Chapter 8: Two Dinners Different Plates
Dinner smelled like chicken that night. Lauren had the oven on since five and the kitchen was warm. She had three white plates lined up on the counter by the stove, and I watched from my spot at the kitchen island where Dad told me to sit and color.
She moved the same way she always did when she was being careful. She put a big piece of chicken on the first plate, then green beans and carrots next to it. Same for the second plate. For the third plate, mine, she scooped a small spoonful of yellow corn in the middle. Just corn again. The corn made a little circle and didn't touch the edge of the plate.
The dog bowl was on the light marble floor by the back door, orange and stainless steel, full of kibble right up to the rim. I could see it from where I sat. The dog wasn't even inside.
Dad came in from the hallway in his navy suit jacket. He had taken his tie off and his white shirt was open at the top. He stood behind me for a second and put his hand on my shoulder. His hand was heavy and warm.
He looked at the three plates. I felt his fingers tighten just a little.
"I got this," he said. His voice was quiet.
Lauren didn't turn around. "I've got it handled."
"I know," Dad said. He walked to the counter anyway. He picked up my plate, the one with just the corn, and set it down next to the other two. He opened the pan again. He used the tongs and put a piece of chicken on my plate, the same size as the other two. Then he added the green beans and the carrots, making sure each pile looked even. He didn't say anything while he did it. His jaw was tight and he breathed through his nose.
Lauren finally turned. Her blonde hair was pulled back tight and her cardigan was buttoned all the way up. She looked at my plate, then at Dad.
"David," she said.
He slid my plate toward me across the island. "She eats what we eat," he said, low.
For a second nobody moved. I held my fork with both hands. The chicken smelled salty and a little buttery and my stomach made a noise. Dad had fixed it. The plate in front of me looked like his plate.
Lauren smiled, but it wasn't a real smile. Her mouth moved but her eyes stayed flat.
"We talked about this," she said. "She needs to earn her privileges. That's the chart. We're being consistent, remember?"
She said it calmly, like she was explaining something to a teacher. She picked up my plate with the chicken and vegetables, before I could touch it, and took it back to the counter. She picked up the small plate with just the corn that Dad had moved aside. She switched them. She put the small corn plate back in front of me and put the full plate where the small one had been, then she slid that full plate to the side, out of reach.
"Portions are privileges," she said quietly, not looking at me. "We don't want to confuse her."
Dad stared at her. His brow furrowed the way it did that morning in the kitchen. I saw his chest rise and hold. He opened his mouth, then looked down at me.
I didn't say anything. I knew not to. I looked down at the corn.
Dad's hand was still on my shoulder. He squeezed once, then let go. He didn't move the plate back. He just stood there next to me while Lauren carried the other two plates to the dining table.
We moved to the table. Lauren had put the white plates down with forks folded neatly on napkins. Dad sat next to me. Lauren sat across from us. The light from the kitchen made the marble floor shine and I could see the dog bowl from the table, still full.
Lauren cut her chicken and ate. Dad cut his too, but slowly. I picked up my fork and ate the corn, one kernel at a time. It was warm and soft and a little sweet. I chewed quietly and tried not to scrape the plate. Nobody talked for a while. The only sound was forks on plates.
There was a basket in the middle of the table with rolls. Lauren had put a cloth over them to keep them warm. The rolls were round and golden on top.
When Lauren stood up to get water from the fridge, Dad reached for the basket. He didn't look at Lauren. He picked up a roll and put it on the edge of my plate, right next to the corn. His hand moved fast but gentle, like he didn't want anyone to notice.
I looked at him. He gave me a tiny nod. Just his eyes.
I didn't eat the roll. Lauren came back with her water glass and sat down. She looked at my plate and saw the roll there. She didn't say anything at first. She just reached across the table, picked up the basket, and moved it closer to her, away from me.
"She already has her portion," she said to Dad, still quiet, still composed. "We can save those for lunch tomorrow."
Dad didn't argue. His shoulders were tight inside his jacket. He kept looking at my plate and then at the dog bowl on the floor.
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I ate the rest of my corn. I kept my head down. With my left hand under the table, I slipped the roll off my plate and into the front pocket of my pajamas. They were the same pastel rainbow tie-dye ones from the morning. The pocket was deep enough that the roll fit, warm against my leg. I pressed my hand there for a second to keep it still.
Lauren kept eating. Dad kept watching me eat. The dog bowl stayed full on the floor the whole time, and no one mentioned it.
