfolded, a mug of coffee gone cold beside it. He lifted the front section as Cordy deftly slipped a plate onto the table, golden omelet flecked green and white with onions and peppers from the garden. “Thank you,” he said, looking at her and then back at the plate, pondering the mystery of how the girl and the meal were connected.
“You’re welcome,” Cordy said. She poured and cooked another omelet, eased it onto her plate, and joined him at the table. Our father hid behind the paper, but she heard the sounds of his silverware, the grimacing swallow as he drank his coffee, bitter and black.
As a child, Bean had developed a tremendous aversion to the sound of chewing. At the breakfast table, faced with the melodious crunching of our entire family’s teeth working against their cereal, she would grow furiouser and furiouser until she stood and stomped off to eat elsewhere, in peace. Cordy had never been bothered like this. She loved the symphonic harmony of people eating, the gentle sigh of pleasure at the meeting of taste and bud, the percussive notes of cutlery.
“I really like working at the coffee shop,” she said, apropos of nothing. Our father lowered the paper, brows down, and stared at our sister. “I was just thinking, I love all the sounds. Like the steamer, and the bell on the door, and the conversations. I can work, and I can just listen to all those sounds around me, and it’s kind of comforting, you know?”
“If music be the food of love,” our father said, and gave a short smile. Cordy took it, a crumb. He went back to his paper. She felt tears sting in her eyes. It had never been like this. He had always listened to her stories, asked her to share her dreams, laughed the hardest at her jokes. Now it seemed he could hardly bear to hear the sound of her voice, couldn’t even be civil enough for small talk.
Cordy was sure we were wrong. He wasn’t going to come around. Maybe not ever.
How had she never known how good she had it until it was gone?
She finished eating in silence, the food tasteless in her mouth, and went back upstairs while our father did the dishes. She stood for a moment, watching our mother rest, the quiet rustle of her breath in and out. Is this what it would be like? Wondering always if what you were doing was right, was enough, was tender and gentle and caring enough to soothe pains and nourish hopes? A little pulse of panic fluttered around her heart at the thought of so much importance. At least here we could pick up after Cordy when she left things undone. But a baby would be hers. Hers alone.
She shifted slightly. When she heard the creak of Cordy’s feet on the floor, our mother opened her eyes. “Did he eat something?” she asked. This is our mother. The four horsemen of the Apocalypse could be bearing down hard and fast upon us, and she would want to make sure our father had eaten. So he wouldn’t, you know, get hungry in the afterlife or something.
“Aye,” Cordy said. “The duke hath dined.” She looked at our mother more closely. “Are you okay? You look kind of”—she waved her hand—“funny.”
Our mother sighed. “I’m fine. Just tired, as usual. And hungry.”
“Do you want something to eat?” Cordy turned to head back to the kitchen.
“No thank you, honey. Even if I could keep it down, everything tastes like metal these days. It’s awful.”
“Oh.” Cordy tuned back and walked toward the bed. “You want me to read to you now?”
“That would be lovely,” our mother said.
Cordy picked up the book on our mother’s bedside table. “Tolstoy?” she asked suspiciously.
“I figured I’d have a lot of time,” our mother said, and smiled wryly. We are notorious for our efforts to read the (non-Shakespearean) classics, but are similarly