Chapter 20: Slow Dishes

I looked at Dexter's hands on the counter, and then at Dad on the mat.

"Yes," I said. "One night, and then Marren Falls."

Dad nodded once.

Dexter slid off the stool and hoisted the duffle onto his shoulder.

He left the white envelope where it lay.

"Take it to Mom," I told him. "In person, with the note."

At the door he stopped and turned around.

"Thanks for the eggs," he said to Norman.

"Wash your own plate at your father's," Norman said. "That's the thanks I want."

The bell rang behind them, and the diner started talking again.

Two Sundays later the doctor cleared me for two hours a day.

I carried my first full bottle of pills out of the pharmacy before my shift, and shook it in the truck just to hear it.

It was a ninety-day bottle with my name on the label, and it was packed so tight that nothing moved.

In October I had been splitting a tablet in half with my thumbnail.

"Why are you grinning at a bottle?" Norman asked.

"It's full."

"Good. Take one with the toast."

At noon I was on the floor refilling creamers, in an apron that came up to my ribs, when Mom came through the door.

She stood next to the sign that said Seat Yourself, with her handbag in both hands.

"May I eat here?" she asked. "At the counter. I won't stay long."

"Norman's counter," I said. "Ask him."

"Mr. Hendry?"

"It's a free country, Mrs. Lasker," Norman called from the grill. "Take the third stool. I'll bring you a grilled cheese."

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