CW: discussion of parenting, abandonment, death and dying, the passing of parents and grandparents, non-contact parents, caretaking

Chapter Five

She was uncomfortable. Trying to place the sensation the next day while she was working. Realizing, after a cup of coffee, a chopped pear, a one-on-one with another executive, a brisk yoga workout, and two more meetings what it was she was feeling.

She was excited. Excited about this silly little dress-up non-date, synthetic evening. It was absurd. Sort of childish and sort of sham. 

But then… she paused. What was wrong with any of that? And why did she have to try and ruin something that was making her happy? Why did she have to tear away at fun and simplicity? Why did she have to treat something like this puerile when in fact it was just joyful? That Khadem seemed to have a sense of whimsy. And she’d always had to be so serious and hard-working and non-feminine in public. Never allowed to be girlish or pleasure-seeking. Just stoic and hard. But these days she didn’t feel hard, just brittle. And not stoic but lonely. 

So why not melt?

When she finished her work day she went into her bedroom. She was upholstering a plain bed frame up there. She was going to match the floor length curtains she’d made for her windows in there. Her bedroom was still in a state of semi-destruction. She had her mattress on a makeshift platform, until she finished her bed frame– which wouldn’t take too much longer. She’d drilled the holes to put her upholstery nails through the day before. But she hadn’t bothered to hang the drill back up in the shed. She was still avoiding the Big Boy parked around the side in part, but also had gotten lazy after working on the project late into the evening. 

She started pinning and stretching the fabric. Sat back on her haunches for perhaps three minutes, staring into nothing. Put everything down and went back downstairs, and to her auxiliary closet. Fingering through those old dresses. Gathering three that spoke to her, draping them over her arm and trudging back upstairs, arms high to keep them from sweeping the treads. Laying each carefully over her mattress, over her stirred up blankets and sheets.

Evaluating. Trying things on. Pleased that, for the most part, things still fit well. But trying to decide what would suit. What would be comfortable to just sit in her den in? And worse still… What would draw his eye?

Selecting one, she hung it up in her upstairs closet, and replaced the rest. Deciding that the bed frame would have to be finished tonight. Because tomorrow she was going to take the long trip to the high-end grocery store in order to get ingredients for their dinner. 

She finished the bed frame while pondering what she might make. She enjoyed cooking, in general and liked to do elaborate meals. But it seemed so pointless and bourgeoisie to make three-course dinners for only herself. Not to mention wasteful.

Humming as she worked and screwed and stapled. Leaning the finished headboard against the wall she slipped back downstairs, to her bookcases, the lower shelf with her cook books. Double-checking what she was already fairly sure about. Mentally running through her pantry and evaluating what she would have to purchase. 

And that excitement was still there– running in many directions. Of getting to dress up, thinking about shoes and makeup. A dinner party giddiness– to be able to show off the work she’d done in the house, and how she knew how to fold napkins, and bring out the antiques she’d got to go with this house she was in love with. And him. Excited over him.

She was in the parking lot, after about an hour drive to the “good” (or at least more extensive) grocery store when she panicked. 

Scrolling through her phone rapidly until she found his unlabeled number in her history from when he’d called her about the Big Boy.

“Hello,” he answered cheerfully. “Who’s this?”

So they both had neglected to do phone maintenance. 

“It’s Jody Lee,” she said, knowing her breath sounded a little short. 

“I went too far with the cereal jokes,” he said. “You’re now going to refuse to make me dinner.”

He meant it as a joke, and by his tone she could tell he was. But there also seemed to be hesitation, like he really thought she was going to cancel. She almost cried out I want more of you, not less. But she took a quick breath and laughed on the heels of it. It was a little forced, but she hoped she covered well enough.

“Oh god, no, I’m looking forward to dinner,” she said.

“I’m so glad we have that in common,” he said, more easily and obviously joking now.

“But I’ve run into a small, possible problem,” she said.

“Oh no,” he said. She could almost picture him sitting down, his elbows on his knees as he was about to embark on fixing her problem. 

“Do you keep halal?” she asked.

He chuckled, “no. But how kind of you to ask.”

“Whew,” she said broadly, miming wiping sweat even though he couldn’t see her. 

“Well, is that all you need, hon?” he asked.

