him, then away. “Why don’t I go home and get some things for you to do?” she asked Zoe. “What would you like me to bring you?”
“I don’t know.”
“A surprise, then,” she said. “I’ll be back.”
When Ellen got back, Zoe had been sleeping for about half an hour. She signaled to Griffin to come outside into the hallway. “God. Scary, huh?” She smiled.
“Yes.” His eyes moved over her face. Zoe’s mom—they looked alike.
“I guess these things happen all the time—we’re lucky we’ve never had to bring her to the ER before.”
“I guess.”
“I think every boy in her class has been here. Miles Altman broke his wrist last week. Jason Burns was in here for stitches after he cut himself. And—”
“It’s not okay, Ellen.”
She stepped back from him, crossed her arms.
“What are you talking about?”
“If you’re not going to take better care of her—”
Her face hardened. “Don’t you dare, Griffin.”
“Don’t I dare what?”
“You know what. You know what.” She turned away, started back for Zoe’s room.
“Ellen!” Damn it, he was sorry. He hadn’t meant to do that. They were just starting to…to what? To come back together? No. No, they weren’t, and he knew it, and that’s why he’d said that. To hit back.
Chapter 7
A few days later, Griffin stopped for Kentucky Fried Chicken on the way home. It was his night to be home with Zoe, who was still basking in the increased parental attention her hospital visit had afforded her. Ellen’s and Griffin’s anxiety had tempered somewhat, since they’d had to set Zoe (and thereby themselves) straight on the fact that her fall hadn’t been that big a deal. She’d apparently told the kids at school she’d been unconscious and was rushed to the hospital, and her teacher had called Ellen, concerned because one of the other kids had said Zoe had been in a coma—did she have juvenile diabetes?
Griffin got a deluxe order—all white meat. He got extra biscuits, because Zoe liked them for breakfast. But when he walked in the door, he smelled dinner cooking. Ellen was in the kitchen, making gravy. He stood still for a moment, watching her, the chicken warm against him. “You made dinner?”
She nodded, her back to him.
“What’d you make?”
“Pot roast.”
“Uh huh. Do I get any?”
She turned around, dripping whisk in hand. “Griffin, I don’t know why you insist on overdramatizing things. If I make dinner and you are here, of course you can have some.” She gestured toward the chicken he was holding. “Unless you want that. I don’t care.”
“I got this because how in the hell am I supposed to know from one moment to the next what’s going on around here, Ellen? One night I come home and there’s no dinner. The next time there is dinner.”
Ellen walked past him, stood at the foot of the stairs. “Zoe!”
A crashing sound, then, “It was nothing, Mom, it’s okay!” And then, “…Yeah?”
“Dinner.”
Ellen walked past Griffin again and began putting things on the table: Butter on a flowered saucer she had found in an antiques store when they went to New Orleans, just before Zoe was born. A.1. sauce and catsup for Zoe to make the “dream sauce” combination she put on virtually everything. Ellen poured milk for Zoe, water for herself. Griffin might as well have been invisible except that Ellen had, in a fit of generosity, put a plate and silverware on the table for him. Griffin set the bucket of chicken on the table, and when Zoe skidded into the kitchen, her sneakers squeaking, he pulled the lid off and said, “Hey, look, Zoe—your favorite.”
Ellen stood motionless. Then she said, “The pot roast is for dinner.”
“Or chicken,” Griffin said. “Which would you like, Zoe?”
Zoe slid into her chair, surveyed the food. “How come we’re having both?”
“For fun,” Griffin said. “Want some chicken?” He took his fork, pulled out a piece. “Here, you like the
“I don’t know.”
“A surprise, then,” she said. “I’ll be back.”
When Ellen got back, Zoe had been sleeping for about half an hour. She signaled to Griffin to come outside into the hallway. “God. Scary, huh?” She smiled.
“Yes.” His eyes moved over her face. Zoe’s mom—they looked alike.
“I guess these things happen all the time—we’re lucky we’ve never had to bring her to the ER before.”
“I guess.”
“I think every boy in her class has been here. Miles Altman broke his wrist last week. Jason Burns was in here for stitches after he cut himself. And—”
“It’s not okay, Ellen.”
She stepped back from him, crossed her arms.
“What are you talking about?”
“If you’re not going to take better care of her—”
Her face hardened. “Don’t you dare, Griffin.”
“Don’t I dare what?”
“You know what. You know what.” She turned away, started back for Zoe’s room.
“Ellen!” Damn it, he was sorry. He hadn’t meant to do that. They were just starting to…to what? To come back together? No. No, they weren’t, and he knew it, and that’s why he’d said that. To hit back.
Chapter 7
A few days later, Griffin stopped for Kentucky Fried Chicken on the way home. It was his night to be home with Zoe, who was still basking in the increased parental attention her hospital visit had afforded her. Ellen’s and Griffin’s anxiety had tempered somewhat, since they’d had to set Zoe (and thereby themselves) straight on the fact that her fall hadn’t been that big a deal. She’d apparently told the kids at school she’d been unconscious and was rushed to the hospital, and her teacher had called Ellen, concerned because one of the other kids had said Zoe had been in a coma—did she have juvenile diabetes?
Griffin got a deluxe order—all white meat. He got extra biscuits, because Zoe liked them for breakfast. But when he walked in the door, he smelled dinner cooking. Ellen was in the kitchen, making gravy. He stood still for a moment, watching her, the chicken warm against him. “You made dinner?”
She nodded, her back to him.
“What’d you make?”
“Pot roast.”
“Uh huh. Do I get any?”
She turned around, dripping whisk in hand. “Griffin, I don’t know why you insist on overdramatizing things. If I make dinner and you are here, of course you can have some.” She gestured toward the chicken he was holding. “Unless you want that. I don’t care.”
“I got this because how in the hell am I supposed to know from one moment to the next what’s going on around here, Ellen? One night I come home and there’s no dinner. The next time there is dinner.”
Ellen walked past him, stood at the foot of the stairs. “Zoe!”
A crashing sound, then, “It was nothing, Mom, it’s okay!” And then, “…Yeah?”
“Dinner.”
Ellen walked past Griffin again and began putting things on the table: Butter on a flowered saucer she had found in an antiques store when they went to New Orleans, just before Zoe was born. A.1. sauce and catsup for Zoe to make the “dream sauce” combination she put on virtually everything. Ellen poured milk for Zoe, water for herself. Griffin might as well have been invisible except that Ellen had, in a fit of generosity, put a plate and silverware on the table for him. Griffin set the bucket of chicken on the table, and when Zoe skidded into the kitchen, her sneakers squeaking, he pulled the lid off and said, “Hey, look, Zoe—your favorite.”
Ellen stood motionless. Then she said, “The pot roast is for dinner.”
“Or chicken,” Griffin said. “Which would you like, Zoe?”
Zoe slid into her chair, surveyed the food. “How come we’re having both?”
“For fun,” Griffin said. “Want some chicken?” He took his fork, pulled out a piece. “Here, you like the
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