Dead Weight by Lori Avocato Page A

… as he was the cause of my insecurity. And now I needed my family. If anyone would have told me that a few days ago, I would have smacked them. I did not want to need my very dysfunctional, yet loving, I-would-never-change-a-thing-about-them family—although they could use it.
    The issue at hand led me here—to inhale Friday night potato pancakes no less.
    Jagger had kissed me.
    I had kissed Jagger back.
    And I had never been the same since.
    Following the aroma of potatoes, I walked toward the kitchen. Passing by the living room, I paused. “Hey, Daddy.”
    My father looked over his glasses while reading the newspaper. Daddy read the paper from cover to cover and would probably be the last person on the newspaper route to ever give it up once they went all online. He smiled at me, “Hi, Paczki.”
    A Polish donut. He had called me his Polish donut since I could remember—and it touched my heart to hear it now. I walked over, gave him a kiss on the head and said, “Good to see you.” It had only been a few weeks, but right now, with my world in Jagger-induced turmoil, it had felt much longer.
    Daddy nodded, looked down, then proceeded to read me an entire article on some protests going on in France.
    I’d always hated listening to him read out loud—all of us kids did—but I stood there, this time very patiently, and listened until he started another article.
    After a peck on his forehead, I mumbled, “That’s great,” and headed out of the room toward the kitchen. “Ma?”
    â€œDon’t call me ‘Ma,’” my mother said without hesitation (and as usual) as she spooned a glob of her famous potato pancake recipe into the frying pan. One she would not even share with my sisters or myself—not that I could cook anyway, but they could.
    It smelled heavenly. I dipped my finger into the bowl of applesauce she always served with the sour cream. She smacked my hand with the spatula, but I remained silent.
    â€œYou home for good now or you still doing that foolish job? Nurses are always needed,” she finished as she lifted a perfectly browned pancake from the pan and set it on the paper towel-covered dish.
    â€œMa … mom, you know I am now an investigator and use my nursing skills for my job. They need people like me.”
    She looked at me with one of her “who do you think you’re kidding looks,” and said, “People, sick people, need nurses, Pauline. Criminals need jail.”
    I sucked in some air, let it out slowly, and snatched a pancake from the dish before her spatula could make contact.
    Yes! “Want me to set the table?”
    She lifted one eye from her frying.
    â€œOkay. Okay. Stella Sokol, the master of the kitchen, is already prepared with the table set.” I laughed and although my mother didn’t, I think she might have smiled a bit.
    â€œHelloooooooooo!” came from the hallway.
    I ran out toward the voice and jumped into Goldie’s arms, jumped down and landed in Mile’s embrace. “My two favorite guys!”
    They both looked at me and said in tandem, “You need a man.”
    We all laughed as we headed into the dining room. Already seated was my favorite uncle who had lived in our house for as long as I could remember. I went to him, gave him a hug and said, “How about our Steelers, Uncle Walt?”
    As he went on and on about the plays of one of the games, I thought how great it was to see him and be back at home. The usual crowd gathering around the table. Stella Sokol’s fabulous meal, with, I hoped, her killer chocolate cake for dessert, no one trying to kill me—and I sighed. A sigh of relief and content.
    â€œPauline, get the door,” my mother said, before the bell even rang.
    That wasn’t so unusual, so I turned toward the hallway, walked out to hear the chime of the bell as I opened the door.
    â€œOh, Lord. Not you !”

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