by Bradley Sutherland
The son and daughter are already blowing on their forks when the mother asks if
everything is hot enough. The father takes a bite and yells, “Jesus Christ,” and the mother nearly pisses herself in a fit of giggles.
“Didn’t this used to embarrass you?” asks the son.
The father shakes his head, wiping his scolding lips with a handkerchief. “Embarrass
me?” he says. “One time, we had to leave in the middle of a goddamn movie.”
“Why?” asks the daughter.
“Probably because of the goddamn laughing,” says the son.
The daughter rolls her eyes and throws her head back. “I know,” she says. “But what was mom laughing about?”
“I can’t even remember what movie it was,” says the father. “All I remember is the main character started chewing on shards of glass, and your mother just fucking lost it.”
The mother lets out a single yelp, then proceeds to wheeze and hiss.
“Silliest goddamn thing I’d ever seen,” says the father. “Had to escort her out of there.”
“Was this your first date?”
The mother composes herself, wiping tears from her eyes. “No,” she says.
“What was it?”
The mother blows her nose. “It was at Nancy’s house,” she says. The father grins and nods in agreement.
“Who’s Nancy?”
“She was my best friend in high school,” says the mother.
“Who’s your best friend now?”
“You know it’s you,” says the daughter.
The son tries to drop bits of hash-brown in the daughter’s milk, but the daughter swats his hand away before he can.
“Nancy was quite the matchmaker, yeah, mom?” says the son, sitting up a little taller in his chair.
“She was actually hanging out with your father at the time.”
The daughter gasps. “You stole dad?”
The father flickers his eyebrows. The mother scoffs. “Please,” she says. “He made the first move.”
“Always been a cheater, yeah, dad?”
The father flips his son the bird, then takes a sloppy bite of French Toast.
“What was your first move?”
“He juggled eggs,” says the mother.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, he just randomly snatched three eggs out of Nancy’s fridge and started juggling them.”
“Why?”
“I dunno. Ask him.”
“Why?”
The father just flickers his eyebrows again.
“This actually worked on you?”
The mother shrugs. “It made me laugh,” she says. “He was so focused and concentrated.”
“Did he drop any?”
“Fuck no,” says the father.
“Then, what—you were just together after that?”
“Pretty much,” says the mother. “He did drive me home that night.”
“Please don’t tell us the rest.”
The mom flickers her eyebrows, and the son and daughter swing at the air in front of them.
“What about the night he left?” asks the daughter.
“Which time?”
The father flips his son the bird again.
“I don’t know,” says the mother. “Ask him.”
“Why did you leave?”
The father shakes his head. “I don’t know,” he says. “Ask her.”
“Who’s acting like the children now?” The son and daughter slap hands like they’re in an after-school special.
“But seriously,” says the daughter. “We didn’t find out about Lisa until we knocked her ashes off the top of the fridge.”
“Until you knocked them off the fridge,” says the son.
“Whatever,” says the daughter. “You pushed me.”
“It’s not like we were never gonna tell you,” says the mother.
“And how we found out about Danielle? Her calling us and telling us she was our sister?”
“Half,” says the mother. “And it’s not like we were never gonna tell you.”
“Well, tell us now,” says the daughter.
“Well, this is goddamn depressing,” says the son.
“Don’t you want to know, too?” asks the daughter.
“Of course,” says the son. “But not while I’m eating.”
“Oh, not while you’re eating?” says the daughter, mocking the son’s voice.
“Would you two just stop?” says the mother.
A slice of silence passes around the table as she briefly locks eyes with the father. Thirty-nine years blink between them.
Bradley Sutherland is a writer in Tempe, Arizona. His previous work has appeared in Bright Flash Literary Review, Stone Pacific Zine, Bulb Culture Collective, and more.