I thought about God a lot. And Heaven. I knew Dad was there, too, but I didn’t understand what all that meant. My nana used to say feeling and knowing something was true was all we really needed. Understanding was a good thing. But sometimes we got too tied up in the details. Feeling and believing in your heart was the true test of faith. I could still see Nana, in her sunny yellow kitchen, icing cinnamon buns fresh from the oven. Cinnamon buns had been one of her favorites, and ours, too, so she’d made them every time we’d gone over. She’d been an old woman, forty-two years old, when she’d had Dad, her only child. She’d been an elementary school teacher for many years but had retired long ago. What I remembered most about her was her hugs, warm and loving, and how she smelled like peppermint. Probably from the same shampoo Dad always used. She was gone now, too. She’d died a few years before Dad.
I knew God was real. I could feel Him in my heart. Sometimes that’s all you needed.
***
I sat the last blue daisy-decorated plate on the kitchen table. Sam greedily gulped his glass of milk. Mom placed the white stoneware bowl in the center of the table. Spaghetti again.
“Any garlic bread?” Sam asked.
“On the stove,” Mom said.
Sam sprang from the table to retrieve the bread.
“Something I wanted to talk to you two about,” Mom said, scooping a pile of spaghetti on her plate.
“What?” I snatched two pieces of garlic bread before Sam inhaled all of them. He was such a pig sometimes.
“I’ll be coming home a little later on Thursday night,” she said.
“Extra shift at the steakhouse?” Sam asked.
Mom paused. “No. I’m going out to dinner…with a friend.”
At the tone she used, I stopped and studied her. She’d said it like she was trying to hide something from us.
“What friend?” I questioned.
Mom continued to twirl the spaghetti on her fork. I stared at the noodles accumulating sauce as she pushed them around. The fork stopped, and I looked up, meeting her gaze.
“His name is Nick,” she said simply. “I met him at the insurance office. One of our customers.”
“You mean this is a…date?” I shot a glance at Sam.
Shock covered his face. How could she be going on a date?
Mom sighed. “I knew this would surprise both of you.” She laughed. “It even surprised me. Your father has been gone almost two years. I’ll always love him. But I think he would want me to move on with my life. And part of that is dating again.”
Dating again. Going out with some strange guy. Talking and doing God knew what with him. No. I did not want her moving on in that way. Not at all.
Sam cleared his throat. “Well, it is a little weird.”
“It’s just dinner,” she said, taking a bite of garlic bread. “A friendly dinner. He’s a nice man I’d like to know better. It is weird. Even for me. I haven’t been on a first date in twenty years. But it’s something I want to try.”
It was beyond weird imagining my mom going on a date. I kept silent and finished eating my dinner. Talking about Mom’s love life did not appeal to me. Although, I secretly hoped the date would be a bust and she’d have a horrible time. I didn’t need a new dad. I’d had the best dad I could imagine. Nobody would ever replace him.
Chapter Eight
Rice Krispies swelled with milk in the same white bowl I used every morning. Not always Rice Krispies. Also partial to Froot Loops and Honey Nut Cheerios, depending on my mood. I pushed my spoon around in the bowl, debating whether to dump it or eat it. I wasn’t hungry anymore. I wanted to talk to Mom.
She’d come in last night close to midnight. She’d hummed, so I’d imagined her date had gone well. I couldn’t remember the last time she’d hummed. As much as I didn’t want to hear about her date, I couldn’t help my curiosity. I wanted to know more about this guy. Even though I already hated him. I wanted more reasons to hate him.
I decided to eat the cereal. Soggy rice crisps filled my mouth and, in a few bites, had disappeared. I stood to deposit the empty bowl in the already overflowing stainless-steel sink. If I was nice, I’d wash the dishes. I nestled the bowl between a plate with remnants of last night’s macaroni and cheese stuck fast to the surface and a chocolate milk-stained glass. Mine from last night. I turned and walked away from the dishes. No, I did not feel nice.
I flopped on the sofa and waited. About ten minutes passed until a creak signaled her moving around in her room. Five minutes later she was in the kitchen, her bathrobe tied up tight, and she yawned.
“Tired?” I remarked.
She jumped and looked over at me. “Oh! Emily, you scared me. I thought you were still in bed.”
“How was it?” I wasn’t going to waste any time. I had to know how the date went.
Mom put the teakettle on the burner. She always drank hot tea with honey in the morning. Her lips curved into a smile. “It was really nice, Emily. Really nice.”
I wasn’t sure about her description of really nice, a phrase I may use to describe a shirt or a pair of shoes. But her smile told me everything I needed to know. She’d had a good time.
“Will you go out with him again?” I hated asking this question. Basically, because I dreaded the answer. In my mind, however unfair, she shouldn’t want to
