my breath until her footsteps retreated across the entry tile. I sniffed back tears and noticed the smell of bacon drifting under my door. I had totally pegged Aunt Terra and Uncle Esmun for vegetarians. Intrigued, I slipped into skinny jeans, a ribbed long-sleeved top, and flip-flops.
A quick stop in the spotless guest bathroom revealed an unwrapped bar of lavender soap made with organic oils. Instead of burning my cracked skin, it caressed and moisturized it. Revived, I headed for the kitchen.
"Morning, Ainslie." Uncle Esmun passed me a plate of French toast, generously dusted with powdered sugar.
"Thanks. Good morning." I couldn't remember the last time I had eaten breakfast with someone. It must have been at Jazmin's.
The dining room table, a low-end veneer Queen Anne reproduction with curving legs and claw feet, had been polished to a dull shine. I pulled out a chair and sat beneath the small overwrought chandelier. I could just picture our interior designer rolling her eyes and saying in her smoker's voice, "It's hideous. I'm afraid I'll break into hives just sitting here." Then she would have rubbed her arms and shivered.
"Organic maple syrup?" Uncle Esmun handed me a tiny ivory pitcher.
"Bacon?" Aunt Terra asked, bringing out a steamy plate from the tiny kitchen.
"Yes, please." One taste and I could tell it was top grade, applewood-smoked, and probably made from pigs raised without antibiotics or added hormones. I downed my anti-depressant and anti-anxiety meds with freshly squeezed orange juice. If a solicitous waiter had lurked at my elbow, I would have sworn I was brunching at the Ritz. Which made me worry Aunt Terra and Uncle Esmun had fried their food budget to impress me. "Everything looks delicious."
"I see the family sugar addiction got you too," Aunt Terra said as I practically licked the powdered sugar off my French toast.
"Big time," I answered between bites. I didn't care what anyone said — sometimes cupcakes were hugs. The trick was self-discipline.
Jazmin and I had strict rules regarding food. We never brought a bag of chips or platter of cupcakes to the table — or worse, to the television. Way too easy to mindlessly graze. Instead, we would put a handful of chips on a plate or a cupcake on a napkin. That way, we had to think about whether or not we truly wanted or needed more. If the answer was yes, then we still had to get up off the floor (Mom would freak if we sat on the silk sofas), and drag our sorry butts to the kitchen.
"Eat up, ladies," Uncle Esmun said in his island accent. "We roll in forty-five minutes."
As if I could get ready for the mysterious Jett in so little time. I didn't care, of course. Instead, I wondered if Mom and Dad had boarded their ship yet.
"What's your workshop about?" I expected them to say astral projection, shamanic drumming, or something dangerous, like seven ways to stop a vampire.
Aunt Terra swallowed some juice, then said, "Conscious eating."
"What?" Uncle Esmun's voice raised half an octave.
"You know, dear. You have to eat in silence and be mindful of every bite."
There hadn't been much joking around since Mom and Dad had become verbal gladiators, so I almost missed the sly, play-along-with-me look Aunt Terra threw Uncle Esmun.
"Oh, right." Uncle Esmun stabbed a piece of French toast. "Which is why I be eating as much as I can now."
"Truly?" I wavered between playing along and showing them I was more astute than I appeared.
Uncle Esmun regarded me for a moment while he chewed. Actually, his glance was focused on a point just beyond me, as if he was reading my aura or something. He jabbed his fork in my direction. "Almost had you going!" He flashed a huge, moon-colored grin, then slipped another piece of French toast into his mouth. Aunt Terra stood and planted a syrupy kiss on his cheek.
I tried to picture Mom kissing Dad in the same way.
"Think she'll like Jett?" Uncle Esmun asked.
Aunt Terra sat down again and broke off a piece of bacon.
A quick stop in the spotless guest bathroom revealed an unwrapped bar of lavender soap made with organic oils. Instead of burning my cracked skin, it caressed and moisturized it. Revived, I headed for the kitchen.
"Morning, Ainslie." Uncle Esmun passed me a plate of French toast, generously dusted with powdered sugar.
"Thanks. Good morning." I couldn't remember the last time I had eaten breakfast with someone. It must have been at Jazmin's.
The dining room table, a low-end veneer Queen Anne reproduction with curving legs and claw feet, had been polished to a dull shine. I pulled out a chair and sat beneath the small overwrought chandelier. I could just picture our interior designer rolling her eyes and saying in her smoker's voice, "It's hideous. I'm afraid I'll break into hives just sitting here." Then she would have rubbed her arms and shivered.
"Organic maple syrup?" Uncle Esmun handed me a tiny ivory pitcher.
"Bacon?" Aunt Terra asked, bringing out a steamy plate from the tiny kitchen.
"Yes, please." One taste and I could tell it was top grade, applewood-smoked, and probably made from pigs raised without antibiotics or added hormones. I downed my anti-depressant and anti-anxiety meds with freshly squeezed orange juice. If a solicitous waiter had lurked at my elbow, I would have sworn I was brunching at the Ritz. Which made me worry Aunt Terra and Uncle Esmun had fried their food budget to impress me. "Everything looks delicious."
"I see the family sugar addiction got you too," Aunt Terra said as I practically licked the powdered sugar off my French toast.
"Big time," I answered between bites. I didn't care what anyone said — sometimes cupcakes were hugs. The trick was self-discipline.
Jazmin and I had strict rules regarding food. We never brought a bag of chips or platter of cupcakes to the table — or worse, to the television. Way too easy to mindlessly graze. Instead, we would put a handful of chips on a plate or a cupcake on a napkin. That way, we had to think about whether or not we truly wanted or needed more. If the answer was yes, then we still had to get up off the floor (Mom would freak if we sat on the silk sofas), and drag our sorry butts to the kitchen.
"Eat up, ladies," Uncle Esmun said in his island accent. "We roll in forty-five minutes."
As if I could get ready for the mysterious Jett in so little time. I didn't care, of course. Instead, I wondered if Mom and Dad had boarded their ship yet.
"What's your workshop about?" I expected them to say astral projection, shamanic drumming, or something dangerous, like seven ways to stop a vampire.
Aunt Terra swallowed some juice, then said, "Conscious eating."
"What?" Uncle Esmun's voice raised half an octave.
"You know, dear. You have to eat in silence and be mindful of every bite."
There hadn't been much joking around since Mom and Dad had become verbal gladiators, so I almost missed the sly, play-along-with-me look Aunt Terra threw Uncle Esmun.
"Oh, right." Uncle Esmun stabbed a piece of French toast. "Which is why I be eating as much as I can now."
"Truly?" I wavered between playing along and showing them I was more astute than I appeared.
Uncle Esmun regarded me for a moment while he chewed. Actually, his glance was focused on a point just beyond me, as if he was reading my aura or something. He jabbed his fork in my direction. "Almost had you going!" He flashed a huge, moon-colored grin, then slipped another piece of French toast into his mouth. Aunt Terra stood and planted a syrupy kiss on his cheek.
I tried to picture Mom kissing Dad in the same way.
"Think she'll like Jett?" Uncle Esmun asked.
Aunt Terra sat down again and broke off a piece of bacon.
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