Читать книгу Stir Me Up - Sabrina Elkins - Страница 12

Chapter Eight

The one night a week we have dinner as a family at home is always Tuesday, because on Tuesdays the restaurant is closed. Now, Estella is a lovely person in many ways. I’m pretty much glad Dad married her. He seems very happy with her. But the woman can’t cook. And living with a French chef husband and his chef-trainee daughter, this can make for some pretty amusing meals.

Me, I’m cool with eating just about anything. I mean, I like good food but I’m not a picky eater. I’m fine with normal stuff. Dad, though, is extremely picky. Like, if there’s a grill mark that’s a bit too dark on the meat he won’t touch it. If the crust is cut off the sandwich but a tiny bit remains, he’ll have to cut that bit off as well or he won’t eat it. And Dad is not only ridiculously selective about food, he’s also snooty about it. He only buys and brings home the freshest and best ingredients. Estella, on the other hand, is fine with bottled salad dressing and mayonnaise from a jar, for example. She thinks it’s kind of silly to bother making things like that from scratch.

Oh yeah, one last thing noteworthy about all this: Dad’s an utter power monger and it takes an unparalleled degree of restraint for him not to “help” Estella with dinner. When he does, he takes over. And Estella insists she can do it herself. So, sorry, this is mean of me, but when she pulls her tuna casserole out and I notice it has a topping of crunched-up potato chips on it, I have to bite my lips to keep from laughing. Not at the food—damn, it’s probably the best-looking thing I’ve seen her make. No, I’m laughing because Dad hasn’t come downstairs and seen this yet.

Estella’s made tuna casserole, I text Taryn. Dad will DIE.

IF HE PASSES OUT, she texts back, I VOLUNTEER TO GIVE MOUTH-TO-MOUTH.

Yes, she thinks Dad’s hot. She thinks everyone’s hot.

Gag! I text back. Ugh. Major gag.

WHERE’S HOT WAR VET?

Here he comes now. Should I tell him you say hi?

THAT DEPENDS. IS HE COMING OR IS HE...coming?

I force myself not to imagine this. Then I text back:

Hmm... I’ll ask ;)

WHY? CAN’T YOU TELL?? she replies.

I blush and fight not to smile.

Julian wheels in while I’m still bright-faced. He’s in a Semper Fi T-shirt and cutoff sweats. “What’s wrong with you?” he asks.

I hide the phone. “Nothing, just happened to see your face there.”

“Ha, ha. So amusing.”

Estella’s made a salad—a bagged salad with iceberg lettuce, the kind Dad has repeatedly told her he dislikes. “Are you and Dad having a fight?”

“No,” she says, plunking down ranch dressing—in a bottle—which he also can’t stand and has kind of an irrational campaign against. “Why?”

I look at Julian. This is our first Tuesday dinner together, so he has no idea what my problem is. Sorry, but this is too funny.

The thing that’s not funny at all is Estella must know where this is headed. Is it a test? Maybe I should warn Dad before he comes down. I mean, if they’re in a fight, I’m supposed to be on Dad’s team, aren’t I?

Suddenly the doorbell rings. “Are we expecting company?” I ask with a frown.

“Yes, it’s Brandon.” Estella hurries to answer it.

Brandon has his mother’s dark hair and eyes, but he’s a big guy, like maybe six foot two, and he’s built like a linebacker. He’s also super-cool.

“Hi, Bran!” I say.

“Hi, kiddo. Where’s Jules?”

Estella moves out of her son’s line of vision. “Here he is.”

“Hey, you rebel.” Brandon gives Julian a light shoulder punch. “So you broke out and left early?”

“Yeah.”

“Fuck them, eh?”

“Something like that. Where’s your wife?” Julian asks, clearly wanting a subject change.

“Had to work late. What’s cooking, Ma?”

They head into the kitchen.

“Tuna casserole,” Estella tells them. “You two used to love it.”

“What do you mean, used to?” says Brandon. “Get me a fork.”

“Let me serve it first.”

“I’ll just check it.”

“Wait ’til it’s cooled off at least,” she chides.

Okay, the dish is a family favorite. Yeah, I have to forewarn Dad not to be too snooty about it. “Excuse me a minute,” I say. I run into him halfway up the stairs.

“What’s your hurry?”

“Dad,” I whisper.

“Hmm?”

“Brandon’s here.”

“Yes, I know.”

“And Estella’s made tuna casserole.”

He wrinkles his nose. “Tuna what?”

“Casserole. It’s Brandon and Julian’s favorite dinner from when they were little. They think the recipe’s perfect and doesn’t need fixing or improving.”