And again, she was left with a crazily dancing pulse. He meant nothing by the ‘hon’– she could tell by how lightly he said it, how there was no pause in the word before and no heaviness in the quiet after. But she was left speechless.

“Ayuh,” she finally said, numbly. Falling into colloquialism simply and without thought. But it made him chuckle in a friendly way again. As though she’d managed to repeat back a tough lesson, or surprised him with cleverness. 

“Then I’ll see you for our formal dinner,” he said, just as he always did when he was playing with her. 

“See you,” she breathed, hearing the mild bleebleebleep of their phones disconnecting. After a deep breath, she tucked her phone back into her jacket pocket. 

Ordinarily she would have sped from spot to spot in the store to grab what she needed and leave. She liked to cook– she hated to do the supplying part of it though. But today, after that call, she felt brainless. And thus wandered in a weak-legged and meandering way that would have irritated her deeply if she’d been following herself. But she was sure she was going to forget something if she didn’t take her time. Wishing that she hadn’t followed her usual habit of skipping writing a list. She usually didn’t need one. 

But again, she forcibly made the decision to change her attitude– don’t be overwhelmed, or stressed– decide, instead, to be excited and grateful.

She had a table in her kitchen which she used for prep work. Moved that into her den for their dinner. Glad to be able to pull out linen napkins and cast-iron candlesticks for the table. It was silly– small scale– a small table, two armchairs, a candelabra, green napkins. But it was also nice.

And her house smelt good, she thought, pridefully. But again, she didn’t talk herself out of feeling proud, but just accepted it. When had she last had a dinner party? Even for just two? It had been a long time.

Roast greens and Parmesan galette to begin. Braised leeks, fondant potatoes, roasted carrots with honey and glazed Cornish game hens for dinner. He’d promised cider and dessert so she didn’t worry about that. Though she had giddily purchased a cast-iron kettle that could be swung into the fireplace. Used to warm cider, or make tea. If he wanted tea. She’d gotten what sounded like a tasty and fancy black tea mix while at the store. 

When the den was set to her satisfaction, she frisked upstairs to get dressed and ready. She loved the dress, and missed the high fuck-me pumps she liked to wear with it. Her hair caused some dismay– she’d always worn it short, while she lived in the city. But it didn’t seem terribly necessary these days to get it styled. Nor was there a hair stylist nearby. There was a barber a town away– and she’d considered and dismissed the possibility.

Now it was at that awkward fluffy stage, between purposefully shorn and grown out. Like a high school boy who’d suddenly got into metal. 

Shrugging, she did what she could and moved on. Liking how her face looked with lipstick again for the first time in a long time. 

Carrying the pumps on the tips of her fingers to go back downstairs (why risk breaking her neck before even eating dinner?) she finished the den. Lighting the candles, the fireplace, twitching the napkins once more.

Her den was both moody and cozy. Darkly wood-paneled, lit well enough to read by between the fireplace and candles, but flickering warm light. 

She had struggled with herself to leave the door unlocked for him. She wanted to have that (frankly stupid) level of trust. So she had. She heard a vehicle pulling up though, and so she went to the door, hopping into her shoes as she went.

It was him, slinging himself down from a dark-looking pickup truck in the darkness. She’d remembered to turn on the porch lights for him, at least. But he kept the cab light on as he rustled in his passenger seat.

“Evening!” she called from the porch.

“A’comin,’” he answered back. Juggling what looked like a large cymbal, a box, some bottles. She went down the steps to meet him, both hands and arms out to help. He handed her the box and a red plaid vacuum flask.

“I know it’s not de rigeur,” he said, nodding to the flask. “But it was something I wanted to bring you– so.”

It made her laugh, and melted away some of her stiffness. She was walking with his things toward her kitchen when he stopped her, hand on her upper arm.

“Well, give us a spin, at least,” he said. 

She laughed again, nervously this time, but gave a tight spin and quick curtsy in the narrow hallway. Taking a brief look at him as well. A tailored suit, so dark a burgundy as to appear almost black. Lovely against his coloring. Looking far sharper and more handsome than he did in his more usual jeans-and-stained-shirt-combo. It reignited her nervousness to see how good he looked.

