Page 96 of Nothing Less than Magic
I don’t remember seeing any signage, just a nondescript beach shack that could’ve just as easily been a bait shop. It seems like a strange place to break bread after the heaviness of the cemetery, especially because Lolly is always bragging on social media about the trendy, albeit expensive, restaurants she patronizes. But I don’t say anything, just happy that she’s changed her mind about having lunch.
“Do you come here often?”
“A few times a week.”
I store this new revelation about my sister away for the moment, realizing that she has this whole life that I know nothing about. A whole life that isn’t carefully curated for her public persona.
I flip open the menu and peruse the burger section, which is as tired as the décor. But hey, who doesn’t love a good patty melt?
“What do you like here?” I ask her.
“The tuna salad sandwich and the potato salad.”
My reaction is visceral. All at once, I’m back at our kitchen in Porter Ranch. My mother’s favorite dishes (Franciscan Desert Rose) are on the table, scooped high with my father’s homemade potato salad and a tuna salad sandwich that he cut into the shape of a fish. He made it specially for us.
“Don’t,” she says.
“I’m not.” But I’m wiping my eyes with one of the restaurant’s thin paper napkins. “Thank you for bringing me here.”
She waves to get Shaggy Hair’s attention and holds up two fingers.
“You’re leaving tomorrow.” She says it as an accusation rather than a statement of fact.
“I’ve put off work long enough. I had to cancel quite a few speaking engagements because of the accident. All of them need to be rescheduled. It’s daunting, really.”
“Don’t you have people for that?”
“Just Ronnie, my assistant.” I’ve always run a tight ship.
“So all that stuff you said about me finding happiness and you helping me was a load of crap.”
“No, it wasn’t. But it’s not like I can stay here forever. I’ve got to work, Lolly. Unlike you, I have bills to pay.”
“Unlike me? What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Oh, for God’s sake, you’re just looking for ways to start a fight, aren’t you? Let me point out that you’re not exactly the sister of the year, either. You left me lying in a hospital bed without so much as a goodbye or even a get well soon.”
“I came, which is more than I can say for you.”
“I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you during your divorce. I’m deeply ashamed for that, Lolly. Can we please put this behind us and move forward?”
She doesn’t commit one way or another, but I see cracks in her tough exterior. And that gives me hope.
“Would you and the kids like to come and stay with me at the lake cabin? It’s in this great town called Ghost. You guys would get such a kick out of it.”
Our food comes, giving her a temporary reprieve.
She points at my plate. “Taste it.”
The sandwich is not cut in the shape of a fish, but it’s made with the same kind of bread my father used to use. Thick slices of white. There’s a pickle spear on the side of the plate that reminds me of the jarred dills Dad would slice in half to garnish our sandwiches.
I take a bite, my eyes close, and I’m instantly a child again.
Lolly smiles. “Now the potato salad.”
I lift a forkful to my mouth, and I’m home again, with all the familiar sounds and smells of my childhood house. It’s resonance. The phenomenon where something as simple as the taste of a tuna sandwich and a bite of potato salad triggers a memory that’s been stored in the brain from the original experience, i.e. the first time Dad made us this meal. In other words, my neural pathways are going nuts.
Lolly won’t say it, but I’ve already deduced that this is where she comes for comfort. This is where she comes to remember our parents. The good stuff, only the good stuff.
