Page 5 of Denial
“I’m going to draw a lion next.”
“Do I get to hang it on the fridge when you’re done?”
She shakes her head. “No, I’m going to take it with me to the zoo today and draw some more animals.”
Cath stops by with Nellie’s orange juice and my coffee. With a chin lift, I tell her thanks. Steam curls from the top of my mug, the tendrils evaporating into the air. “We can’t go to the zoo today. You have school, and I have to get to work.”
Nellie looks at me, her eyebrows lifted nearly to her hair. “I’m going to the zoo with school. It’s my field trip today.”
“That’stoday?” My mind searches for the information on the permission slip I signed… Was it last week? The week before? They send the damn things so far out in advance, it’s hard to keep them straight.
“Daddy!” Nellie whines, rising to her knees on her chair. “It’s today! My field trip is today! I’m supposed to bring a bag lunch from hometoday!”
I stand, taking a scalding gulp of my black coffee. “Cath,” I call out.
She pokes her head out from around the pastry display case. “What’s the problem?”
“Need you to box that order up for me, please. Got a small emergency.”
Nellie carries her full glass of orange juice up to Cathy at the counter. “My dad forgot about my field trip today, so I need to take this to go,” she says in a voice much too mature for her age.
Cathy fights back a smile. She leans over the counter with a conspiratorial glint in her eyes. “Did he, now? If I put in a freshly baked chocolate chip cookie for your lunch, will that make it better?”
Nellie nods seriously. “I think so,” she whispers.
Cathy winks and grabs the tissue paper she uses to wrap the baked goods. She packages them in a small white paper sack and hands it to my daughter.
“I put an extra one in there. For after school.”
“Thanks, Miss Cathy.” Nellie beams at the kind woman, seeming to forget all about our dash to the exit.
“And these are yours.” Cathy sets a plastic bag containing two Styrofoam clamshell containers on the counter. “Breakfast to-go.”
“Appreciate it.” I toss a few crinkled dollars into the tip jar beside the till. “See you later.”
The wrinkles beside her eyes deepen. “I’m sure I’ll see you in a day or two.”
Nellie and I hustle back to my truck, buckling her in in record time. Thankfully, this town is small. In less than three minutes, I’m back at home.
“Hurry inside, Buttercup. Eat your breakfast, and I’ll get your lunch together.”
Nellie trips over the mountain of shoes in the foyer. I kick them aside with my foot, not wanting to experience the same. Our dog, Merit, a retired K-9 we adopted with help from the Powell Sanctuary in town, sits dutifully by the door, her tail sweeping a pile of her shed hair back and forth across the floor.
“You should learn to pick up after yourself,” I mutter to the dog, leaning down to clean up the hair.
Setting my breakfast on the counter, I open the silverware drawer for a fork, only to find none. My eyes slide to the pile of dirty dishes in the sink, waiting to be loaded into the dishwasherthat’s currently waiting to be run. I drop a dishwashing pod into the slot, close the tab, and hit start.
There. One task is done.
Forgoing my hunt for a clean fork, I find a plastic one Cath threw in the bag and shovel a heaping forkful into my mouth. I chew, swallow, and chase it down with a half a triangle of toast.
“Daddy! My lunch.”
“I’m on it.”
After I eat a quick slab of bacon.
I open the fridge, surveying the contents for healthy bag lunch material.Disposable, I remember the permission form said. The kind of day that’s perfect for picking up a Lunchable from the grocery store. I scan the shelves. No Lunchable. Why? Because I clearly forgot to buy one.
