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“Thanks,” Dad says, taking it hesitantly from her.
“This is a perfectly normal meal, Chris. Every other person who lives in America would be fine with it.”
“I am fine with it,” Dad lies.
“Bullshit.”
Brandon makes strained conversation with Dad about downtown Northampton, because he lives there and Dad works there. Then, as I’m taking my plate to the sink, Julian’s wheelchair rolls up behind me.
“Move,” he says.
Okay, wait—Dad and Estella asked me to be nice to him. But does this mean I have to put up with whatever rudeness he dishes out? I decide no. “Hold on, wait your turn.”
“Just take this for me.”
“Why, can’t you do it yourself?”
“It’s a dirty plate and I’m in a wheelchair.”
“So? You can put your own plate in the sink. It’s an easy reach.”
“Not with you in the way. Oh, no. Here comes your animal.”
I take Julian’s plate from him and set it on the floor for Shelby. She’s thrilled.
“I’m not getting that now,” he says. “No, Bran, don’t you get it either.”
I leave.
“We’re not getting that!” he yells.
Suddenly I realize what Dad will do if this keeps up—he’ll open the restaurant on Tuesdays. Next Tuesday, I decide, I’d better offer to lend Estella a hand. Make the salad for her at least. I get my backpack and pass Julian and Brandon in the hall. “The plate’s still there,” Julian growls at me.
“And your point is?” I walk around them and head up to do my homework.
Dad and Estella are still arguing in the kitchen. Man, I wish my upstairs alcove had a door.
* * *
Despite all the fighting over dinner—or maybe because of it—ugh—I’m awakened late that night to the unmistakable sounds of Dad and Estella, particularly Estella, having sex. My face burns and I take my pillow and blanket with me to the downstairs sofa—the sofa that’s like maybe ten feet from Julian’s door. The door is ajar. I don’t hear anything.
Dad and Estella are upstairs, thankfully way out of earshot. The house has its creaks and things but it’s fairly quiet. I’m trying to arrange the blanket in a way that’s comfortable and trying not to think of what drove me down here in the first place when I hear a noise from Julian’s room. A crash that sounds like breaking glass. I hesitate for a second, and then hurry over.
“Julian?”
There’s no answer.
I poke my head in and try it louder. “Julian?”
Still nothing. Crap. I flip on the light, and my eyes take in several things at once. First, my water carafe is now a mess of broken glass on the floor that’s not supposed to get wet. Second, the arm he’s currently using to shield his eyes is streaked with blood. And third, he’s having what seems to me to be the tail end of a panic attack: his breathing is short and fast. I’m thinking hyperventilation, paper bag. “Shut it.”
“You’re bleeding,” I say, ignoring him.
“I said shut the light. And get out.”
“And I said you’re bleeding.”
He glances at his hand. His face looks strained and is covered in sweat.
“I’ll get you a towel.”
“No, don’t. Just go.”
I ignore him and go into the bathroom to get him a towel. There are a lot of pill bottles on the counter. I scan them all and bring him two that say they’re for pain, one to help him sleep and one for anxiety, just in case he needs it. Or are those for when he’s reliving being bombed? Or is that what just happened?
“Here,” I say, handing them all to him. “I wasn’t sure which you wanted.”
He opens one of the bottles with a shaking hand and swallows a pill dry while I go back for bandages and some water.
“Fortunately for you, I have tons of supplies for this sort of thing,” I call out from the bathroom. “I’m always getting cut and burnt.”
He stares at the glass of water blankly after I bring it to him and then shakes his head like he doesn’t want it.
“Nightmare?”
He looks warily at me—to see if I’m teasing him, which I’m not. At all. I sit on the edge of the bed near him with my bandage box. “What are you doing?” His tone is mildly panicked.
“I thought I’d fix your hand.”
“I don’t need your help.”
“Come on, let me see it.”
“No. Just leave me the stuff.”
Sheesh, man. “Okay.” I give him the box of supplies and then get up off the bed and start picking up pieces of broken glass. Meanwhile, Julian is doing the world’s worst job of bandaging himself. Obviously he’s a leftie.
He catches me looking at him. “Done gawking at me yet?”
