Size 14 Is Not Fat Either Part 30

"I was just wondering what you eat," he says affably. "I feel like I barely know you. I'm sorry, were you keeping these steaks for some special occasion? Because if so, you really ought to have stuck them in the freezer. They'll last longer that way."

The smell of sizzling meat and onions is delicious, it's making me a little dizzy.

"I was kind of saving them...but it doesn't matter," I say, a little mournfully. It doesn't matter because, at least according to Gavin, Cooper thinks I'm still head over heels for his brother, anyway. Making him dinner isn't going to change that. I'm probably going to have to resort to shooting ping-pong b.a.l.l.s from my ying yang onstage before anyone ever believes I'm over Jordan. Including Jordan.

"Well, that's good," Dad says. "Because they're almost done. You like your steak a little rare, right?"

I raise my eyebrows, genuinely surprised. "Wait...you cooked them for me?"

"Who else?" Dad looks a little surprised.

"Well." I chew my lower lip. "A lady friend, maybe?"

"Heather, I've only been out of prison a week," Dad says. "That's hardly enough time to make a lady friend."

"Well, then, Cooper," I say.

"Cooper is busy with his latest case," Dad says. "So I'm afraid it's just you and me. I wasn't sure when you'd be home, of course, but I took a chance. Have a seat. There's a bottle of wine there. I hope you don't mind drinking alone. I'm sticking with soda these days."

Shocked, I pull out a chair and sink down into it, as much because I'm not sure I can stand up anymore as because he asked me to.

"Dad," I say, looking at the carefully set table, "you don't have to cook dinner for me. Or breakfast, either, for that matter."

"It's the least I can do," Dad says. He takes the steaks out of the pan and sets them on two plates, along with the mushrooms and onions. "I'll just let these sit a minute," he explains. "They're better that way. Juicier. So." He pulls out the chair across from mine and sits down in it. "How was your day?"

I stare at him for a minute. I'm tempted actually to tell him, Well, Dad, not so good, actually. We found out what they did with the rest of Lindsay Combs, and it wasn't pretty. Then I manhandled a student and when the higher-ups find out about it, I'll probably be fired.

But instead I say, "It was fine, I guess. How was your day?" Because I really don't want to get into it.

"Fine, fine," Dad says. "Cooper had me follow a man from his office to his lunch appointment, then back to his office."

My eyebrows go up. Way up. I can't believe I'm finally learning something about what Cooper does all day.

"Really? Who hired him to follow the guy? What's the guy supposed to have done?"

"Oh, I can't tell you any of that," Dad says pleasantly. "Here." Dad pours me a gla.s.s of red wine and hands it to me.

"But I work for the company," I say. "Client-detective privilege should extend to me."

"Oh, I don't think so," Dad says, shaking his head. "Cooper was quite explicit about me not telling you anything."

"But that's not fair!" I cry.

"He said you'd say that. I'm sorry, honey. But he seems really to prefer that you don't know. I think it's due to your tendency to get yourself involved in situations you really ought to stay out of. Like this murder at your dorm. I think the steaks are ready now."

Dad pops up to get them. I sip my wine, scowling into the candle flames.

"Residence hall," I say, as he plops a plate filled with perfectly cooked steak down in front of me.

"I beg your pardon?"

"It's a residence hall," I say. "Not a dorm. Saying dorm does not foster a warm sense of community, which is what we're aiming for. Well, aside from all the senseless killing." I cut off a piece of meat and chew. Heaven. Marinated to perfection.

"I see," Dad says. "That's very like how we called Eglin a camp and not what it was-prison."

"Right," I say, taking a sip of wine. "Made you forget about the s.h.i.+vs, and concentrate on all the lavalieres."

"Oh, no one had a s.h.i.+v," Dad says, with a chuckle. "How do you like your steak?"

"It's great," I say, swallowing another bite. "Okay, so as long as we're exchanging pleasantries about our places of work-or incarceration-what's the deal? Why are you here, Dad? It's not really because you have nowhere else to go, because I know you've got plenty of rich friends you could be shacking up with instead of me. And this getting-to-know-your-daughter-better thing-sorry, I'm not buying it. So level with me. What's the scam? And please keep in mind that I'm pretty sure I outweigh you."

