"
Swosh.!"Ihe water sloshes out of the pitcher, rinsing the meatball and
soaking my jeans.
A normal person would have screamed and jumped up.
I am not normal.
I sit there. Exhale. Take the dishtowel hanging from JACK's apron
and mop it up, all the while being stared at by not only the whole restaurant but also two men with their mouths wide open.
"Oh my gosh," JACK says again.
I give him the towel. "Ready to leave, Dad?" I chirp.
"Sure, Honey."
Dad sets a couple of bills on the table and gives JACK a withering
look. I smile at him. "Have a good night."
I put my coat on, but it doesn't reach low enough. A big circle of water
and a few flecks of spaghetti sauce mar the entire front of my pants.
How embarrassing. Mostly for JACK, I think.
Dad opens the door for me and a blast of cold January wind hits
my pants and immediately freezes them solid. Sitting is going to be
an issue.
"Here, Honey." Dad opens the car door.
"Th-thanks, Da-ad." My teeth chatter. Being wet outside in January
is miserable.
"Oh dear. You'll catch your death. Get in."
He drives to the studio to pick up my car, coming very close to
breaking the speed limit. My dad always drives ten miles under. He's the
old guy in the Mustang no one feels they can pass. Never ceases to drive
me nuts. I follow him home as best I can.
"Get out, get out." He grabs my arm and hustles me into the house,
into the living room, and onto the couch, where he pulls out a big afghan
Laney made and wraps it around me mummylike.
"I'll make you some tea." He disappears before I can protest.
Lemongrass. Blegh.
Coffee sounds good. Vanilla coffee. Lots of sugar. Whipped cream.
Steaming, warm, sweet.
"Here you go." Dad passes me a mug full of thick, pale sludge. It
smells so strong my eyes start watering.
"I put honey in there because I know you like things sweet."
What is it with putting honey in drinks to sweeten them? Just put in
God-given sugar for Pete's sake.
"Thanks," I say, because I'm nice. I take a sip and gag, but disguise it
as a cough, which is a bad idea.
"Oh land. You're coughing now. This is not good. Not good at all."
He leaves the room and comes back with his hands full of antibacterial
room spray, hand gel, and wipes. He sets to work immediately, wiping
down door handles, spraying the nose-tickling stuff in my face, and
smothering my hands with the goop.
Yuck.
Friday ends with a hot bath and then another round from the sanitation department of my household. I get in bed and don't move the whole
night - mostly because the glop didn't dry completely and is now stuck
to the sheets.
Chapter
Seven
Monday morning I wake up feeling convicted.
I hate it when that happens.
Stephen Weatherby has to know how casually I'm approaching this.
Period. No exceptions.
I slide out of bed and pludge to the bathroom.
Here's what I like to do: Make up words. Pludge: (v) The halfwalking, half-dragging of oneself. Designated for sleepiness, laziness,
and Laurie-ness.
I brush my teeth and decide to skip the hair regimen. I believe ponytail elastics exist to show the kindness of God.
Dad is halfway through the paper, and my breakfast is on the table.
"Morning, Honey. Are you feeling better yet? Here, take this." He
hands me two caplets of vitamin C, three immune-building pills, and a
mug of muck.
"Thanks, Dad."
Even though this is the fourth cup of gag-me stuff I've had in the
past four days, I still swallow it with difficulty and wash it down with
four cups of coffee and two bowls of Coco-Odies.
Coco-Odies: The only cereal where you can actually OD on chocolate. I'm pretty sure that's how the name was picked.
"Bye, Dad."
"Have a good day at work, Laurie-girl."
I walk into work at nine o'clock and fourteen seconds, cringing, my ears
preparing themselves for the verbal lashing I have coming.
"Morning, Laurie."
"Hey, Hannah."
I look around. "Where's Ruby?" I ask. Again.
Hannah brushes her hair out of her eyes. "She's
Swosh.!"Ihe water sloshes out of the pitcher, rinsing the meatball and
soaking my jeans.
A normal person would have screamed and jumped up.
I am not normal.
I sit there. Exhale. Take the dishtowel hanging from JACK's apron
and mop it up, all the while being stared at by not only the whole restaurant but also two men with their mouths wide open.
"Oh my gosh," JACK says again.
I give him the towel. "Ready to leave, Dad?" I chirp.
"Sure, Honey."
Dad sets a couple of bills on the table and gives JACK a withering
look. I smile at him. "Have a good night."
I put my coat on, but it doesn't reach low enough. A big circle of water
and a few flecks of spaghetti sauce mar the entire front of my pants.
How embarrassing. Mostly for JACK, I think.
Dad opens the door for me and a blast of cold January wind hits
my pants and immediately freezes them solid. Sitting is going to be
an issue.
"Here, Honey." Dad opens the car door.
"Th-thanks, Da-ad." My teeth chatter. Being wet outside in January
is miserable.
"Oh dear. You'll catch your death. Get in."
He drives to the studio to pick up my car, coming very close to
breaking the speed limit. My dad always drives ten miles under. He's the
old guy in the Mustang no one feels they can pass. Never ceases to drive
me nuts. I follow him home as best I can.
"Get out, get out." He grabs my arm and hustles me into the house,
into the living room, and onto the couch, where he pulls out a big afghan
Laney made and wraps it around me mummylike.
"I'll make you some tea." He disappears before I can protest.
Lemongrass. Blegh.
Coffee sounds good. Vanilla coffee. Lots of sugar. Whipped cream.
Steaming, warm, sweet.
"Here you go." Dad passes me a mug full of thick, pale sludge. It
smells so strong my eyes start watering.
"I put honey in there because I know you like things sweet."
What is it with putting honey in drinks to sweeten them? Just put in
God-given sugar for Pete's sake.
"Thanks," I say, because I'm nice. I take a sip and gag, but disguise it
as a cough, which is a bad idea.
"Oh land. You're coughing now. This is not good. Not good at all."
He leaves the room and comes back with his hands full of antibacterial
room spray, hand gel, and wipes. He sets to work immediately, wiping
down door handles, spraying the nose-tickling stuff in my face, and
smothering my hands with the goop.
Yuck.
Friday ends with a hot bath and then another round from the sanitation department of my household. I get in bed and don't move the whole
night - mostly because the glop didn't dry completely and is now stuck
to the sheets.
Chapter
Seven
Monday morning I wake up feeling convicted.
I hate it when that happens.
Stephen Weatherby has to know how casually I'm approaching this.
Period. No exceptions.
I slide out of bed and pludge to the bathroom.
Here's what I like to do: Make up words. Pludge: (v) The halfwalking, half-dragging of oneself. Designated for sleepiness, laziness,
and Laurie-ness.
I brush my teeth and decide to skip the hair regimen. I believe ponytail elastics exist to show the kindness of God.
Dad is halfway through the paper, and my breakfast is on the table.
"Morning, Honey. Are you feeling better yet? Here, take this." He
hands me two caplets of vitamin C, three immune-building pills, and a
mug of muck.
"Thanks, Dad."
Even though this is the fourth cup of gag-me stuff I've had in the
past four days, I still swallow it with difficulty and wash it down with
four cups of coffee and two bowls of Coco-Odies.
Coco-Odies: The only cereal where you can actually OD on chocolate. I'm pretty sure that's how the name was picked.
"Bye, Dad."
"Have a good day at work, Laurie-girl."
I walk into work at nine o'clock and fourteen seconds, cringing, my ears
preparing themselves for the verbal lashing I have coming.
"Morning, Laurie."
"Hey, Hannah."
I look around. "Where's Ruby?" I ask. Again.
Hannah brushes her hair out of her eyes. "She's
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