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On the day of my interview with Hank, I woke up groggy from lack of sleep. I’d only been taking care of Oliver for a few days, but waking up to take him outside in the middle of the night was taking its toll on me. I briefly wondered if this meant I wasn’t cut out to be a mother, but I realized the issue wasn’t getting up; it was going outside in the freezing-cold, pitch-black night. With Cole, Kyle and I had taken turns. Sometimes, we even got out of bed and went outside together. If the stars shone brightly, we’d spend time staring at the sky until Cole barked, reminding us we should be sleeping. Remembering it now, I felt the tug of the leash in my hand and the weight of Kyle’s arm around my shoulders and smiled. I should have listened to him. We were happy without a baby. We could be happy again. I had to find a way to convince him that being with him meant more to me than having children.
Before I got ready for work, I plucked Oliver from his crate, snapped his leash on, and carried him outside. Even this early in the morning, the March sun shone brightly in a brilliant blue sky, reminding us better things were on their way. We’d almost made it through winter. I lowered the puppy to the ground and hoped he would be quick. Instead of crouching, though, he walked in circles, sniffing the snow. “Come on, buddy. Go to the bathroom,” I pleaded.
He tugged on the leash, leading me to the bush.
“Good boy.”
He dipped his head, picking up a stick with his mouth. I sighed in frustration and checked the time. It was already after seven. I had to be at work by eight thirty because Elizabeth had scheduled a morning meeting to discuss redesigning the magazine’s website.
“Oliver, if you have to pee, now is the time,” I said. It occurred to me then that training this puppy would be the closest I ever came to potty training a baby, and I felt a hollowness in my chest.
After a few minutes of standing in the cold and watching Oliver play, my fingers and toes tingled. “It’s now or never,” I threatened. The dog ignored me and continued chewing on his stick, so I scooped him up and brought him back inside. Upstairs, he struggled in my arms, kicking his back legs as I returned him to his crate. Even in the bathroom over the sound of the running water, I could hear his heartbreaking whimpering. I couldn’t bear to listen to him crying, so before I climbed into the shower, I opened his crate and shut my bedroom door, giving him the freedom to wander around.
When I returned to my room, Oliver was asleep in his crate, but the room stank like a dirty diaper. A heap of dog poop soiled the rug on Kyle’s side of the bed. I cursed under my breath as I cleaned the mess, but I knew it was my fault. I shouldn’t have been so impatient. I should have considered what the puppy wanted and spent more time with him outside.
On the way to work, I realized I didn’t have my phone. The realization made me as uncomfortable as if I had forgotten to put on pants. Still, I couldn’t turn around to get it. Between cleaning up the mess in my bedroom and talking to Mrs.Abrams when I dropped off Oliver, I was already running late.
As I entered Elizabeth’s office for our meeting, she looked pointedly at her watch. “Sorry, I was dealing with puppy chaos this morning,” I said.
“I had to deal with a fussy infant and a misbehaving toddler, and I still managed to be on time. Early even.”
I swallowed hard, forcing down the nasty words I wanted to say. “Well, let’s get started, then.”
For the next forty-five minutes we brainstormed ideas for driving traffic to the magazine’s website. We came up with more than twenty ideas and then narrowed the list down to ten that she would present to Andrew.
“Good work,” she said as I got up to leave. Just before I stepped through her doorframe back into the hallway, she called my name. I looked at her over my shoulder. “I want to remind you that Hank’s business is extremely important to this magazine.”
I nodded.
“I trust you’ll be professional enough to put your personal differences aside.”
I glanced at one of the posters on the wall before answering.IT’S ALWAYS IMPOSSIBLE UNTIL IT’S DONE. “Of course,” I said.
Elizabeth and I stood in front of my parents’ old restaurant, ready to interview Hank. She pulled the door open and motioned for me to step inside, but I couldn’t move. The good memories I’d made in this building all came rushing back: watching my father pound and fry chicken while he sang “Piano Man” or another Billy Joel song; standing at the stove next to my mother, learning how to make Sunday gravy; sitting in a booth in the back corner, eating tiramisu and playing Connect Four with my sister while we waited for my parents to close.