He wolf-whistled appreciatively, hand over his chest as though to slow down his heart. Which at least made her laugh again, and released some tension in her spine. 

“Spin again,” he said, all devilment now. “You ought to be ashamed of how you’ve been hiding those legs.”

She gasped as though playfully shocked by him but was in fact so flattered she almost lifted her skirt instead. Swatting at him, as he apparently intended and headed down the hallway. 

“Come help in the kitchen, you old lech,” she said, back to him, heart pounding. 

And then it was easy, and fun. They laid out what he’d brought with him. The box was a rubber leftovers' keeper. He pried off the top. It reminded her sort of like Turkish delight or peppermint bark– but prettier. 

“Sheer pira,” he said. “Mmm… like, milk fudge? With pistachios and roses.”

“Lovely,” she said, bending to sniff. “Where could you possibly have gotten this though?”

“My mother taught me a few things!” he cried, playfully-offended.

“You cooked?” she asked, pretending to be shocked. But internally she was so touched she felt like crying. That he said he didn’t. But then he did. That he made something close to home for him.

The cider he unerringly plopped into her ice bucket. Then he shook the flask at her.

“Hot ginger turmeric not-toddy,” he said playfully. “To warm our guts later.”

“I guess I bought tea for nothing,” she said, continue on with their rapid back-and-forth.

“Not for nothing,” he said, eyes glimmering. “Don’t you think we’ll spend more time together? Drinking tea and possibly dressing up?”

And it was as if her whole winter was suddenly blazingly laid out before her. The darkness come down around them early. Sitting cozily together drinking tea, steam bellowing from the kettle over her fireplace… 

“Fair point,” she agreed.

“And then finally,” he said, grabbing what had reminded her of a cymbal and giving it a spin. “Copper tray. I thought you’d like something to help you cart things from the kitchen into the den. And the last time I was here I saw you had a collection of copper cookware so… I rather thought it would match.” 

She now saw the lip, and tiny two-fingered handles on either side. Utterly smooth instead of hammered.

“Wow,” she said, turning it over in her hands. Too affected to be frisky any more. It was lovely, and did match. And this would be far better, even on her evenings alone, than bobbling a glass or mug and plate or bowl and utensils. It was big enough to hold at least two large plates, or a full tea set. It looked older, but pricey.

“Found it out over town lines at the barn-shop,” he said. “But I gave her a good shine first.”

“This present is too nice,” she said, slowly.

“No it’s not,” he said comfortably, grabbing the ice bucket and cider. “Don’t be a little bitch, I’m hungry.” 

She couldn’t help it, laughing once more, banging the tray a little forcefully on the counter as she weighed it down with their dinner. 

They had to go back and forth a few times to haul everything in– even with the additional help of the tray. And the table in the den was heavily crowded by the time the whole dinner was on the table. 

He looked around appreciatively.

“Well, isn’t this just lovely,” he said, going to the seat she’d used the last time they were here together. Sweeping it away from the table with a flourish and bowing over it with arm outstretched to her. She settled into the chair, laughing as he crossed to his own, clicking his heels together and bowing again. 

They snapped open their napkins at the same time, and then he smiled at her. Softer, not teasing at all. Gloriously golden looking by firelight.

“Thank you,” he said, heavily sincere.

“No, I mean really, I mean–” she said, ducking her head, pretending to inspect her knife.

“Thank you, Jody Lee,” he pressed. Waiting for her. So she looked up and caught his eye. Hoping against hope that the fire wasn’t bright enough to catch her obvious softheartedness and the curse of her complexion– the violent and immediate blush. 

“You’re welcome,” she said.

And then it was back to ease. Serving back and forth to each other. Playing a game of trying to find as many possible and overblown words for delicious. And everything pretty much had come out to her liking, so she didn’t even complain or make any self-depreciating comments.

Talking about the last time they’d each worn these outfits. For her, it had been a charity ball. For him, it had been a political fundraiser for a man he’d been writing an article on. Both well over five years ago. They congratulated each other on still being able to fit into them. And then both made jokes about having to cut themselves back out after dinner was over. 

His work was more interesting than her work, but they both skimmed over that quickly. They seemed to understand that they were both passionate about the work, and likely to get riled– especially him. He did what he called, “work ups on bastards” and she had been working full-tilt, as hard and as precisely as she could since she was seventeen. Neither one of them was particularly able to ease off the throttle.