“Right,” he says with a slight wince.

We head back down together, and I see Estella serving up a huge square of casserole and plating it. I think it’s going to be for Brandon or Julian—but she passes the plate to Dad. Dad’s eyes get wide for a fraction of a second. “Wow. Looks good.”

“Thanks.” She serves even bigger squares to her son and nephew, and a pretty big one to me.

Actually, I can see why Brandon and Julian like this. She uses cream of mushroom soup, and the good tuna and frozen peas and chopped mushrooms. The potato chip crust is pretty damned fine. Better than breadcrumbs would be. This dish is fun.

“This is good, Estella,” I say.

“Yeah, delicious as usual, Ma.”

“Yeah, thanks,” says Julian softly.

“Sure, thank you for thanking me.” She seems happy. Then she spots Dad. Who, unfortunately, is picking at the ingredients with the tines of his fork and probably hoping the whole plate will somehow manage to vaporize into thin air when Estella’s not looking.

Dad sees his new wife’s obvious anger. And eats a bite.

Okay—this could just be because I know him really well, but if Estella had served Dad roadkill, I don’t think his reaction would be much different. Same pathetic attempt to look fine with it in his mouth. I’ve seen him wear this expression before. Most Tuesday nights for the past few months, in fact. “Mmm,” he says.

Yeah, right. Dad’s Adam’s apple’s about to come jumping out of his mouth waving a white flag of surrender. But I have to give him some credit—he’s doing his best to pretend this isn’t happening.

“Oh look,” Estella says. “You didn’t die.”

“Why would I die?” he asks, taking another tiny bite. “I can eat American food. This dish is excellent.”

“Great. Then I’ll have to make it more often.”

Dad pales. “So, what did you do in school today, Cami?”

Poor Dad. So much for me trying to warn him. I try to think of something entertaining to talk about from my day, and then realize I have just the thing. “We played body part hokey-pokey in human anatomy.”

“You played what?” Dad asks.

“Body part hokey pokey. You know, put your ante brachium in, put your ante brachium out, put your ante brachium in and shake it all about.”

“What’s an ante brachium?”

“Don’t remember.”

“Wonderful.” Dad frowns.

“It’s a forearm,” Brandon says with a grin. “How many times did the guys tell you to put your glutes in?”

I smile. “Nope. Butts and such weren’t allowed.”

“Lumbar then,” he says.

“Lower back was a favorite, but most girls just stopped doing it.”

“This is what you go to school for?” Dad asks.

“Then we used play dough to make pretend people. We had to make a pledge not to do anything perverted with our play dough people and then we were able to divide them into cross-sections.”

“You made a pledge?” Estella asks.

“Yes, it was hilarious, actually. The teacher said it and then we all had to repeat it after her.” I decide to recite it for them to help lighten the mood. “I will not make a play dough penis. I will not make a male and female body and then smush them together. I will not put my play dough person in any compromising positions. I will not take two males or two females and put them together.”

This works—Dad’s fighting not to laugh. Estella’s hiding her mouth behind her hand. Brandon’s laughing outright.

Only Julian remains unamused. “Let’s see, the last time I played hokey pokey and used play dough, I was in what grade, Estella?” he asks, deflating everyone’s good mood a little.

“It was just one day of fun,” she chides.

I turn to Julian. “You do remember what that is, right? Fun?”

He looks coldly at me. “I can think of some things I’d like to do to your dog that’d be fun.”

“Why, can’t you even control a little dog?”

“I yell at her but she doesn’t listen.”

“She’s deaf. Of course she won’t listen. Just kick her very gently on the rear and she’ll scoot away.”

“Kick her? Do your eyes work for anything except cooking and using play dough?”

Great, what was I thinking telling the guy with the amputated leg to kick something? Dad gives Julian a sharp look. He doesn’t say anything aloud, but then he doesn’t have to. Julian catches the silent warning and seems a little surprised by it. I’m not. Dad doesn’t like other people giving me shit—just him, and maybe Georges, if it’s related to cooking.

Brandon is watching all this with interest. Dad and Julian mostly seem to avoid each other. Dad works such long hours, they rarely see each other, and I don’t think they’ve actually spoken more than a few words to each other since Julian got here. But then, until tonight, Julian hasn’t really made himself part of the family.

“Pass the salad,” Dad says to me.

Um. Okay. I hand it to him. He peers into the bowl. Sees the bagged iceberg lettuce with the pre-shredded carrots and red cabbage, makes a face, takes a miniscule amount and hands it back to me.

Estella passes him the ranch dressing—ranch dressing...from a bottle.

“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.