“I don’t eat beef,” Afton says, her perfect nose wrinkling.
Pop gestures grandly to the huge bowl of salad. “Knock yourself out. There’s also bread.”
“I don’t eat bread.”
Abby is similarly dubious. She crosses her arms. Her idea of fine cuisine is cucumber slices and chicken nuggets. “This looks yucky.”
“It’s basically steak, honey,” Pop says. “You like steak. And you like potatoes, and you like corn, and you like peas.”
“I don’t like salad,” Abby points out.
“You don’t have to eat the salad,” Pop says with a slight edge to his voice. “Come on, everyone. Eat up.”
“But shouldn’t we wait for Mom?” I ask. “It’s family night.”
“It’s getting cold.” Pop grabs Abby’s plate and scoops a big dollop of potatoes onto it. Next comes the meat and gravy stuff. I’m about to warn him to ladle it next to—as opposed to on top of—Abby’s potatoes. Abby doesn’t like her foods to touch. But it’s too late; he pours it right over the top.
Abby’s bottom lip starts to tremble. “I don’t think I like it.”
Pop doesn’t give up. “This is a meal from our ancestors, Abby-cakes. This food is in your blood.”
In the meantime I’ve dished myself up a generous portion. This food isn’t in my blood like it is Abby’s, being that Pop is my stepfather and not biologically related to Afton and me, but he’s been around since I was seven. He feels like my real father in every way that counts. I don’t even remember much of the time before Pop came along, when I had a different father, the one Afton and I have an awkward visit with about twice a year.
“It’s in my blood?” Abby cries in horror. “What does that even mean?”
I wish I had such an interesting combination of ethnicities in my blood, but Mom took a DNA test, too, to discover that she is 90 percent European. Mostly German. Which explains the blond hair, I guess.
My phone vibrates in my pocket. I sneak it out—Pop disapproves of phone use at the dinner table—and check my texts. There’s a new one from Leo, a photo of his long legs stretched out in front of him on his couch, sneakers on the coffee table, behind them the television paused on one of the shows we always watch together.
I wish you could have stayed, it says.
My chest tightens. It seems so silly now. Cringey. Cowardly. It’s just sex, isn’t it? Does it have to be such a big deal?
I glance up at Pop. He’s busy trying to calm Abby, who’s working herself into a full-blown tantrum over the food.
Me too, I text Leo quickly.
You’re missing out on this. He texts me another photo of himself on the couch, his lip stuck out in a playful pout. Also he’s not wearing a shirt.
He sends me photos like that a lot—Hot Leo—always a few minutes before he posts them to his social media. I’m flattered that he wants me to see them first.
I text back a sad emoji, followed by, Sorry about before.
Don’t worry about it. You’re ready when you’re ready.
Relief fills me. He isn’t mad. I can still salvage this. It’s only Friday, after all. Our family is leaving for our trip on Sunday, but that still leaves all of Saturday and Saturday night.
Maybe I could be ready tomorrow. I hold my breath as I type the words. It feels bold, but I can be bold, I tell myself sternly. Remember how I was the one to approach Leo in the first place? I can take charge of my sexual destiny.
It takes him an agonizing few seconds to respond. I have a swim meet tomorrow afternoon and dinner with some friends after.
I’m about to type something else but then Pop bellows, “Enough!” and I thrust my phone under my seat cushion.
It isn’t like Pop to yell.
“What about a corn dog?” he says more quietly, trying to get back into his loving-parent mode, love and logic and all that, but his voice comes out tight and strangled.
I look quickly around the table. Pop is standing next to Abby, jaw clenched. He turns and walks stiffly toward the refrigerator to fetch Abby a corn dog out of the freezer that he can microwave. Abby’s gnawing on a hunk of bread. Afton is meticulously picking at her salad. She meets my eyes and raises her perfectly shaped eyebrows as if to say, What an awesome family night we’re having.
That’s when my phone rings. Loudly.
Pop swivels. “No phones at the table! Ada! You know that!”
“Yeah, Ada,” Abby says. “You know that.”
“I know, I know. I’m sorry.” I hold up the phone like it’s a grenade about to go off, mashing at buttons to make it be quiet, and then I realize who’s calling me. “Wait. It’s Mom.”
Everything goes silent except for the ringing phone. Then Pop says, “Well, answer it.”
So I do. “Mom?”
“Hi, Ada. This is Ruthie, actually.”
“Oh, hi, Ruthie.” Ruthie is Mom’s assistant. Ruthie does all the normal-person things for my mother so Mom can focus on the genius-doctor things. Ruthie shops for Mom’s clothes and purchases wedding gifts and birthday presents for people as needed, and she organizes Mom’s schedule. It’s Ruthie who reminds my mother when I have an art show or Afton has a ballet recital, Ruthie who gently orders Mom to go home when it becomes clear that she hasn’t left Stanford Hospital for days. Or to wash her hair. Or eat something. Because genius doctors can’t be bothered by such mundane details.
It’s also Ruthie who calls to make excuses whenever Mom needs to get out of something.
“Is everything okay?” I ask slowly.
“Oh, yes. Everything is fine. Dr. Bloom wanted me to tell you that she’s going to be here late. She’s working really hard on her presentation for the Hawaii conference, and—”
“How late?” I ask.
Ruthie sounds confused. “What?”
“How late is she going to be there?”
“Oh. How late, do you think?” My mother must be standing right there, because Ruthie is apparently asking her. There’s a pause as Ruthie listens to the answer. “She says to go ahead and have dinner without her. She’ll try to be there to read stories to Abby at bedtime, but don’t wait up, just in case. Okay?”
“Okay,” I say. Everybody is staring at me. “Thanks, Ruthie.”
“You bet. Good night.”
I hang up the phone. I don’t need to tell the rest of my family what Ruthie relayed to me—that much is obvious from the fact that Ruthie called at all. Why couldn’t Mom just call herself and tell us? And why have Ruthie call me, and not Pop?
“Where’s Mommy?” Abby asks in a small voice. “Is she going to miss our special dinner from our ancestors?”
“She’s trying to get everything ready to go to Hawaii,” Pop says, the picture of calm again. Nothing in his face or his voice suggests that he’s upset. But something feels decidedly off.
Abby picks up her fork and absentmindedly starts to eat the nyama na irio without complaint. “What part of Hawaii again?” she asks after a while.
“Where we’re going is the one called the Big Island, because it’s the biggest.” Pop sits down and takes a bite of the food. Then he gets up again and crosses with his plate to the microwave. Pop likes his food so hot it’d burn off the taste buds of normal humans. “You’re going to love it there, honey. I promise.”