Elisabeth blinks several times, looking as if she is trying to translate my words from Chinese to English. “How’s Noah?”
Yeah. Not going there. The kid was hardcore, but I could tell he cared about my niece, and if I give in and tell her that, she might go running back. I’ve made some parts of my life a mess by running. I can’t let Elisabeth do the same thing.
“We didn’t have a heart-to-heart,” I say. “Elisabeth, this doesn’t change any of my rules. I want you to settle here in Groveton and let your old life go. Trust me on this one, okay, kid?”
She starts to nod, but then stops herself like she figured out the movement was traitorous. “I can wear my clothes?”
As much as it kills a portion of my soul because I don’t like the idea of some perverted old man looking at my niece… “Skin has to be covered and no rips in indecent places. Push me on this and I’ll burn every stitch in that bag.” I incline my head toward the kitchen. “Breakfast in thirty.”
She cradles the bag like it’s a baby, and the gesture causes an ache to flow through my muscles. “Thanks.”
The word is stiff, like she’s never formed it before on her lips, but it’s possibly the best gratitude I’ve ever received.
Beth enters the kitchen in a pair of faded blue jeans, a black T-shirt, silver hoops in her ears and a fake diamond stud in her nose. She reminds me a lot of her mother in her outfit, but her mother never had the hop to her step that Beth has now. I make a mental note to send Allison roses today. As a reminder that I love her. As a thank-you for understanding a teenage girl better than I do.
I’m standing near the stove making scrambled eggs. They used to be Beth’s favorite as a child and even though she says she hates eggs now, I have a hard time believing it. I guess this is a test. For me. For her. If she rejects the eggs, I also made enough toast, sausages and bacon to fill her up and I’ll know not to make eggs anymore. If she eats the eggs, then maybe, just maybe, it’ll mean Elisabeth is willing to start working to build a relationship with me, too.
Beth takes a seat at the kitchen island, at the place setting I made for her. Next to her plate and glass of orange juice is the stack of buttered toast and sausage patties.
“Is it turkey or tofu or whatever you try to pass off as food?”
I stymie the smile. My wife is a health nut and is hardcore about what she puts in her body. Elisabeth, on the other hand, is more human and enjoys grease—just like me. My niece picks up a piece of toast like it might eat her back. She sniffs it then quickly takes a lick, as if I’m feeding her poison. I laugh. Can’t help it. She used to pull crap like that when she was four. And like she was four, she begins to eat as she realizes she likes the taste.
The kid has always been picky as hell.
“No, it’s not turkey. It’s real. I’m tired of watching you not eat.” I place a plate of bacon and eggs between us and I sit beside her. “If you’d try Allison’s cooking, you’d see it’s not half bad.”
She bites into the toast. “That’s the point. Food shouldn’t be half bad. It should be all good.”
Point awarded to Elisabeth. I spoon some scrambled eggs onto my plate. “I like the stud. When did you pierce your nose?”
“When I turned fourteen.” She helps herself to the bacon and sausage, but I’m certain it’s the eggs she’s secretly lusting after. I internally will her to take the eggs, but I try not to seem concerned over it. Come on, kid. Give me something.
“Your mom wanted one,” I say to keep myself from discussing eggs. “She talked about driving into Louisville to get one several times.”
She deflates and her reaction gives me pause. Note to self—anything involving her mom gives her pain. Elisabeth draws in her bottom lip as she continues to stare at the eggs. You know you want the eggs. You know the eggs are good. They’re fluffy. I made them just for you.
A look of determination crosses her face, and she taps her fork against the counter. In less than a heartbeat, she scrapes the remaining eggs onto her plate. I smile, and I shove a piece of bacon in my mouth to hide it. From the evil glare being thrown in my direction, I know she caught it.
“Is that a baseball thing?” she asks.
“What?”
“Ryan has that same I-know-everything smirk when he thinks he’s one-upped me.”
I sip my orange juice to buy myself time. Ryan Stone is a kid Elisabeth goes to school with. He’s a baseball player, but he’s better than me. Even before Elisabeth came back into my life, I had heard how talented Ryan was at baseball. He’s also smart, has a good head on his shoulders and hangs out with the right people. The type of right people Elisabeth needs to start making friends with. Since he and Elisabeth know each other from school, I’ve made it my job to know everything about him.
Plus, I’m curious. “Have you and Ryan been hanging out at school?”
She shrugs. “Kind of.”
“He’s a good kid, Elisabeth. It would do you good to make more friends like him.”
Elisabeth has this expression that warns me she’d like to stab me with her fork, but it passes quickly and I take that as a win. “I go by Beth.”
I got Elisabeth her clothes. How about she lets me heal from one battle before beginning another? “How’s school?”
“I’m gonna fail.”
I stop eating as the frank statement catches me off guard. I was expecting a nonanswer and the truth was appreciated but unsettling. Elisabeth stares at her plate as she shoves more food into her mouth. I weigh my words. Each one tips the scale one way or another. This is the first time both of us are trying, and I don’t want to set her off. This conversation is like playing with live explosives.
“Are you trying?” I ask.
Elisabeth nibbles on a piece of bacon, and I give her the time to weigh her words as well. Finally, she says, “Yes. But I don’t expect you to believe me.”
What she doesn’t know is that I do believe her, and I understand that ache of not feeling good enough—especially in academics. But Elisabeth is not me—she’s better than me, and I have the resources to help. I toss my napkin onto my empty plate. “I’m not smart. I can throw a ball, catch a ball and hit a ball. It made me a rich man, but it’s better to be smart.”
“Too bad for me. I can’t do any of that. Smart included.”
“Allison’s smart,” I say, and I hold up my hand when she rolls her eyes. “She’s real smart. Has a masters in English. Let her help you.”
“She hates me.”
She doesn’t. Allison’s upset with me, and I’m going to make that better, too. But my problems with Allison, our pain at losing our child, aren’t Beth’s issue—they’re mine. She has enough burdens and doesn’t need my baggage crashing down on her. “Let me handle that. You focus on school.”
“Whatever.” She glances at the clock. “Shouldn’t you be heading to work?”
“I’m working from home today. We’re going to do this every morning. I want you up at six and out here for breakfast by six-thirty.”
“Okay.”
I gather the dishes and go to the sink. “About last night….”