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.I can hear my father puttering around in the kitchen downstairs.His cast came off the day before yesterday, and he’s fixing his own breakfast.Good! The sooner he’s able to take care of himself, the sooner I can get back to my own life.My father calls up the stairs.Can he make me some scrambled eggs? No, I lie.I’m not hungry.The real reasons:1.I don’t trust my father’s scrambled eggs.In all the years of living at home, I don’t remember him fixing breakfast—or any other meal, for that matter.He did wash the dishes on the nights he was sober, but that scarcely qualifies as a skilled culinary activity.As if to validate my thinking, there is a loud clang from the kitchen.Sounds like he dropped the pan.Maybe his hand isn’t as strong as he thought it would be.I curb a pang, an urge to run down the stairs and sit him down and cook the eggs for him.He’ll manage, I tell myself.If he dropped something, it’ll do him good to bend over and pick it up.After all, that’s what he’ll have to do when I’m no longer with him.2.I don’t want to accept any favors from my father.I was forced to ask him to translate the journals; I didn’t have a choice there.But I want to keep my debts as light as possible.3.After reading the last entry he translated for me, I’m afraid I won’t be able to stop myself from searching his face for the ruins of the young man my mother had loved so rashly.From asking, with my eyes, What happened?When I come downstairs, I notice that he’s set the table with two plates.The scrambled eggs, neatly piled into a serving bowl, look safe enough.He’s also cut up some melon—my favorite fruit—and put out a loaf of French bread.If he dropped something, there’s no sign of it on the kitchen floor.“Have something,” he says.“It’s going to be a long day.”I give him a sharp look.I haven’t told him about the store closing, haven’t even told him how bad our finances are.I consider saying no again, but I’m suddenly hungry.And he’s right: it’ll probably be a long, hard day.I take several slices of melon, a wary spoonful of the eggs.They’re surprisingly tasty.He pours us orange juice, his injured arm held at an awkward angle.“How does it feel?” I ask.“Better,” he says, flexing gingerly.“The eggs are good.”“Glad you like them.Can I give you some more?”This is still the only kind of conversation I’m able to have with him, and he knows it.He must notice that since the accident I haven’t called him Dad.Once in a while, when I’ve caught him unawares, I’ve seen the corner of his mouth pulled down with the weight of all the things he wants to say.But I’m not ready to unburden him.I tell him I might be late coming back.He shouldn’t wait up for me.He follows me to the door, then says, “But I’m coming with you.”That’s when I notice that he’s wearing a clean pair of corduroys, a button-down shirt.He must have bathed early—his hair is damp, the comb markings clearly visible.“No,” I say.“I don’t want you to.” I speak slowly, as though to a child, trying to hold on to my temper.What makes him think he has the right to intrude like this into my life?“Rakhi, it’s going to be hard, closing down your store.Having someone there who cares for you may be a good thing.”“How did you know about us closing down?” My voice rises in spite of my efforts at calmness.“I don’t recall discussing it with you.”“I overheard you talking to Belle.Maybe I can help—”The words tumble out before I know it.“You’ve never helped me with anything in my entire life.And now you’ve started eavesdropping! Just because I’m forced to stay here with you doesn’t give you the right to pry into my life like this.”He blinks as the words hit him.For a moment his lips move but no sounds emerge.Then he says, unevenly, “I didn’t mean to pry.Maybe I shouldn’t have listened.I did it because I worry about you.I always have.But until now your mother was there to take care of your problems.That’s the way she wanted it, without any interference from me, so I let her.Maybe I should have insisted on doing more— [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]