Page 31 of Retrofit Analysis

Chicken parm was the meal Helen requested on her last good day. She smiled at me and Orla and suggested we make it together. Our family favorite. It was Helen’s go-to as well, for all the reasons Elizabeth listed. Orla and I have avoided it since.

That meal was sacred for us. A last supper. I can remember every facial expression, every time one of us flung bread crumbs at the other as we coated the meat. We all knew it was the end.

“Everything ok, Kellen?” I realize Elizabeth has risen and come to my side, where I’m standing in the middle of the kitchen, holding a stack of napkins.

“Oh.” I feel tears in my eyes. “I just…” I look at her lovely face, so hopeful, so kind. “It’s been a really long time since someone cooked food for me,” I say. I can tell this was the right answer, because Elizabeth beams.

“I wanted to do something kind for you.” She walks back to her seat at the table and I slide into the chair next to her, squeezing her hand.

Elizabeth and Jake start eating and I cut into the meat slowly, twirling the pasta on my fork to form the perfect blended bite. I close my eyes, feeling conflicted, hoping the meal doesn’t taste like Helen’s recipe.

It does not. This food is spicy and bold, garlicky with a zing of basil. Not at all like I feared. The relief is palpable. I can do this. I can create something new with Elizabeth, enjoy the experience of receiving someone’s kindness.

“Hey,” she whispers, leaning close to me. “What’s wrong?”

I reach under the table and squeeze her leg, shaking my head. “This is wonderful,” I tell her. “Thank you.”

She sits back up, as if she can tell I’m holding back on her. Shit, this is hard to navigate. I clear my throat. “I was just having a small moment of grief about Helen,” I tell her, shrugging. “She used to make chicken parm.”

Elizabeth clenches her hands into fists. “Oh, Kellen, I’m so sorry,” she fusses. Jake looks up at us, surprised.

“Nothing to be sorry about,” I assure her, squeezing her leg again. “I really am glad to have you here and it truly is nice to have someone cook for me.”

We eat in awkward silence for a bit until Elizabeth asks Jake if he feels better about his physics class. “I can still get a 94 by the end of the semester,” he says, nodding. “Kellen can help me if I stray again.”

I laugh. “I’ll help you any time, Jake. Really. I like this stuff.”

“Did you use physics in your work today?” And with that question, the air clears and the three of us are off on a deep dive, discussing the engineering projects I’m supervising. It feels so natural and easy, so right to be having this conversation here in my house, with my hand roaming around Elizabeth’s body. It’s hard to believe a month ago, I was convinced my life was fine as it was. I look at the room, how rich and full it feels. I feel emotional in a way I can’t describe. I feel gratitude.

The front door bursts open and Orla walks in, lugging her laundry and rumbling about parking. She looks up and sees the scene in the dining room, and I watch her realize what’s happening. I know exactly what she sees, but this is the first I’d considered her reaction.

Elizabeth’s face brightens. “Orla, please join us,” she says. “I made plenty. I wasn’t sure which days you come eat with your dad.”

Orla walks a little closer, looks around the kitchen and dining room. “Is that chicken parm?” Her voice is cold and I can tell she feels betrayed.

I nod. “Elizabeth made dinner while Jake and I worked on his homework,” I tell her, my voice drifting off at the end.

“Chicken parm?” She puts her hands on her hips and I see tears well up in her eyes. I’m not sure what to do about any of this. “May I speak with you in private?”

I glance at Elizabeth, who seems perplexed and hurt, and I place a hand on hers. “Please stay,” I tell her. I gesture my head toward the back deck and Orla stomps outside to the far end of the railing. I follow my daughter, gently sliding the door closed. “What’s wrong?”

“Chicken parm, Dad?”

“Orla, I didn’t know she was making dinner and it would be unspeakably rude to refuse it.” Orla breathes through her nose, her nostrils flaring. “Honey, it’s not like I sat down and explained every grief trigger to her.”

“No shit, Dad. You’ve been with her for like five seconds and you guys are what? A cozy instant family?”

“What? Orla, did you not encourage me to ‘get out there’?” I throw her words back at her, trying to keep my voice down and not wanting Elizabeth to hear.

My daughter moves her hands to her hips. “I meant like go to bars and get laid, Dad. I didn’t think you’d…”

“You didn’t think what, Orla? Please don’t be crass. I am not now and have never been someone who goes out and sleeps around.”

My heart sinks when I see tears falling down Orla’s cheeks. I step toward her and pull her into my arms. “Baby, what is it?”

She shakes her head, then rests her forehead on my shoulder. “I didn’t know it would feel this way to see you with someone.”

“You’ve seen Elizabeth here for meals before.” Has so much really changed since the last time we were all here for post-podiatrist burritos?