I watched him as he returned to the kitchen, not entirely reassured but knowing I couldn’t stop him if I tried. We’d always put the Eatery first, the whole family. It was our highest priority. The sense of responsibility had come down from my grandparents, who had put their whole hopes and dreams into making it a success. My parents had taken up that mantle when they took over. It was the life we knew, it was legacy, and we were raised to put the Eatery before anything else. Our family’s success was its success. It was an unspoken but ever-present belief. But now I wondered why we clung so hard to this place. Was it really the best way to spend our lives? I cast a look at the drawer with the tax statement. My mother’s voice came back to me.Sometimes you just have to let go. What would happen if we didn’t save the Eatery this time? Would the world stop turning on its axis? Or would we figure out a new way of living? When I took the lemon drop and returned to a life with Rory, I supposed I’d find out.
In the kitchen I could hear my dad arguing sports with Julio. Unlike other days, he sounded halfhearted about it. I dropped into thechair and opened the drawer, taking out the vile letter. So many zeros. Seemingly impossible. My hand drifted to the pocket of my jeans, fingers closing around the lemon drop once more. I thought of the wedding invitation I’d seen on Rory’s fridge, the joy on Dad’s lined face as he gazed down at Ramona. Taking the lemon drop would solve so many things. I closed my eyes and imagined the smell of strawberry shampoo and a squishy little person nestled in my arms. The intent look in Rory’s eyes as he’d slipped the sundress strap off my shoulder and kissed the tender skin in the hollow of my clavicle. I swallowed hard, almost dizzy with desire for him, for our life together. I couldn’t wait. Deep down I knew that my future lay with Rory and the girls. Now I just needed to take the last lemon drop and restart my life the way it was supposed to go. Tonight I would do it. Tonight everything would be set right again.
“We’ve got an order of klar suppe and a kid’s meal with Danish hotdog,” I called a few hours later, pushing through the kitchen door. It was the height of the dinner rush, and Daphne had been delayed across town—a bus breakdown. I was covering for her and helping Aunt Gert get through the surprisingly busy dinner hour. Once a waitress, you never forgot the skills. “And the family at table five is requesting another order of french fries. Their toddler dumped a glass of ice water into hers.”
At the grill Dad was standing bowlegged and intent, a metal turner in his hand, hovering over rows of grilling fiskefrikadeller. At the counter next to him, Julio prepped plates with sides of boiled potatoes and red cabbage.
I grabbed ramekins of chocolate mousse from the fridge for the corner booth by the window. A ladies’ book club reserved that boothfor dinner once a month to eat dessert and discuss the latest celebrity memoir, which, to the best of my knowledge, none of them actually ever read. Two had ordered the mousse, the rest wanted pie.
“Is table four’s order ready?” Aunt Gert charged into the kitchen. “What’s the holdup? They’ve eaten through two baskets of bread so far, and I’m afraid they’re going to start on the napkins next.”
Looking harried, Julio picked up his pace. “Sorry, we’re running slow tonight,” he said. “Marty, are those cod cakes ready yet?”
No response. I glanced up, holding the mousse in my hands. Dad was standing at the grill, one arm raised, the other hanging limply at his side. Something wasn’t right.
“Dad?”
He turned slightly. The left side of his face looked strangely slack. “I don’t feel so good, Lolly girl,” he slurred, and then, as if in slow motion, he collapsed on the floor.
“Call 911!” I screamed, the dishes of mousse slipping from my fingers and shattering on the tile.
The next few minutes were a blur. Aunt Gert dialing 911 and requesting help, giving the dispatcher the information in a loud, commanding voice while I knelt over Dad, hyperventilating and trying to rouse him. A smoky pall of burned grease hanging over the kitchen. Julio scraping blackened cod cakes into the trash and turning off the grill. My own high-pitched singsong voice, over and over, urging, “Dad, can you hear me? Dad, stay with us.” And my father, who woke every morning already in motion, who was the epitome of scrappy endurance, lying slumped over on the sticky tiles, his skin gray and clammy to the touch. Then the back door burst open, and the paramedics filled the space in a flurry of efficiency. I was pushed to the periphery as they took his vitals and hoisted him onto the stretcher.
