Chapter 8
I came back to the table and nothing had been touched.
That was what struck me first. The white tablecloth was still smooth, the gold chargers catching the chandelier light, the two plates clean, the two wine glasses full to the same line where I'd poured them earlier. The little vase of white roses sat in the middle, untouched. In a restaurant that prided itself on turning tables, our corner had gone still while I was in the back, and the rest of the dining room seemed to be pretending we weren't there.
He looked up when he saw me. His shoulders were still tight inside that black suit, but he didn't stand.
His mother saw me a second later and her face changed. She lifted her hands right away, before I even reached the table.
She signed slowly, like she wanted to make sure I caught every word. Thank you for coming back.
I signed back, Of course, and pulled the side chair out just enough so I could sit at an angle where both of them could see me. My manager's voice was still in my head from the kitchen — you can go back, but you don't advocate, you translate — but the chair was already warm from where I'd been sitting before.
She glanced at her son, then back to me, and started again. Her hands were steady now, no tremor like in the first few minutes. This is my first dinner out since my husband died.
I felt my breath catch and I made sure my hands didn't falter when I voiced it. "She says this is her first dinner out since her husband died."
He didn't look at her when I said it. He looked at the wine glass in front of her. His jaw worked once.
"When?" he asked, quiet.
I turned it into sign for her. She answered without looking away from me.
Eight months, she signed. He liked to eat at home. I did not want to come out alone. My son asked me for a long time.
I voiced it for him, word for word.
He exhaled through his nose and finally reached for his own glass, but didn't drink. He just turned the stem between his fingers. The wine inside didn't move much, thick in the low light.
"I booked this place," he said, and his voice was lower now, meant for me to carry. "I thought — I thought if I brought her somewhere nice, somewhere that felt important, it would show her I was serious about making it up to her. Being busy. Not calling enough after Dad."
I signed it to her as he spoke, keeping his phrasing. His hands stayed on the glass.
She watched me, then watched him. Her eyes narrowed, not in anger, but in that way people do when they're trying to understand something that doesn't quite fit.
This is not my place, she signed. Too dark. Too quiet. Too many forks. I wanted the diner on Main where your father and I went. Where I can see people's faces.
I didn't soften it. I said it exactly as she signed it. "She says this isn't her place. Too dark, too quiet, too many forks. She wanted the diner on Main where she and your father went. Where she can see people's faces."
He winced. It was small, just around his eyes, but I saw it.
"I didn't know that," he said. "She said yes when I made the reservation."
I turned to her and signed, He says you said yes to the reservation.
She gave a short, soft laugh that moved her shoulders once. I said yes to dinner with my son, she signed. Not to chandeliers. I thought you would pick where I could be comfortable. I did not want to seem ungrateful.
I voiced that too, and his hand tightened on the glass but still didn't lift it to drink. Neither glass had been touched the whole time I'd been gone. Two full pours, red and still.
"He picked this place to impress you," I told her, signing and speaking both, because he needed to hear how I shaped it. "Not to make you comfortable. He realizes that now."
She nodded, slow, and reached out. Not to me this time, but to the little vase between us. She touched one of the white roses with her fingertip, just the edge of a petal.
Your father always bought me one flower from the gas station, she signed to him, through me. One. Not twelve in a gold vase. One was enough because he remembered.
I said it out loud. The room was so quiet I could hear the clink of a plate being set down three tables over.
He stared at the roses, then at his mother's hand, then at me. "Tell her I'm trying to honor him," he said. "Tell her I thought expensive meant respectful. I was wrong."
I signed it. She looked at him for a long moment, her hand still on that rose, and then she signed back.
May you like
I know you are trying, she signed. But I am still here. Honor me while I am here.
I voiced it, and the wine glasses stayed full between them, catching the light and waiting.
