tension and speak up first.
I finally caved, looking up and smiling brightly. “I think I’ll go with the French dip sandwich. It’s supposed to be really good here.”
“Eggs Benedict,” my father said, slapping his menu shut.
My heart sank. I pictured runny egg yolk clinging to gelatinous half-cooked egg white, all smeared together onto a soggy English muffin. My father knows I loathe eggs. Just the smell of them makes me nauseous. It was a spite order.
Kellee looked at him as though he’d just announced he was planning on ingesting a live frog.
“What’s the matter?” he asked, throwing his hands up in the air.
“Do you have to get eggs?” she said.
For a lightning fraction of a second, I thought maybe Kellee was taking my side. My hatred of eggs is lifelong and well documented. Even Kellee, new to our family, knew better than to cook or eat eggs in my presence. I realized instantly that this was a wildly misguided flash of optimism. But I neverthought to anticipate what was coming next.
“I won’t subject myself to it, knowing I have to get back on a plane this afternoon,” she said prissily. “I won’t. I just won’t.”
“When did that start? I thought we were on tuna still,” my father said.
“Eggs and tuna. And cantaloupe.”
What sort of diet would prohibit cantaloupe?
“And shrimp,” she was saying. “In fact, please don’t order any seafood of any kind.” She turned to me. “A French dip is fine.”
“Thank you,” I said, before I could help it.
My father rolled his eyes and studied his menu again. “How about an omelet? I want a ham and cheese omelet.”
“Absolutely not,” she said.
My father lobbed one food selection after another in her direction, only to have Kellee shake her head and swat it right back at him. I watched several rounds of this game before I realized with horror what was unfolding before me. It was the smoked salmon that elicited the crucial clue.
“I can’t tolerate the smell,” she said. “You always want pungent food. Pick something…ordinary. Something that smells…nice.”
“Someone want to tell me what’s going on?” I was already dreading the answer.
Kellee stopped swinging at my father’s menu choices and beamed at him. My dad turned to me and delivered the bad news. “You’re going to be an aunt,” he said, thrusting his chin up and his chest out.
“Guthrie and Cleo are expecting?” I asked. My brother and his wife had been married for over six years and so far had parented only cats.
“Not Guthrie,” my father said, exasperated. “Me. And Kellee.” He reached across the table and grasped one of her perfectly manicured hands. “We’re pregnant.”
I turned to Kellee, who continued to beam, but had turnedthe glaring, white-happy spotlight on me now.
“You’re kidding,” I said.
“Do I look like I’m kidding?” my father asked.
I looked back at him. Lord save me, he didn’t.
I tried to allow the disastrous news to sink in. “That would make me a sister,” I said. “Not an aunt.”
Kellee handed me the present she had wrapped herself, thrusting it joyfully in my direction. “Open it,” she commanded.
I ripped the paper, opened the box, and revealed a pink T-shirt with the words “World’s Greatest Aunt” silk-screened on the front in pale blue ink.
I looked at both of them helplessly “But I’ll be a sister, not an aunt.” I don’t know why I was jabbing at this point. What could it possibly matter?
My father should never have reproduced in the first place. Guthrie and I agreed on this when we were very small. We both held childhood fantasies that we’d been adopted, though our mother’s features were watermarked on our own. We both had her green eyes, her auburn hair. And now, of course, I’d inherited her thighs.
If not adoption, then perhaps there was a mystery in our past, we fantasized. Perhaps our father, so indifferent to us, was not our father at all. Maybe we were royalty!
I finally caved, looking up and smiling brightly. “I think I’ll go with the French dip sandwich. It’s supposed to be really good here.”
“Eggs Benedict,” my father said, slapping his menu shut.
My heart sank. I pictured runny egg yolk clinging to gelatinous half-cooked egg white, all smeared together onto a soggy English muffin. My father knows I loathe eggs. Just the smell of them makes me nauseous. It was a spite order.
Kellee looked at him as though he’d just announced he was planning on ingesting a live frog.
“What’s the matter?” he asked, throwing his hands up in the air.
“Do you have to get eggs?” she said.
For a lightning fraction of a second, I thought maybe Kellee was taking my side. My hatred of eggs is lifelong and well documented. Even Kellee, new to our family, knew better than to cook or eat eggs in my presence. I realized instantly that this was a wildly misguided flash of optimism. But I neverthought to anticipate what was coming next.
“I won’t subject myself to it, knowing I have to get back on a plane this afternoon,” she said prissily. “I won’t. I just won’t.”
“When did that start? I thought we were on tuna still,” my father said.
“Eggs and tuna. And cantaloupe.”
What sort of diet would prohibit cantaloupe?
“And shrimp,” she was saying. “In fact, please don’t order any seafood of any kind.” She turned to me. “A French dip is fine.”
“Thank you,” I said, before I could help it.
My father rolled his eyes and studied his menu again. “How about an omelet? I want a ham and cheese omelet.”
“Absolutely not,” she said.
My father lobbed one food selection after another in her direction, only to have Kellee shake her head and swat it right back at him. I watched several rounds of this game before I realized with horror what was unfolding before me. It was the smoked salmon that elicited the crucial clue.
“I can’t tolerate the smell,” she said. “You always want pungent food. Pick something…ordinary. Something that smells…nice.”
“Someone want to tell me what’s going on?” I was already dreading the answer.
Kellee stopped swinging at my father’s menu choices and beamed at him. My dad turned to me and delivered the bad news. “You’re going to be an aunt,” he said, thrusting his chin up and his chest out.
“Guthrie and Cleo are expecting?” I asked. My brother and his wife had been married for over six years and so far had parented only cats.
“Not Guthrie,” my father said, exasperated. “Me. And Kellee.” He reached across the table and grasped one of her perfectly manicured hands. “We’re pregnant.”
I turned to Kellee, who continued to beam, but had turnedthe glaring, white-happy spotlight on me now.
“You’re kidding,” I said.
“Do I look like I’m kidding?” my father asked.
I looked back at him. Lord save me, he didn’t.
I tried to allow the disastrous news to sink in. “That would make me a sister,” I said. “Not an aunt.”
Kellee handed me the present she had wrapped herself, thrusting it joyfully in my direction. “Open it,” she commanded.
I ripped the paper, opened the box, and revealed a pink T-shirt with the words “World’s Greatest Aunt” silk-screened on the front in pale blue ink.
I looked at both of them helplessly “But I’ll be a sister, not an aunt.” I don’t know why I was jabbing at this point. What could it possibly matter?
My father should never have reproduced in the first place. Guthrie and I agreed on this when we were very small. We both held childhood fantasies that we’d been adopted, though our mother’s features were watermarked on our own. We both had her green eyes, her auburn hair. And now, of course, I’d inherited her thighs.
If not adoption, then perhaps there was a mystery in our past, we fantasized. Perhaps our father, so indifferent to us, was not our father at all. Maybe we were royalty!
Similar Books