“I think we discuss work over water in the daylight,” he had joked. “Not over a perfect meal and cause indigestion.” She’d laughed and agreed. 

They talked about their houses, books and music. Making gentle fun of other folks in town, and of themselves. Talking about projects, but nothing serious. He didn’t mention her car, and she didn’t mention the Big Boy. Just roofing, wood polish, chain saw repairs, sanding wooden floors and restringing snow shoes. 

He promised to take her snowshoeing and snowmobiling, if she so desired. She never had and agreed easily. She promised him rye bread and gingerbread men. With dinner complete, they stacked plates, only having to make one trip this time. Pouring out the not-toddy into a pot to warm on the stove. Plating up the sheer pira and going back into the den. Moving the chairs up closer to the fire and reverting to the card table. 

“Now that we’re in the dénouement of our evening,” he said, wiggling his eyebrows at her meaningfully. “I’m going to be rather naughty.”

She watched with amusement as he leaned forward, untying his high-shined black leather shoes. Setting them carefully at the side of the chair and stretching his legs out with a happy sigh. 

For some reason, the tight-fitting dark dress socks he was wearing felt unbearably intimate, and she turned her face toward the fire for a moment to get herself under control. She’d seen him in dark wool socks, but not like this. Something about seeing the curve of his ankle bone. And picturing that instead of having dinner at her home, it was that he and she had returned from a party. Something for his work, or something for hers. A wedding of a friend. Maybe they took the long drive to Cambridge or Boston to go to the theater. And that now they were relaxing… together… in their shared home. A long evening, maybe boring conversations. Maybe good ones. Maybe mediocre food or something good. Maybe a good show or something they eviscerated on the ride home. And now that they were home, they were kicking off their shoes, thinking about relaxing out of their good clothes. And they could go upstairs together, she’d wash off her makeup, he’d unbutton his vest, help her unhook her necklace…

She’d been alone, and getting weird, for too long. She’d been happy alone, but maybe being in a dead vacation town wasn’t quite good for her. Had she been happy alone? If she was being honest… Or was it just easier? Was she just a coward?

Shaking her head of the image she’d been conjuring of him and her moving about their bedroom as they did their nightly routine she tried to get a firm hold on herself. Wondering just how he’d managed to bewitch and distract her. Make her mind turn so far off her usual path. In order to ground herself, she reached out for an uneven cube of sheer pira. Sinking her teeth into it. Somehow richer but less sweet than fudge, and more satisfying. Watching her chew, he poured out more of the hot drink for her. It was perfect to have the bright, tangy gold drink and the warmly mellow sheer pira.

“It’s good,” she said. “It’s really good.” Shoving the second half into her mouth. 

“I’m glad,” he said. “Some small token of my appreciation.”

“Not small,” she protested, prising up another piece. “You admitted– and proved– you don’t step into the kitchen often. I don’t take it lightly when someone goes out of their way for me.” 

“Nor do I take lightly what you’ve done for me tonight,” he said. Back to the heaviness. She scratched the edges of mind to come up with some joke to distract and lead him out of the pit of serious conversation. Casting about for some tease about his inability with a paring knife, or his lack of knowledge about roux or mirepoix. 

“I don’t think it counts if I enjoyed myself,” she said, lamely. 

He snickered then, confusing her. Leaning far over the arm of his chair so he was almost in kissing distance for her.

“You don’t count it if you enjoyed yourself?” he asked, wiggling his eyebrows at her again. It took her a second to come to grips with his innuendo. 

“Khadem!” she gasped, and he leaned back and laughed.

“It’s a tragedy if your numbers are high,” he said, still laughing. “Don’t tell me your count, I’m sure it’ll break my heart.” 

She leaned herself, a little too far, pinching her ribs on the arm of the chair, and gave him a rapid, pulled punch to his upper arm. 

“I will indeed keep my numbers to myself,” she said. “We’re not that friendly.”

“Yet,” he said, meaningfully.

