Chapter 1: The Corn Still On The Plate
The corn wasn't moving. I was holding the fork so tight my knuckles had gone white and the yellow kernels sat cold on the white plate in front of me. My dad's hands were over mine, warm and steady, trying to keep the fork from shaking. On the light marble floor by the cabinets the dog bowl sat orange and stainless steel and empty, and it made no sense why I was scared to eat when my stomach hurt from being hungry.
He'd pulled me close against his navy suit jacket and his white shirt smelled like coffee. The kitchen was bright with morning light coming through the windows, everything white and clean and quiet except for my breathing. He kept looking toward the hallway entrance behind us like he was waiting for something he didn't want to come.
That morning I was six and learned to hide food in my clothes
It was about eight fifteen. I remember the clock over the stove. Lauren came down the hallway toward the kitchen in her gray trousers and her beige shirt under the dark navy cardigan, her blonde hair pulled back tight the way she always wore it. She walked evenly, not fast, her shoes quiet on the marble. The daylight showed everything.
I felt the two strawberries in the front pocket of my pastel rainbow pajamas. They were small and fresh and I'd tucked them in there when she wasn't looking because she'd said I couldn't have them after dinner last night. The pocket bulged just a little. I tried to press my hand flat over it but my other hand was still trapped over the fork and plate of corn. Lauren stopped in the doorway. Her eyes went first to the plate, then to my pocket, then to my dad's hands over mine. Her face didn't change right away but her mouth got tight.
She stood there in the doorway with the light behind her and the kitchen suddenly felt smaller.
I couldn't breathe right. My dad's hand squeezed mine gently, like he wanted me to know he was there. I leaned into his leg and whispered it before I could stop myself, quiet so she might not hear, though she was already looking straight at me.
"Daddy, please don't tell her."
Lauren's head tilted a little. She took two steps into the kitchen. The marble made a soft sound under her shoes. She looked at my dad, then back at me, her expression still composed but her eyes starting to get wider.
"What's going on?"
My dad didn't let go of me. He straightened up a little and his voice was low and tense when he answered her. I could feel his chest rise and fall fast against my shoulder.
"She said food is a privilege."
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For a second nobody moved. The corn was still on the plate. The fork was still in my hand under his. Lauren's gaze dropped again to the bulge in my pocket. I shoved my hand deeper into the tie-dye fabric and felt the strawberries roll against my fingers, cold and damp. My pocket was stretched where they sat.
She took another half step closer, her hand just starting to lift like she was going to reach for me or for the pocket, and my dad shifted his body between us without letting go of my hand. The light kept coming in warm over the white cabinets and the dog bowl and the untouched plate, and the hallway behind her was still open, and none of us had moved far enough to end it.
