Page 1 of Compassion

Chapter 1

Jaye

Moms don’t reallyalwaysknow best, but let’s keep that between me and you, okay? Oh! Oh no! If you’re a mom, I really didn’t mean to offend you. I’m sorry! I am so, so sorry! I probably should’ve been more specific and saidmymother doesn’t always know best. Words and sentence structure matter. I know this. I literally get paid to knowandteach this to an extent.

“Don’t slouch, Jaye,” my mother, Margaret Jenkins, not-so-gently reminds me at the same time she places a plate of gourmet eggplant parmesan in front of me. “It’s unbecoming,andit’s terrible for your back. Keep that up, and next thing you know, you’ll be going to see Dr. Smiley for a visit.” She twists the plate to a more picture-perfect position prior to flicking her thick, wavy, caramel locks away from her honey, tawny skinned face. “And while smile may be in his name, you can rest assured, going to see an orthopedic physician will leave you withnothingto smile about.”

“I don’t know,” Charles Jenkins, my father, nonchalantly argues while leaning back in his stool seat, dark hickory hands folding together in his lap. “Hedoeshave the best candy jar in the game, Mags.” His dark brown stare shoots me a small wink. “Freshest Whoppers in all of Highland. He leaves me with no choice but to confiscate at least a handful on behalf of the good people in this city.”

And this is what makes my dad so damn magical. An entire city full of people to serve and protect yet he always, always starts at home with me.

“Neither younor Jayeneed any more Whoppers in your life,” she scolds as she puts his plate down in front of him.

“Candy or burgers?” Dad playfully pokes.

“Both.” Her snip is given to him on an unhappy glare before she relocates the disapproval my direction. “And speaking of things you should be avoiding, you need to be careful about adding extra cheese to your dish tonight.” The expression of discontent deepens. “Not only could eating too muchincreaseyour risk of high cholesterol and high blood pressure therefore increasing your risk of a heart attack – something to always have in the back of your mind even at twenty-nine – but also your pants are beginning to look a little…snug.”

You know it’s bad when your doctor says shit like this to you during a yearly physical, yet when your mom says it, your mom who isalsoa doctor – a thoracic surgeon to be more exact – the low blow pain is much,muchharsher. It’s pretty much a kidney shot. It hurts so bad that you wanna scream bloody murder but can’t. I also wanna tell her that I could’ve bought these pants this way! That maybe they aren’t fitting tighter because I’ve had one too many snowmen shaped cookies from the children at school who gave me some as a holiday treat! Whatever the case may be – fashion or frosting – extra cheese would be just fine on this Gordon Ramsey inspired meal. I’m not going to explode, although if I keep bottling up all my feelings like this I mayimplode.See. Words matter.

“Now,” Mom begins during her stroll back into the main portion of the kitchen where her plate is waiting to be relocated, “what was I saying before all this?”

That you think your daughter is going to turn into The Hunchback of Notre-Dame if she doesn’t straighten her spine. Oh…maybe that should be a book we read for book club! The adults the version by Victor Hugo – great writer – and the children the Disney adaptation. I’m sure it exists. Disney basically has a book foreverythingthey make animated.

“Something about the Phillipsons,” Dad loudly reminds yet quietly adds, “who are also probably to thank for whatever this shit is.” His confused expression meets mine on a barely above a whisper snap, “What the fuck is this?”

After cutting a quick glance to where my mother is snapping a social media shot of the dish that she created, I answer at the same volume, “Eggplant parmesan.”

His thick eyebrows pull together. “Did the grocery store stop selling pasta?”

“Not that I know of.”

A low unhappy grumble begins. “Is there at leastmeathidden in this leaning tower of veggie?”

I slowly shake my head which causes the low mumbles to get louder.

“What’s that?” Mom asks in tandem with finally picking her plate up. “Did you say something?”

“Bread?” Dad swiftly investigates, in desperate need of something high in calories. “Is there garlic bread to go with this, Mags?”

“Of course,” his wife warmly coos while reaching for an additional dish. “What kind of monster serves Italian without garlic bread?”

Should we really call this shit Italian? Wouldn’t they riot in disgust at whatever this cooking channel class project is?

“Not one I would ever marry,” Dad lovingly teases upon her arrival.

She beams brightly, places the bread near him, and slides onto the stool that’s at his side.

I swear she isn’t always the big, bad, waistline wolf. She isn’t always dead set on huffing and puffing and blowing away all my self-esteem.

“I wishwewere having grandchildren like Lucy,” she sighs as her grip leaves her plate to grab her glass of white wine. “Unwrapping a box with the sonogram inside would’ve been so,” her hand clutches her dark blouse covered chest, “special.”

Yeah, she’s just that way…mostof the time. You know like during months that have at least thirty days in them.

“I always just assumed I would be a grandmother by now. At least to myfirstgrandchild.”

The pause she takes may in actuality be brief yet feels like eons.

Literal.

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