She wished he wouldn’t flirt. Or, that if he did flirt, it felt like something more serious, or plausible. His flirtation felt like jokes, like wordplay, like cinnamon he would add to a tea– just spice, nothing more. There seemed to be no real intention in it. And ordinarily, that would put her at ease. She didn’t mind flirtation if all it was conversation. Something a little more interesting than weather or sports. But she wished with him, he meant something by it.

But wouldn’t that be its own problem? Because very infrequently did people accept sexual contact without intimacy. And she wasn’t sure if she was ready for that. And she didn’t really know him. And they had this looming, handshake automotive deal. What if he had a woman somewhere else? And she was just geographically convenient? She’d been merely the closer fuck before, for Bash. When he was unwilling to drive the Big Boy across town to whoever he wanted to fuck, he’d use her, because she was in the house.

She shook her head at the thought. It was cruel, unnecessary and unhelpful. 

“Can I ask you the awkward question?” he asked, when she clearly didn’t have a response to his “yet.”

“Oof,” she said, leaning back in her chair. “I suppose so. Pour me more toddy though, first.”

He laughed, and did so. 

“Well?” she prompted, once he’d sat back.

“Are you single?” he asked.

“Are you?” she shot back.

“I am,” he said, without malice or offense.

“As am I,” she said, slowing down, trying to ease back the bristles that had risen. “Why?”

“Grow up,” he said mildly. “We’re two adults lit by firelight.”

She glanced at him. He stared back at her. Part of her wanted to slap him, the other to lunge at him and kiss him. She had the distinct sensation, however, that while he might accept the slap he’d almost certainly rebuff an embrace.

“I’ve been alone, though not terribly lonely, for a few years,” he said, leaning forward a bit, elbows on his knees. As though he were going to warm his hands by the fire. Although it was hardly necessary. At this moment it was almost stuffy. Or maybe she was just getting overheated. “I grew up here, but left when I was very young. And I cut off contact with my parents. I spent almost more years out-of-contact with them than speaking with them.” 

She listened to him, breathing through her initial and unfair reaction. Whenever she heard an adult say they’d cut off their family, she was always resentful and astounded. Which she knew was a foul and ignorant reaction. But still, that was her first reaction, that she’d learned to swallow. 

She knew what it felt like to be abandoned, and always her first response was to identify with the bad parents, instead of the hurt child. Not that any of her parental figures had been either particularly loving or present. Except maybe her stepfather.

Her stepfather, David, who she called ‘dad’– had oddly and innately understood how to be a parent. And specifically, how to parent her. That young children just want to be with their adults. Be included, and along for the ride. He didn’t put pressure on himself, or her. He didn’t feel like they had to do ‘kids activities’ together but just be together. He was quiet, and peaceful with her. He was never overwhelmed by her dogging his steps or needing his attention. When he mowed the lawn, he set her the job of picking up sticks so that he wouldn’t run them over. When he did an oil change on the car, he laid out newspapers for her to sit on, and laid out tools and flashlights for her to hand him. When he made them hotdogs and boxed macaroni and cheese when her mother was working late, he sat her on the counter and had her stir the pasta. 

And so, for Khadem to tell her he’d stepped away from parents, who presumably wanted him, made her bridle. But only for a moment– or possibly less. She knew the truth of parents who ought not to be. 

“All of us were wrong, in myriad petty and momentous ways,” he said quietly, drawing her thoughts back from David. “And I’m glad we all realized it. I left home at nineteen… Ran away. And I stayed away until my thirties. I came back when a cousin told me about a health scare for my father. And I extended the initial olive branch– being that I was the first one who fired a definitive shot in a long-standing cold war between all of us. And I had almost six good years again, with all three of us. And a sad, strange few months with my father after my mother’s death. I don’t think either of us really woke up. He just slipped away without her. And I regret the time in between– or, I regret the time I lost with them. But glad of what we mended. The dropped stitches just can’t matter as much as the fact that it was finished beautifully.” 

She felt as though she’d never been allowed, or been able to say a real goodbye. To anyone or anything. Her mother and dad snatched from her too suddenly. Too in shock and in denial to do so properly with her grandparents. Too uncaring and unable to with her father, but fading out, in much the same way she’d faded in.

Sometimes, she thought about how things would be better– maybe not healed– but understood, had she the chance to talk to her mother. Adult to adult, woman to woman. On some sort of even playing ground, with some level of honesty and experience. She could say, I forgive you for not wanting me. And her mother could say I wished I could have wanted you.

