Page 54 of Pity Play

“Maybe.”

She smiles before reaching out to take me in her arms. Giving me a firm hug she says, “You can’t win a race if you don’t take the first step.”

“I love you, Mom,” I tell her. “Thank you for finally giving me a clue about how to get us through this.”

“I’m pretty sure you would have eventually gotten on the right path.” Then she teases, “I just didn’t want to have to wait another twenty years before you did.”

“Ha, ha.” Stepping out of her embrace, I tell her, “I’ll be at Pop’s until about eight. Call me if you need anything and I’ll be right over.”

“I think we’ll be fine,” she says. “I’m going to sleep on the roll out couch next to your dad, so I’ll be there if he needs me. But we’ll look forward to seeing you in the morning.”

“Anything special you want for breakfast?”

“Whatever your dad made for you when you were little,” she says. “Exactly how he made it.”

“Yes, ma’am.” I make a mental note to pick up all the fixings for french toast on my way over.

As my mom walks me to the front door, I stop and turn back to look at my dad. “I’m so glad he’s going to be okay. I’m going to do everything in my power to heal our relationship.”

“Everything?” she wants to know.

“I’m going to work my butt off,” I tell her without giving her the real assurance she’s looking for. I love my dad, but my life is still in Chicago. And shouldn’t I be given the same right to choose where I live just like my parents did?

My afternoon at Pop’s flies by. Cooking here is something I can do on automatic pilot, and as much as I claim to want more than that, I’m currently enjoying the robotic motions of serving up diner food to the citizens of Elk Lake. I particularly like it when the old folks come in before bingo. They’re very animated and sociable even if there’s a startling number of requests for no salt in their food.

I can see why so many people think retiring here is a good idea. There’s got to be comfort heading into your senior years surrounded by people you’ve known your whole life. Having saidthat, I’m nowhere near retirement, so I don’t currently feel that lure.

Jim comes off break at five, which is peak early bird time. We work in tandem for an hour before we finally get a lull. That’s when I ask him, “What do you know about my dad’s childhood?”

His hand stalls mid burger flip. “I know some.”

“Did you know that he was an orphan?”

“I did,” Jim says.

“Did you know he used to have a brother?”

Jim nods. “Yup.”

“What I can’t help but wonder,” I tell him, “is why my dad told you this stuff and not me and Kelsey?”

Jim finishes cooking the burger. “He didn’t have to tell me. I was there.”

“Excuse me?”

With a shrug, he says, “I was best friends with your dad’s older brother, Bobby.” He explains, “After their parents died, Bobby got adopted by our neighbors.”

“How did he die?” There was no indication in my dad’s memory book.

Jim picks up a napkin and wipes his brow. “We were playing basketball out in the street. Some drunken fool came down the road and plowed right into Bobby. It was plain awful.”

“I’m so sorry, Jim.” I wait a beat before asking, “How did you get to know my dad?”

“He lived with his new family in the town next to ours. I waited awhile, then I sent him a letter and told him that if he ever needed anything I was there for him.”

“Had you met him before?” I want to know.

“Nah, but I knew his story and I loved his brother like he was my own. You take care of your own.”

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