Page 58 of Every Good Thing
“Mom, look. Dad’s letting me rot my brain,” Ruthie tattles, pointing at the princess movie on TV. Catching my stern gaze, she shrugs. “He told me not to let the princess part go to my head, though.”
Her smile grows. “That’s good. Hungry for dinner?”
“What’re we having?”
Lena gives her a coy look. “A Ruthie special.”
Her face goes wide with delight. She spits “spaghetti” in a single syllable. I laugh—I can’t help it, and the room feels like home again—not a waiting room for an unwanted appointment.
Chuckling, Lena empties the bag one-handed, revealing each ingredient to her captive audience. Ruthie loves helping with dinner, but given my work schedule, I don’t get to see their dinner game very often. With each unveiling, she steps toward the kitchen, until finally climbing onto a barstool and leaning half her body across the counter.
“First, we start the sauce,” she declares, holding up a wooden spoon with authority.
Lena gets out a cutting board, knife, onion, and green pepper. She attempts to hold the pepper with her injured hand and cut it with the other, but it spins out from under her loose grip.
“Let me help.” I rise from the table. My eyes need a break anyway.
Lena moves aside, saying nothing, and busies herself with a more manageable task—boiling water for the noodles.
I sympathize—the inability to do what should be easy poses a mental challenge. She’s not used to it. Not like I am. Her frustration grows with each difficult action, even when I step in to help. No one wants to depend on help. At least her affliction is temporary.
Over dinner, not much is said. Lena seems reluctant to engage us like usual. But finally, she fills the void with, “Tomorrow’s Sunday, and it’s our first day off together in ages. Let’s do something fun. I thought we could—”
“I’m working.”
Her shoulders fall. “On a Sunday? You never work on Sundays.”
“Making up for time lost.” I don’t tell her I called my captain and asked for a shift. I’m not proud of this. Or her disappointment.
But work provides a good distraction. Besides, she’s done this to me a hundred times.
“What shift?” she tries, her voice duller than usual. “Maybe we could do something before or after.”
“Mid.”
“How about Ruthie and I bring you dinner, then? We could meet at the park like we used to.”
“The one with the gators?” Ruthie gushes.
“Yes, gator park,” Lena says. Her eyes land on mine, softly pleading. “Will you come gator spotting with us, Ben?”
A lump forms in my throat. “Can’t. I’m working a concert at the amphitheater downtown.”
“Oh, Ben. A concert? That won’t be good for you,” she says and half-signs together.
“I’ll be fine.”
“Can we go to church with Auntie Dot and Aunt Barb?” Ruthie asks. She shouldn’t call them Auntie or Aunt, especially not Mrs. Moore, but I’ve given up correcting her. She’s claimed Dot as her Auntie; by extension, Mrs. Moore is Aunt Barb.
“Sure.” Lena collects dirty dishes and takes them into the kitchen, swallowing her disappointment.
She attempts no further discussion, even after Ruthie goes to bed.
No talking.
No interrogation.
Maybe she’s broken.
