“Very fancy,” she smiles and looks like she’s fighting laughter, “but please don’t say the word pudding to me.” She raises her hand.
“Why?”
“You found all that pudding I put in the fridge obviously.”
“Obviously. Not to mention you’ve been putting them in my lunch, too.”
“Well, my father is a pudding junkie. He demands four varieties in the fridge at all times, goes through them like a crackhead probably goes through crack but he has brand preferences depending on the flavor. All the wrong ones are the ones in this apartment because I bought,” she holds up her fingers in air quotes, “shit brands.”
“I like shit-brand pudding,” I shrug. “And that’s what we’re having for dessert.”
She laughs.
And I want to make her laugh and smile some more. A lot more.
“Sooo… did you really make this? Or did you order it in and put it on plates and sprinkle this fancy parsley on it so you can pretend you made it?”
“I made it,” I say, fake-insulted. “Look at the mess of the oven and check the trash for raw ingredient refuse.” I slice into the pastry covered steak.
I’m impressed with how it looks. Let’s see how it tastes.
She slices into hers and pops a bite into her mouth.
She slumps in her stool and moans.
And the sound goes straight to my dick.
“Oh, wow, that’s good,” Jada says and then forks up an asparagus spear.
She’s right. It’s good. I did all right.
“Like I said, it’s hit or miss when I cook. Today’s a hit.”
“Yay,” she says with a smile.
“How’s your father?” I ask her. “Other than fascinated with pudding.”
She rolls her eyes. “Worst patient ever.”
“Really? Vent away.”
“It’s okay. It’s fine.” She waves her hand.
“No, seriously. Talk to me.”
She eats a bite of asparagus and looks down at her plate.
I take a bite of potato and wait.
Damn good potatoes, too.
She immediately forks into her potato and takes a bite instead of talking to me. She stares at the remaining potato on her fork to avoid eye contact.
I try again. “And how’s your brother? What’s happening there?”
She looks at me with suspicion.
“He doing okay?” I ask. “Carly said he was in the hospital.”
“No. He’s not okay. He’s suicidal. And his doctor is useless. His lawyer is lazy.”
“Lazy lawyer? Fire him.”
“It’s the public defender. Not like we have a choice in that matter. I’ve tried to get a new one.”
I frown.
“Everybody’s too busy to give a shit,” she continues, “And I’m so frustrated. I don’t wanna talk about it.”
“Damn.”
She saws off another bite of wellington and chews and swallows it quickly, like she’s rushing so she can talk again.
“It’s just… he’s gonna fall through the cracks, you know? He’s not gonna get the medicine he needs and if he doesn’t get the right care he’s never gonna get better. If his lawyer doesn’t do the right things, he will end up in jail for a long time and he’s going to wilt and die like a neglected houseplant in there. My brother needs sunshine and encouragement and professional help and the right doctor who will take time to find him the right medication mix, not just throw something at him that turns him into a zombie to be ignored. His doctor prescribed a new set of meds and they made Shane feel worse and no one was on top of it or gauging his moods, so he tried to hurt himself. And they’re still not listening. He doesn’t need to be strapped to a bed and just left there so that he won’t hurt himself, he needs someone to listen to him, to help him find the right medicine, to put him on a path to health and emotional wellness. He had this one doctor at the clinic he used to go to that was using a great approach that seemed like it might be helping but he went off it too soon and… anyway, it’s frustrating. No one’s taking it seriously enough because they think he’s just looking for attention, I think. But I know he’s deeply depressed. I know it, and I worry he’s really going to hurt himself in a way that can’t be undone. My father thinks it’s bull-puckey, like he just takes after our mom.”
She gives her head a shake and then takes another big sip of her wine.
“What’s the deal with your mom?”
My phone rings.
I don’t even look at it.
“You can get that if you need to,” she says.
“No. I’m spending time here with you. What’s the deal with your mom?”
Nothing feels more important than this right now. She’s saying she doesn’t want to talk, but she keeps talking. Maybe if she does, she’ll feel better. And maybe I’ll find words to say some things to her that need to be said.
“I don’t know,” she says. “She walked out the door when I was nine and that’s the last I saw of her. I think that really fucked Shane up, too – growing up without a mom. Especially when our father was such a… an unemotional old-fashioned man who thought his job was to go to work and leave the family stuff to the woman he married. Spare the rod and spoil the child attitude. You know? Not that Mom was super-nurturing, but at least she was around.”