Dad puts down his fork and lets out a sigh. Then he takes a sip of Diet c.o.ke and says, "You're so like your mother, it's uncanny."

I feel the usual bubble of animosity that pops up every time he says this. But this time, I tamp it down.

"Yeah, I think we've established that you believe that," I say. "So let's move on. Why were you looking for Mom's number in my apartment today?"

"Because," Dad says, "for some years now, I've been working a sort of...program. It has certain steps that its pract.i.tioners must follow if, by the end, they hope to achieve spiritual enlightenment. And one of the steps is that they must make amends with those they have harmed. That is why I wanted to phone your mother. To try to make amends."

"Dad," I say. "Mom left you. Don't you think she's the one who needs to be making amends? With both of us?"

Dad shakes his head. "I promised your mother when I married her that I would love and support her. That didn't just mean emotionally. I promised to support her financially, as well, especially while she stayed home and raised you. When I went to prison, I was forced to renege on my part of that bargain. It's my fault, really, that your mother had to take you out on the road in order to support you both."

"Right," I say sarcastically. "She couldn't just get a job as a receptionist in a doctor's office somewhere. She had to parade her freakishly musical kid around in front of the ma.s.ses at various malls."

Dad makes a tsk-tsking sound.

"Now, Heather," he says. "Don't try to rewrite history. You loved performing. We couldn't keep you off the stage. Believe me, I tried. Your mother only did what she felt she had to...and you certainly never complained."

I lay down my fork. "Dad. I was eleven. Do you really think that was the kind of decision that should have been left to me?"

Dad looks down at his food. "Well, that's an issue you're going to have to work out with your mother. I'm afraid by that time, I was no longer in a position to be actively involved in your parenting."

"True," I say. And fat chance of me ever having an opportunity to "work out" my issues with Mom. That's something that's a little hard to do over the phone. Though Dad seemed perfectly willing to try. "So. Did you find the number?"

"Yes," Dad says. "It was in your address book. Some of the addresses in there are quite old, you know. You should think about getting a new book. If you want, I could do that for you tomorrow."

I ignore this offer.

"Did you call her?"

"I did," Dad says.

"And did you make amends?"

"I tried to," Dad says. "But your mother can, as you know, be very difficult. She refused to admit that I had hurt her in any way. In fact, she reminded me-as you did, just now-that it was she who left me, and that if anyone should be making amends, it's her. But that she doesn't care to, because, according to her, I deserve everything I got."

I nod. "Yeah, that sounds like Mom, all right. It really sucks when you say I'm like her, by the way. If you tried to make amends with me, I'd be much more receptive."

"Well," Dad says. "That's good, because you're next on my list."

I shrug. "Amends accepted."

"I haven't even made them yet."

"Yeah, you have," I say. "This dinner is enough. It's totally delicious."

"This dinner is hardly enough," Dad says. "You were basically deprived of a father figure during your formative teen years. That's the kind of hurt that can't be cured with a single steak dinner."

"Well," I say, "now that you're living here, maybe you can cure it with multiple steak dinners. Like every Friday night, or something. Although you might want to vary the menu a little. I like pork chops, too. Oh, and fried chicken."

"Heather," Dad says, sounding sad. "Food can't serve as a balm for all the harm I've caused you. I understand that, of all the people I hurt when I broke the law, you are the one who suffered the most. Leaving you alone with your mother, who then put you on that mall tour. Even if you did enjoy it, that's no way for anyone to spend her childhood, living in a trailer and traveling from mall to mall, being exploited by the one person who should have been looking out for your best interests."

"It was more fun than going to school," I point out. "And, like you said-it was hard to get me off the stage back then."

"But you were deprived of the normal joys of childhood. And I can't help but feel that that deprivation is partially responsible for the way you are today."

I stare at him. "What's wrong with the way I am today?" I ask.

"Well, for one thing, you're nearly thirty and you don't have a husband or children. You don't seem to realize that family is the most important thing in the world-not that guitar I hear you plinking late into the night, and not your job. Family, Heather. Take it from someone whose lost his-family is what matters."

