Chapter 14
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
LUKE
I feel even less optimistic walking into the hospital today than I did yesterday. So much so, I’m tempted to turn around and go straight to the diner. I remind myself that the main reason for my being in Elk Lake is not work. I’m here to repair things with my dad. The problem is I don’t know how to do that if he won’t meet me halfway.
Stopping off in the gift shop, I buy my dad his favorite candy bar along with a spy novel. He always complains he doesn’t have time to read. The way things stand now, he has nothing but time.
I take the elevator up to the third floor with as much excitement as if I were ascending to the hangman’s platform. As soon as the doors open, I walk out and run into my old friend Tony.
“Luke, hi. You here to see your dad?”
“I’m sure not here for the fun of it,” I tell him. Making a face, I ask, “How’s he doing, anyway?”
Tony grimaces. “He’s in a lot of pain and he’s frustrated to be stuck in traction.”
“So, delightful as always?” I predict .
“I remember your dad being a pretty cool guy,” he says. “He’s just in a bad place right now.”
I’m not going to talk about my father’s personality shift these last years, so I ask, “Is there anything else you can do for him?”
Tony shakes his head. “Unfortunately, he just has to get through it. I’m sure it helps having you and your mom here though.”
I’m pretty sure he’s wrong about my part in my dad’s recovery. If nothing else, I’m probably raising his blood pressure to an alarming degree. “I guess I’ll go see him.”
I take a step forward as Tony says, “Let me know if you want me to order you a breakfast.”
While I am hungry, neither Lorelai’s attempt at cinnamon buns nor hospital food are what I consider enticing options. “Thanks, Tony, but I’m good.” Then I walk toward my dad’s room.
Peeking my head in, I confirm that my mom isn’t there. I didn’t think she would be, but I would have welcomed the buffer. “Hey, Dad,” I say, trying to sound happier than I feel.
“Luke,” he grumbles. “What are you doing here?”
Striding toward the bed, I tell him, “I’m here to see you. You did just fall off a roof.”
“I thought you’d have gone back to Chicago by now.” He’s as friendly as an ax murderer.
“Nope,” I tell him. “I’m planning to stay for a while.”
“Why?” There is no pleasing this man.
“Even if you don’t need me, Mom does. She’s never going to leave your side if she doesn’t have someone she trusts to sit with you.”
He tips his head to the side and scans the room. “She’s not here now.”
“That’s because she knew I was coming,” I tell him. “I told her to sleep in.”
My dad appears slightly chagrined like he hadn’t been thinking of the toll his accident is taking on my mom. With a grunt, he says, “Fine. Sit down. We can watch the television. ”
I did not come all this way to sit and watch TV, but even so, it sounds like a decent diversion from having to keep up my end of this painful conversation. “What do you want to watch?” I ask while moving a chair closer to his bed so I can reach the remote attached to his side table.
“Whatever you want,” he says. “I’m going to take a nap.” He immediately closes his eyes and pretends to fall asleep.
Instead of turning on the TV, I sit down and open the spy novel I got for him. After reading the first paragraph six times, I come to the realization I’m not retaining any information. Closing the book, I look at my dad’s still figure. I can tell he’s asleep for real because his mouth is hanging half open as it always does once unconsciousness claims him.
He’s starting to look old. Graying temples and laugh lines around his eyes aren’t the only giveaway. Long wrinkles are forming on his cheeks that make him look almost gaunt. Scanning the rest of him, I notice that he weighs considerably less than he did a couple of years ago.
I have spent very little time thinking about my parents’ age, but it occurs to me there are no guarantees in life, and every day is a gift. Standing up, I walk out the door and look for Tony. I find him typing away at his computer.
“Hey, man,” I say. “Any chance I can get a cup of coffee?”
He looks up and points to the door closest to him. “That’s the nurses’ station. You can grab yourself a cup in there.”
I walk in the direction he indicated and am happy to find a Keurig machine. Brewing myself a fresh cup, I consider ways I can connect with my dad. Once my coffee comes down, I add the sugar and then go back to his room. I’m surprised when his eyelids flutter open.
“I thought you left.” Is it me or does he sound disappointed that I didn’t?
“Nope, just got a cup of coffee.” I extend my hand in offering. “You want one?”
He shakes his head. “Nah, I’m good. ”
I sit down on the chair next to him. “I was just thinking about the summer when I turned eight. Remember how we caught all those bullheads?”
His mouth turns up nearly imperceptibly. “They sure were delicious. Although, I started to get sick of them after five straight dinners.”
I reminisce fondly, “We ate corn on the cob with each one and some kind of blueberry dessert that Mom made.”