Her mother tried her best– but she was inaffectionate and overwhelmed by motherhood. She was never bad or cruel, she probably just shouldn’t have had children. But Jody Lee’s parents had gotten pregnant in their very early teens. If she hadn’t known David, she actually wondered if she ever would have learned how to grow attached to another person.

When her mother and dad had died in a car accident– dad, instantly, mother at the hospital– it took her biological father two days to arrive. He did so, dragged out by his own parents. After a hellish, feverish week she was driven with all three of them from Connecticut to Pennsylvania. She lived with her father for a little over three months. Again, he wasn’t cruel, he was simply incapable of parenting. Her mother, at least, was able to do the hard skills– keep her fed, bring her to doctor’s appointments, supply financial support, make sure she showed up to class bathed. Her father wasn’t able to do even that. And they moved around each other like deeply uncomfortable roommates. And he certainly wasn’t able to shepard a child through massive and confusing grief. And she’d learned, from living with her mother, it was easier to be quiet. Better to be no problem than irritate the adults near you. 

“So I can tell you, Jody Lee, from experience… this town is not the worst place to have a tear-down project. This is not a bad place to start again,” Khadem said, carefully. Not prying. But she realized he’d seen… Well, he’d seen she was damaged. That she was on the run. He wasn’t demanding a history. But he knew there was one.

And it all came down to that triple-orphan foundation. That led her right to everything else– the overworking, the running, Bash.

Both of her parents had been exceptionally bright, and good at their jobs. Her father, however, had been able to abandon the woman he’d impregnated and his eventual child. So while he’d built a highly successful career, he’d never really grown up. And living with him was when Jody Lee started “figuring it out”– how to use a stove, how frequently she needed to shower, how to use a washing machine, how to talk to and answer adults when they asked her questions. Like, “what do you do at home?” “are you left alone?” “do you brush your teeth?” “what do you eat for dinner?”

Her feral period didn’t last long. Either her father grew tired of his non-responsibility, or someone– a teacher, her grandparents, a neighbor– rightfully saw that the situation wasn’t workable. After three months in his empty, chrome bachelor apartment, she was shipped off to her paternal grandparent's house. They only lived an hour away, but she never really saw her father again. Oh, he made cursory appearances for holidays, excuses for her birthdays. He gave expensive, and wrong gifts, most of the time. Eventually, he just handed her cash. 

A few months after her sixteenth birthday, her grandparents died. Her grandmother of cancer, her grandfather of care. After the funeral her father, clearly unwilling and very awkwardly offered to bring her back into the city with him.

While sitting beside her dying grandfather, she’d already imagined this conversation. All the possible and disparate responses. 

Yes, please, and love me! I have your eyes and I need someone. I miss dad so much and no one can replace him, but wouldn’t you want to at least try? You made me don’t you want me?

And also, fuck you, and the horse you rode in on.

She leaned on practicality though, and the things they would both want. 

“Well, as I’m sure grandma and grandpa have kept you abreast with, I’m doing very well in school.” She neglected to tell him she would, in fact, be graduating early. “And I’d like to finish out the school year. I’m perfectly comfortable maintaining myself.”

He didn’t audibly sigh in relief, but his face was certainly relieved.

“I’ll set up a bank account for you and send you… Send you funds,” he said.

She handed him a blank check from the account her grandfather had opened her years before. Where her little chores allowance went in, her “gifts” from her father, her college savings, all of it. She’d been prepared for this conversation.

He blinked at her, folded the check into the jacket of his tailored suit and nodded.

“I’ll set up monthly payments to keep you… solvent,” he said. And they were left awkwardly staring at the floor of the funeral home until they were rescued by people offering their condolences.

He might not have paid any child support in her younger years– her mother had never pursued it– but either guiltily or in ignorance, he made up for it in her adolescence. She lived alone in her grandparent's house, ducking the infrequent questions of adults in her life. Learning how to cook for herself. Keep the mortgage paid– now in her father’s name, and paid out of his monthly stipend to her. Teaching herself to drive by tootling in anxiously slow circles to the grocery store. 

