Chapter 3: The Diner on Highway 31
He didn't drive us home.
We turned off the county road and I thought we'd get on the highway toward our apartment, but Dad kept his blinker on and pulled into the parking lot of the Starlite Diner on Highway 31. It was the one with the big neon sign that buzzed even in the daytime. On Christmas night most of the lot was empty, just a couple of trucks and a little car with frost on the windshield. The windows were all lit up yellow and I could see someone had strung colored Christmas lights around the door.
He parked and cut the engine. He didn't get out right away. He just sat there with his hands on the wheel.
"You hungry?" he asked.
I nodded. I hadn't eaten anything at the table. Nobody had told me not to, there just hadn't been a plate for me.
Inside it was warm and smelled like coffee and grease. A waitress at the counter looked up when the bell over the door jingled. She was maybe fifty, with her hair pulled back, wearing a red apron over a green sweater. Her eyes went right to my dress.
"Well, look at you," she said. "Don't you look pretty. You come from a party?"
I didn't know what to say. My white tights had a little run near my ankle I hadn't noticed before. Dad put his hand on my shoulder.
"Family dinner ran long," he said. "You still serving?"
"Kitchen's open till ten, hon. Sit anywhere you like."
We slid into a booth by the window. The vinyl was cracked on the edge. The same Christmas centerpiece from our table was there but smaller, just plastic holly in a little vase. Dad helped me out of my coat and folded it beside him. He didn't take off his blazer. I could see the faint outline of the envelope still in his inside pocket when he moved.
The waitress brought us water and two menus that were sticky at the edges. She kept glancing at me when she thought I wasn't looking, at the three gold buttons on my dress.
"What can I get for the princess?" she asked me, not Dad.
I looked at Dad.
"She'll have the grilled cheese and tomato soup," he said. "And I'll have the same. And chocolate milk for her, black coffee for me."
"You got it," she said. "That velvet dress is gorgeous. My granddaughter has one just like it, only hers is green."
She smiled and left us. I watched her pour coffee at the counter. My hands were cold and I wrapped them around my water glass.
"Dad," I said. I had to say it quietly because the diner was so empty any sound carried. "Why was my chair next to the trash can?"
He didn't answer right away. He took a slow breath. I watched his jaw work the way it had in the car.
"Because Grandma put it there," he said.
"But why there? There was room at the table."
"I know."
He looked out the window at the dark highway. A car passed and its lights swept across our booth.
"Did you see it before I did?" I asked.
"Yes."
That hurt more than if he'd said no. I stared at the little vase of holly.
"Three weeks ago I called your grandma," he said. His voice was low and even. He wasn't making a speech, he was just telling me. "I told her on the phone. I said if she made you feel unwelcome, if she made you feel like you weren't my kid, we would leave. I told her exactly what would happen."
I thought about the name card on the table that said Grandma. The gold chargers and the snowmen with red hats. How there were enough places for the other kids in red plaid but not for me.
"So she knew?" I asked.
"Yeah, she knew," he said. He finally looked at me. His eyes were tired. "She did it anyway."
The waitress came back with our food on two white plates. The grilled cheese was cut diagonally and the soup was steaming. She set the chocolate milk down in front of me with a little extra straw.
"Here we go, sweetheart. Be careful, that soup's hot," she said. She paused. "You two doing okay tonight? You need anything else?"
"We're okay," Dad said. "Thank you."
She nodded like she understood not to ask again, and went back to wiping down the counter. I picked up half my sandwich. My hands weren't shaking anymore.
I understood then what Dad had done. He hadn't been surprised by the folding chair. He hadn't walked in and gotten mad in the moment. He had given Grandma a chance weeks before we ever got dressed for dinner. She had chosen the spot by the French doors anyway, next to the trash can, away from the table where everyone else was supposed to be.
May you like
It wasn't an accident that they forgot a chair. It wasn't that they ran out of plates. She had planned it that way even after Dad told her we would leave if she did.
I took a bite and the cheese stretched. Dad hadn't touched his soup yet. He was watching me eat, his coffee steaming untouched beside him. The envelope stayed in his pocket. He didn't mention it, and I didn't ask what was inside it. Outside, snow had started again, tiny flakes falling past the neon sign.