“You can’t beat seasonal food,” he says. For a moment it feels like we’ve declared a small truce and it’s nice.
“You ever serve bullhead up at that restaurant of yours?” Now he sounds angry.
I don’t take the bait to fight. Instead, I tell him, “We rely more on catfish or trout. Although, I have a butter-sautéed sole on the menu that melts in your mouth.”
“You ever blacken that catfish?” he wants to know.
“Almost always,” I tell him. “That’s how you taught me, so that’s how I serve it.”
His head bobs slightly. “You serve it with coleslaw?”
“Mashed potatoes,” I tell him.
“Why on earth would you do that?”
“It fits the vibe of Capon better.”
“You mean it’s fancier than coleslaw?” He sounds offended on coleslaw’s behalf, which is ridiculous.
“Sometimes we serve it with fried green tomatoes,” I tell him.
His eyebrows raise in surprise. “How do you make those fancy?”
“You don’t. I make them with cornmeal, buttermilk, garlic and onion powder, just like you used to.”
I can tell there’s something he wants to ask me, but he doesn’t. So, I add, “Remember how we ate those into the fall that one year? You even packed them in my school lunch.”
He tries to shrug, but his suspended arm keeps him from succeeding. “What else are you supposed to do with a whole batch of tomatoes that don’t ripen before the weather turns? ”
I smile at the memories we’re sharing. “From what I recall, you can make salsa and chutney, too.”
He cringes. “That chutney wasn’t the best, was it? Your mother pretended to accidentally knock the box off the root cellar shelf and break the jars.”
In the spirit of our newly found camaraderie, I confess, “I helped her pour them down the garbage disposal.”
My dad surprises me by releasing a loud bark of laughter. “I figured it was something like that. What about the salsa? You guys liked that well enough?”
“It was some of the best you ever made,” I tell him honestly.
We sit silently for a couple of minutes, each of us seeming to relish the peace. Then my dad surprises me by saying, “I looked up that restaurant of yours on the internet.”
I hold my breath waiting for him to elaborate. When he doesn’t, I ask, “What do you think?”
“I think it’s pretentious.” So much for a ceasefire.
I’m not sure how to respond to him without sounding like I’m looking for a fight. “It fits the location and the clientele,” I tell him.
“Everyone in Chicago can’t be stuck up.”
“I’m not stuck up, Dad. Which I’m sure you’d figure out for yourself if you’d ever bothered to visit me and let me cook for you.” That clearly wasn’t the right thing to say, but I have no idea what this man has against expensive restaurants.
“I know how you cook,” he says. “Which is why I wanted you to come work with me.”
That’s probably as close to a compliment as he’s going to give to me. “When I was in finance, you never complained about me not working at the diner.”
“That’s because you were in finance. It’s what you went to school for.”
“I also went to culinary school, Dad.” My blood is nearly boiling at this point and it’s all I can do not to get up and walk out on him .
“I taught you how to cook, Luke. I did that, not some fancy school.”
It appears the crux of my dad’s beef with me is that he thinks I hold myself above him, which is not the case. I just wanted to learn how to cook other things. “You did a great job, too, Dad. Such a good job that I wanted to learn more.”
He lies there quietly, like he’s deciding if this is a compliment or the gravest of insults. But instead of letting me off the hook and being gracious, he says, “Well then, you’d better get back to Chicago so you can do more .”
“My life isn’t all about my restaurant, Dad. I have a family, too.”
“You wouldn’t know that by how often we see you,” he mutters.
His constant complaints are wearing thin. He cooks, and I cook. He taught me a lot, so you’d think he’d be proud, but he’s so stuck on thinking that I look down on him he can’t see that my career choice is a tribute to him. “The funny thing about roads, Dad, is that they go both ways.” Standing up, I add, “You haven’t come to see me either.”
“I have a restaurant to run, Luke. I can’t just take off and lollygag around Chicago.”
“Who’s running your restaurant while you’re in the hospital?” I’m sorely tempted to tell him it’s me, but I know that won’t go well. Also, I promised my mom.
“I suppose Jim is.”
“I’m sure Jim could have covered for you long enough for you to come to my grand opening.” Gauntlet dropped. Explain your way out of that , I psychically challenge him.
Instead of making an excuse, he says, “I’m sure he could have.” And just like that, my dad is telling me that my life is not a priority for him. At this point I can either yell at him and let him know how hurt I am, or I can simply walk away. I choose the latter.
Without so much as saying goodbye, I turn and walk out of my dad’s hospital room. I don’t know how much longer I can take his anger. If he doesn’t lighten up soon, I will go back to Chicago. Regardless of what I promised my mother, I can’t handle being the target of his anger. Especially when I’ve done nothing to deserve it.