Dedication by McLaughlin Emma & Kraus Nicola

Author:McLaughlin, Emma & Kraus, Nicola [McLaughlin, Emma]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Simon & Schuster UK
Published: 2008-09-04T06:00:00+00:00

“Sweet potato?” Dad asks across the dinner table. “I was thinking three, but chopped for thirty.” When really we’re two, each awaiting the sound of a car in the driveway, neither of whom are eating. I stare at the copious Brussels sprouts, neatly stacked, their eight-inch round world perfectly ordered.

“Thanks.” I take a spoonful of the rosemary-flecked roasted wedges and add them to my untouched plate as the sound finally comes, followed by the geriatric grind of the garage door lifting, drowning out the classical station. Dad’s eyes are trained on the side entrance.

“Hi, everyone.” She comes in, stomping her puffy boots intently on the mat and lowering her purse and coat to the wood stepstool. “Okay. So, I’ve come to some clarity. Kate, no matter what has transpired with this boy, you need closure. I understand that. And you should get it. And we should support you in getting it. And then this will all be over.” Wiping her hair off her forehead with the back of her wrist, she walks to us in her worn argyle socks, looking from him to me, her face expectant. Mouth puckered, he taps his fork against the chicken breast grown cold.

“Thanks,” I manage to recover from my surprise. “That’s great to hear.” I stand to fill her wineglass. “Dad made his chicken, if you haven’t eaten yet.”

“Thank you.” She takes a sip, putting the business of her revelation behind her. Dad does not ask where she went to find it as she takes her place and serves herself. “Simon, this looks delicious.” Napkin in hand, he pushes his chair back from the table. “Simon?” But, back to us at the cupboards, he doesn’t answer. “Simon?” she repeats.

“I’ve lost my appetite.” Napkin still absentmindedly balled in his fist, he pivots against the counter with a box of Wheat Thins. “But, Kate, you should eat something.”

“If I was in Charleston I’d be scooping frosting out of the tub by the fistful right now and you’d never know,” I say lightly, trying to levitate him.

“If you were in Charleston, we’d be leaving for the trip we paid for. Twice,” he mutters into the box.

I stiffen. “You are. Dad, I’ll have this thing with Jake wrapped up by the time you’re supposed to leave tomorrow morning.” Or I won’t. And I’ll have to spend the rest of my life praying I outlive him so I can pee on his grave.

“Right.” Mom nods as she cuts into her chicken. “And we will get on with our Christmas and on with our lives. Kate will be fine—”

“But, she’s not fine, Claire!” Dad slaps the yellow box to the counter, crackers scattering. “She’s sitting here waiting for Jake Sharpe to call like she’s thirteen years old!”

“Dad,” I say slowly, trying to pull him back. “I am fine. I mean, obviously, I don’t want to be sitting here waiting for Jake Sharpe. I don’t want to think about Jake Sharpe, thinking about me, sitting here, waiting for him. And I

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