I lay my fork down again and say gently, "There are lots of different types of families nowadays, Dad. They don't all consist of a husband and wife and kids. Some of them consist of a girl, her dog, a PI, her dad, her best friend, and the various people she works with. Not to mention the drug dealer down the street. My feeling about it is, if you care about someone, doesn't that person automatically become your family?"

"But don't you worry," Dad says, after he spends a moment digesting this information, "that if you don't have children, there'll be no one to care for you in your old age?"

"No," I say. "Because I could have children, and they could turn out to hate me. The way I see it, I have friends who care about me now, so I'll probably have friends who'll care about me when I'm old, too. We'll take care of each other. And in the meantime, I'm putting the max into my 401(K), and setting aside as much as I can into a SEP IRA as well."

Dad gazes at me over his steak. I'm disturbed to note that there are tears in his eyes.

"That's very profound, Heather," he says. "Especially since I sense that, in many ways, these so-called family members of yours have been kinder to you than your actual blood relations."

"Well," I admit, "at least none of them has stolen all my money and fled the country. Yet."

Dad raises his Diet c.o.ke can. "I'll drink to that," he says. I clink his can with my wine gla.s.s. "So you really don't mind," he says, when we're done clinking, "if I stick around and try to make amends-even though you say I don't have to?"

"I don't care," I say. "Just so long as you aren't expecting me to take care of you in your old age. Because I've only been contributing to my 401(K) for a couple of months. I don't have enough money in it to support myself, let alone an aged parent."

"I'll tell you what," Dad says. "Why don't we agree to support each other emotionally only?"

"Sounds good to me," I say, spearing the last of my steak.

"Looks like you're ready for salad," Dad says, getting up and going to the fridge, from which he takes the salad bowl into which Jordan did not, thankfully, barf. In it is what appear to be various types of lettuce, some cherry tomatoes, and-much to my delight-croutons.

"I'll toss," Dad says, proceeding to do so. "I hope you like blue cheese dressing." Without waiting for an answer (because, really, why would he need one? Who doesn't like blue cheese dressing?), he goes on, "Now. About you and Cooper."

I nearly choke on the sip of wine I've taken.

"This is just my opinion," Dad says, "and I've been out of the dating scene for a long time, I'll admit. But if you really want things to progress to a romantic level with him, I'd suggest not spending quite so much time with his younger brother. I realize you and Jordan were together for a terribly long time, and that it's hard to let go. But I sense a certain amount of friction from Cooper concerning his family, and if I were you, I'd limit my interactions with them. Especially Jordan."

I stab at some of the lettuce he's spooned onto my plate.

"Gee, Dad," I say, "thanks for the tip." Because what else can I say? I'm not going to get into my love life-or lack thereof-with my dad.

But he apparently doesn't realize this, since he goes on.

"I think that once Jordan is married, and Cooper realizes you're finally over him, you'll have a much better chance with him." Dad sits back down and starts on his own salad. "Though it wouldn't hurt if you'd make a little more effort to be pleasant in the mornings."

I eat more salad. "Good to know," I say. "I'll take it under advis.e.m.e.nt."

"Although you did seem to make quite a positive impression last night," Dad comments.

I stop chewing. "Last night? You mean when Cooper caught me hauling his dead-drunk brother in the door?"

"No," Dad says amiably. "I meant the fact that you were wearing a skirt. You should do that more often. Young men appreciate a girl in a skirt. I saw Cooper staring."

I don't bother telling my dad that the reason Cooper was staring wasn't because I was in a skirt and he appreciated it, but because I was in such a short skirt that I looked like a hooker. Probably Cooper was trying not to laugh.

Still, these aren't the kinds of things you can say to your father.

"I never even asked you," Dad says, a little while later, over dessert (Dove Bars, of course). "Did you have plans for tonight? Am I keeping you from something?"

"Just America's Next Top Model," I say.

"What's that?" Dad asks innocently.

"Oh, Dad," I say. And show him. I mean, if he really wants to make amends, watching ANTM with me is an excellent way to start.

27.

Don't count me out Who's counting?

I won't be numbered I'm not wasting breath I'm not going under.

"Drowning"

Written by Heather Wells