“Is someone coming with Mr.Blanchard in the ambulance?” oneof the paramedics asked. I froze, suddenly remembering the full tables out front.
“You go with Marty.” Julio laid a hand on my arm, his young face looking suddenly far more mature. “Gert and I will handle things here.”
37
Thirty minutes laterDad and I were sequestered in a private bay in the emergency room of Swedish Hospital while a team of doctors, nurses, and technicians swarmed around us like busy worker bees. I sat numbly in a chair in the corner, watching the commotion with a cold sense of dread.
I remembered the last time I’d been in this hospital. My mother pale and resigned in the bed. My father’s shock. Daphne’s incomprehension. My life and our family had shattered that day. I couldn’t lose my other parent. We couldn’t handle another loss.
“Please be okay, please be okay.” I whispered, the panic coming in waves like nausea. Over the next frantic hour, as the medical staff tested and measured and scanned Dad, I exchanged staccato texts with Daphne and Eve, keeping them abreast of the situation. When an orderly wheeled him back in from his CT scan, Dad opened his eyes and saw me.
“Lol.” He slurred my name, reaching his good hand out.
“I’m here, Dad. It’s okay. Everything’s going to be okay.” I rushed to his side and gripped his hand, repeating words intended to soothe usboth. A few minutes later the emergency room doctor, a slight, bespectacled woman named Dr.Cho, came into the room and delivered the diagnosis.
“Your father has suffered an ischemic stroke,” she said, her expression both weary and sympathetic. “This is the most common type of stroke. It occurred on the right side of his brain. He is experiencing many common effects associated with a stroke—loss of movement in his left side, slurred speech, confusion. This is all to be expected. We have started him on an IV of powerful medication called tPA to break up the blood clot that caused the stroke. We will be admitting him as a patient to the stroke center and monitoring him closely for the next few days.”
“Is he going to be okay?” I asked, dreading and anticipating the answer.
Dr.Cho hesitated. “Your father is stable for now, and the medication he is receiving should stop the blood clot from causing further damage. He was very fortunate that he got treatment as quickly as he did.”
I nodded, lowering my voice and darting a look at Dad in the bed. His eyes were closed. He appeared to be dozing. “Is there any way to know how much... damage the stroke did to his brain?” My voice shook. Actually, I realized that my entire body was shaking with fear and shock. I wrapped my arms around myself and held tight. I couldn’t fall apart right now.
Dr.Cho shook her head. “It’s too soon to give a prognosis of recovery, but because we caught it early, you can be assured that the damage will be far less severe than if it had gone untreated. Your father may recover fully after physical therapy and rehabilitation. However, many times stroke victims do not return to all of their previous functionality. They often experience some cognitive and physical challenges as a result of the stroke. Memory loss, personality changes. The brain is socomplex that every stroke event and recovery is different. We simply cannot predict what will happen. However, you need to be aware that recovery from a stroke is often a very slow and lengthy process. You will need to prepare yourselves for that.” She delivered the news as gently as she could.
After Dr.Cho left, I sat silently, trying to process her words. A slow and lengthy recovery. Cognitive and physical challenges. My phone buzzed. Daphne.
We’re in the lobby
Daphne, Aunt Gert, and Julio were waiting in the lobby when I arrived. Aunt Gert was pacing. Julio sat on the edge of a chair, still wearing his kitchen whites, turning his Seahawks baseball cap nervously in his hands. When I appeared, Daphne launched herself at me, hugging me hard around the neck. She was crying.
“Is Dad going to be okay?” she asked tearfully. I hugged her back, instantly slipping into the role of the capable, maternal one.
“He’s in great hands. Swedish has one of the best stroke centers in Washington State.” I had no reassurance that Dad would be okay, but I wanted to take every scrap of hope and comfort I had and offer it to Daphne. I knew Dad’s prognosis was still unclear, but I wanted to be optimistic. Daphne hugged me tighter. I could feel her trembling. She was scared. So was I.
