Page 22 of Denial
I’m not yet convinced she isn’t as flaky as the paint on my mom’s antique Ford truck. The relic is the only thing she kept from her marriage to my father, and she keeps it parked out on the front lawn, fading and worn from the drastic Minnesota elements, as if a warning to the bastard if he ever dared to come back around.
He loved that truck, and when he abandoned his marriage for his much younger assistant, she left it out to rust.
“Go pick out your clothes, and I’ll start some bacon.”
“Yippee!” She throws her arms straight over her head and cheers as if it isn’t six thirty in the morning on a Monday.
“Do you want eggs?”
“Runny nose eggs and toast.”
I choke on my laugh. “I’ve told you it’s just runny eggs. Or sunny side up.”
She shrugs. “It reminds me of a runny nose.”
The visual evokes such strong repulsion that I will not be enjoying eggs this morning.
“Go. I want you dressed and ready before Ms. Thompson gets here. I’ll do your hair after breakfast.”
“I can do my own hair.”
“You have dance after school,” I remind her. She can manage simple styles with clips, but hasn’t quite mastered the coordination required to produce a tight pony that’ll hold all day.
She leaves the playroom and heads downstairs without another word.
I set off for the kitchen as the rest of my morning takes shape.
Let in Merit.
Start the bacon in the oven.
Get dressed.
Fix Nellie’s hair.
Fry an egg and toast some bread.
By then, she can sit down to eat, and I can tie up loose ends while I wait for the doorbell to ring.
I feel confident in my plan of attack for all of twelve heartbeats before that plan starts going to shit.
Merit ignores my call for three minutes while she barks at a squirrel mocking her from the lone tree in the backyard. In her old age, she’s started to become selective about which commands she wants to follow that day. She finally gives up, and her proud trot tells me she doesn’t give a shit about my morning schedule. She quenches her thirst before staring at me from beside her empty bowl with sad, soulful brown eyes.
“You’re going to have to wait until Nellie can feed you,” I mumble to the dog, fighting with the cold bacon. The strips stick together and tear, stretching into what resembles long pieces of threadbare cloth.
“Whatever butcher sliced this shit is a dumbass.”
The bacon alone eats up another five minutes. The green numbers above the stove reveal a mere fifteen minutes until seven o’clock.
“Fuck.”
The pan bangs loudly, rattling against the metal racks in the oven where I toss it haphazardly.
“Nellie,” I bellow, large strides eating up the distance to the bedroom suites. “You ready?”
Her door creaks open a sliver, the yellow light inside pouring into the dark hall. The sound of her deep breath serves as a warning, and I brace.
“Okay. Don’t be mad, Daddy,” her voice is authoritative, as if she’s presenting a new concept at a board meeting. “It’s just a little mess.”