And then she’d graduated. Telling no one. Celebrating it by buying a slice of cake from the bakery, and a bouquet of alstroemerias from the floral department of her regular grocery store. And when she’d been accepted to a school in Pittsburgh she just sort of… left.

And since no one had pursued her, or questioned her, or even attempted to, she was allowed to slide off. 

She noticed that after her eighteenth birthday, deposits from her father became sporadic. After her twenty-first, non-existent. But she didn’t need it. It didn’t matter. He must have realized, at some point, that she’d gone missing. But he clearly hadn’t been concerned, and his payments hadn’t stopped– at first. So he presumably assumed her survival. But didn’t care about the how of it, or how successful her survival was.

Idly, she’d play a game with herself about him– her father physically showed up, or called. She would feign a lack of recognition, she decided. He was never hurt, or in need. Sometimes he was curious. Sometimes he’d demand money. Sometimes he’d just offer dinner. Sometimes it was a phone call, that she’d stay silent for throughout. 

Or then, and this seemed like the more likely scenario– she was informed of his death. By solicitor, or some unknown family member mailing his obituary. She would not bother to go back for his funeral. Why bother? It wouldn’t fix anything, there would be no reward or meaning.

This was neither pleasurable nor upsetting– it was more like a game of solitaire– something to take up time as she did something else.

“Thank you,” she finally said to Khadem. Mostly grateful for his lack of prying questions. She wasn’t quite sure about his near-assurance of impending healing– she tended to doubt any talk of resolution or closure. But it was reassuring and nonjudgmental. 

He sat back upright suddenly enough to startle her. Reaching across the card table to hand her another piece of sheer pira.

“Full of nutrition,” he said, smiling at her brightly. 

She laughed, a little too heartily after their conversation, a release of tension.

“Mmm,” she said, tasting carefully. “Yes, all that necessary… white sugar and mmm… condensed milk?”

“Ah, no, you see, the far more nutritious powdered milk and candied pistachios,” he joked with her.

“Yes, very necessary,” she agreed, chuckling as she took the next bite. 

And then they just joked back and forth for a while. Discussing their favorite ‘good’ and ‘bad’ foods. How fast food didn’t taste good any more. That sometimes a handful of chocolate chips was the most satisfying dessert. How bread and dipping oil could be a full meal. 

The candles on the table behind them suddenly guttered. They turned in unison, surprised, and then back at each other to laugh again. 

“I guess that’s my cue,” he sighed. 

And again, she felt pulled in two directions. A desire for him to stay, without knowing in what capacity she wanted him to stay. And a deep and abiding want to be alone. To process what had happened, and what was happening. 

He started lacing his shoes back on while she went into the kitchen.

Calling over her shoulder, “I’m going to pack you a lot of leftovers, okay? Because I can’t have all this in my ‘fridge.”

“Oh no,” he called back sarcastically.

As she was finishing up, he stepped into the kitchen with her. 

“But I’m leaving you the sweets,” he said, thumping the lid onto the box definitively. 

“Please do.” 

She stepped out onto the porch to walk him to the truck. It hadn’t been a warm day, even when the sun was out. But it was piercingly cold now, and windy to boot. She wrapped her arms around her bare upper arms, chin already quivering, on the brink of teeth chattering.

“Thank you again,” he said. “But go back inside, hon. I can find my own way home. After all, I’m only just up the road.”

“Right,” she said. Ducking back inside, grateful to be back in what was almost her too-warm home after feeling the late-autumn air outside. But wishing she could have watched him a little longer.

He gave a brief toot as he was leaving. Headlights washing across her front-facing windows. And then she was alone. Just hearing the sound of the dishwasher lightly swashing as the cycle changed and the logs cracking apart from her den. She sat on the first step, pulling off her pumps. Flexing her toes and ankles in turn. 

She went into the den. Unzipping the dress and tossing it over the nearest armchair. Laying down in front of her fireplace, elbow propped on a cushion.

It was going to be too cold, soon. The fire had died down considerably, they hadn’t added more fuel. She was only wearing a short slip under the dress, and no stockings. But for now, it was fine. After a while she got up, going back upstairs. Washing her face and changing into knit pajamas with an appreciative sigh. 

Laying in silence in her newly built bed, keeping her mind steadily blank.