“Go on,” Elizabeth said.
I lifted my foot to step inside, but it was as if the slushy sidewalks had turned to ice and encased my feet. Almost five years had passed since I had last been here. “I’m going to do some renovations,” Hank had said. “Make the place more modern.” He’d stopped to take a swigof his scotch and soda. “I’d also like to change the name. To Pendleton 88, my old hockey number. Fans will eat that up.”
“No.” Dana and I both said it together. She laughed and slugged my shoulder. “Jinx. You owe me a Coke.” We thought Hank was asking for permission.
“It’s my restaurant now, girls. I don’t need your blessing. I was just letting you know so you’re not surprised when the new sign goes up.”
I’d been eating Italian wedding soup. That day was the last day I ever had that kind of soup. Ever since, the smell of it has caused me to gag.
Now Elizabeth took my arm and guided me past the threshold. Nothing looked familiar. When my parents owned the restaurant, it had been decorated like an old-fashioned diner with a black-and-white checkered floor, red vinyl booths, and a counter with swiveling stools. Hank remodeled to give the place an urban-chic look because he wanted to attract the wealthy tourists instead of the hardworking locals. Dark hardwood replaced the tiled floor. White linen covered tables set with bone china, and the mahogany-colored leather chairs appeared as if they were standing at attention with their high backs. The portrait of Hank in his hockey uniform hung behind the hostess stand. There was another picture of him dressed in a tux and standing on a red carpet with his arm wrapped around the waist of his gorgeous model wife, Arianna. Nothing in the place reminded me of my parents.
The hostess, an older woman who resembled a plumper version of Dr.Evans with her long silver hair, greeted us. Elizabeth told her we were there to see Hank, and the woman strode across the empty dining room to the back office to fetch him. My stomach fluttered, and my body felt like it was on fire. I slipped off my long wool coat and backtracked toward the stand by the entrance to hang it. Outside the sky was a calming shade of blue. I thought about bolting through the door so I didn’t have to face Hank. I forced myself to turn back toward the hostess stand, and that was when I noticed the framed menu from DeMarco’s Diner hanging on the wall. It looked so out of place amongthe watercolor paintings on the other walls that the old Sesame Street song “One of These Things (Is Not like the Others)” popped into my head. I would have bet anything that Hank had placed the menu there today because he knew I was coming.
On the other side of the restaurant, the hostess emerged from the office followed by a clean-shaven Hank. I couldn’t remember ever seeing him without a beard. He wore a walking boot on his right foot and grimaced with each step he took. As he came closer, I could see the crow’s-feet etched around his dark-brown eyes, and my heart cracked. After all these years, he was still so familiar, even without his trademark thick black beard. I stared over his shoulder, hoping to see my mother and father trailing behind, because those last years of my parents’ lives, they had always been together here, the three of them.
He smiled, and I could feel something in my chest start to soften. “Nikki.”
“Uncle Hank.” My voice cracked as I said his name. He pulled me into an embrace. I rested my head on his shoulder, dampening his crisp blue shirt with my tears. For a brief few seconds, he was the fun uncle who took Dana and me tubing and taught us how to ski. He was the confidant I called who got me out of trouble when I was seventeen and got caught with a bottle of Captain Morgan in the high school parking lot. He smelled like smoked hickory, and that scent, so different from the fried foods and marinara sauce he used to smell like, pulled me out of my trancelike state. Similar to Cinderella’s midnight transformation, he changed from the adored, fun-loving uncle back to the coldhearted family friend who had betrayed us. I stumbled backward to get away from him.
“What happened to your foot?” I asked.
“I gave snowboarding a go. Didn’t turn out so well.” He extended his hand toward Elizabeth. “Hank Pendleton.”