The color on my face heightens, but I force myself to meet his gaze. He’s in the same sweats and Semper Fi T-shirt he had on at dinner—he must have fallen asleep in them. “Nope. Not quite yet.”
“Well, I’m not your personal sideshow.”
Interesting comment. “You know, you could be,” I say. “It’s an idea. Your over-the-top rude thing works pretty well. What you really need is an old-fashioned seltzer bottle. That way you can roll around in your wheelchair hurling insults and shooting seltzer at me.”
“Ha, ha,” he says. “Very funny.”
I move in a bit closer to inspect the pathetic bandaging job on his hand.
“What?” he asks.
“That thing isn’t even on you,” I say. “It’s falling off.”
“Did I ask for your opinion?”
“Did you think I’d need to be asked?”
“Don’t you have a hot date with the window about now?” he says.
“Do you want me to help bandage your hand or no?” I ask.
He doesn’t answer at first. “No. Now get out of...”
He stops midsentence, probably because I’ve decided to ignore his stubborn pride and not let him bleed to death. Instead, I’ve sat down and taken his hurt hand into my lap. I’m studying the cut. “This is deep. How did you hurt yourself so badly?”
“I have a knack for it.” His voice isn’t bitter, exactly. More like hollow. I glance at him, and he turns his head away.
I look back at the cut. “I think you need stitches.”
“I don’t need stitches.”
“Maybe I should wake Estella.”
“No, don’t,” he says. “Let her rest.”
Hmm, he’s concerned about Estella getting her rest? This must be a remnant of the old, pre-injury Julian—the considerate one. I take the bandages and start wrapping his hand up, but as soon as the tape is down he yanks his arm away. “You’re done.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Thank you,” he mutters. “Now get out.”
I return to the couch, leaving Mister Personality to himself.
Chapter Nine
There’s this dish I’ve been playing with in my mind for the restaurant—a beet and goat cheese Napoleon, only instead of it being just red-white-red-white, I want to make it with golden beets as well. Actually my idea is to fan the thing in a spiral like you’d fan a twisted tower and use halves of both red and gold beets so the colors swirl around. I’m planning to plate it with micro greens, a muscat orange vinaigrette dressing and candied pecans. The ingredients are fairly easy to prepare. It’s the assembly that’s difficult.
I’ve already roasted, peeled and cut the beets into little rectangles when Dad comes over to me. “The restaurant is closed. Perhaps you haven’t noticed.”
“I’ve noticed. This is for you to try.”
“Hmm.” He frowns and watches me stuff the herbed goat cheese into a pastry bag. I’ve added mascarpone to it to make it the right consistency.
“You’re making me nervous,” I say.
“Too bad.”
“But this is the hard part.”
“So?”
I sigh and take a red beet rectangle and a golden beet rectangle and align them so they’re matched up.
“We need to talk about college,” Dad says.
“Not now.” Pastry bag with a star tip. Damn, do I want the star tip or the regular one? Dad’s eyeing me. Rectangle—star tip—is that too busy? Yes. I take the cheese out of the bag and Dad’s eyebrows go up.
“We really should take a trip up there so you can see the school,” he says, “have an interview.”
“No thanks. The interview’s optional. I opt out.” I get the tip I need from the pastry department, replace it in the bag and start again.
“Keep it small,” Dad coaches.
“I am keeping it small.”
“Smaller.”
“Smaller?”
“Oui—un petit morceau.”
Okay. I line up the next pair of rectangles so they’re about twenty degrees turned to the left. They tilt on the goat cheese. “Merde.”
“Keep going.”
I add another dot of goat cheese and Dad’s right. It helps with the balance. “This isn’t going to work,” I mutter.
“It might.”
“It’ll tip.”
“Keep going. Try it.”
Okay—I add the next layer. Twenty degrees more to the left. And it starts tipping.
“With a college degree you have options.”
I’m sick of hearing this. So, I ignore it. “Maybe I should just make it a pyramid or something.”
“No, keep going,” Dad says. “It’s working.”
I add one more layer and it starts falling apart. “Damn it.”
“Tomorrow you’ll try again.”
“I can’t. I have school. You remember school—that which you are forcing me to do for four more years?”
“It’s better than making this mess.”
