Chapter 11 - Pancakes at the Corner Diner
I did not want to go back to the apartment right after the lady with the clipboard left. Dad must have known that, because he did not turn toward our street. He kept driving past the parking lot and turned into the little diner by the highway where the sign buzzed.
My arm hurt under the fresh wrap. I held my bear tight against my chest with my good arm so the gauze would not touch anything. Dad parked and came around to lift me out. He did not hurry me. He breathed slow through his nose when he set me down on the sidewalk.
Inside it smelled like coffee and grease and cold air from the door. The lights were bright and hummed a little. A waitress with a pink pen showed us to a booth by the window. The seat was cracked red plastic and cold on the backs of my legs.
Dad slid me to the inside so I would not fall. He set my bear up on the table against the napkin holder so it could see. "You keep him there," he said. "He gets a seat too."
I nodded and kept my fingers in his fur. That felt safer than holding on to the edge of the table.
The waitress asked what we wanted. Dad did not look at the big menu over the counter. He just said, "Two short stacks, one milk, one coffee. Bacon on the side." His tie was still loose from before and his sleeves were still rolled. His watch clinked when he reached for the menu to hand it back.
While we waited, I swung my feet and they did not touch the floor. Dad's hands were around his empty mug. He was looking out the window at the parking lot, but not really looking.
My arm throbbed when I moved it. I remembered what Vanessa had said in the bathroom. It had stayed in my head like a song I did not like. I looked down at my bear.
"Daddy," I said. I had to stop and swallow. "Was I too dramatic?"
He turned fast. His eyes moved to my face. He took a small breath before he talked, the way grown-ups do when they don't want to sound mad.
"No, baby," he said. His voice was low. "No. That hurt was real. You did right to tell me. You always tell me when it hurts."
I squeezed the bear. "But she said—"
"I know what she said," he said, gentle. He reached over and covered my hand with his. His hand was warm. "Listen to me. You were not dramatic. You were hurting."
Something loosened in my chest. I nodded because my throat felt tight.
The pancakes came and the steam went up off them. I stared at the steam. It reminded me of the bathroom. Warm and white and hard to see through. The smell of syrup was sweet but the steam made me remember.
"There was a lot of steam," I said. I talked slow because I was trying to see it again in my head. "The tub was loud. And Vanessa was... she was by the door. Talking."
Dad cut my pancakes into tiny pieces. He did not look up right away. "Talking?" he said, soft.
"On the phone," I said. "Her phone was lit up. I saw the light. She said hold on."
He paused with the fork in the air. He just nodded once. He did not ask what else she said or what number or any big question. He put the fork down on my plate and pushed it a little closer.
"Okay," he said. "Thank you for telling me that."
I ate two bites. The syrup stuck to my chin. Dad wiped it with a napkin without making a face. He ate standing up almost, leaning forward, checking my arm every minute to make sure I did not bump it on the table.
When the waitress brought the check, Dad paid cash from his wallet. He looked at the little paper for a long time. Then he folded it in half and then in half again and put it in the front pocket of his shirt, over his heart. I watched him pat it once.
"Can I keep the crayon?" I asked, because there was a green crayon by the kids menu.
May you like
"Yeah," he said. He helped me slide out of the booth with my good side first so my hurt arm would not hit. He carried my plate to the counter so the waitress would not have to walk far.
In the car, he buckled me in and set the bear on my lap. He sat for a second with his hands on the wheel before he started driving. He was breathing slow again.
