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She lets out a sigh before walking out of the kitchen, and I take a quick sip of the tea then continue making another dumpling.
Suddenly, the tiny hairs on the back of my neck prickle with a weird sensation as if I’m being watched. Even though I know I’m alone in the kitchen, I still glance around me.
I’ve been getting the feeling more and more.
It’s your imagination.
But…
My hands still as I think about the dream I had last week. I didn’t see the man, but I could feel him in my bedroom, watching me. He said something I can’t remember.
It feels like it was the same man I dreamed about the day I got the transplant.
I mentioned the dreams to Dr. Bentall, who said some patients might have disturbing dreams and poor sleep. It isn’t unusual.
Taking a deep breath, I continue to prepare the dumplings, and while they’re steaming, I make sesame noodles.
I find Asian cuisine fascinating and would love to specialize in it. With a bit of luck, I’ll become a head chef at a Michelin Star restaurant where I can create my own signature Asian-inspired dishes.
I let out a frustrated sigh, wishing I could return to work already. I want to get my life back to how things were before the car accident.
My thoughts turn to Mom, and there’s a pang of sadness in my chest.
I miss her.
I hardly had time to mourn her death when I was forced to face my own impending demise. Three years have passed, and I’ve only been to her grave twice.
I should get some flowers and visit her grave.
Dad comes into the kitchen and grabs a bottle of water from the fridge. “When are we eating?”
“In ten minutes.” I glance at him, then say, “I’d like to visit Mom’s grave tomorrow. Can you squeeze it into your busy schedule?”
“What time?”
“Whenever suits you.”
Dad thinks for a moment, then suggests, “How about four pm?”
“Works for me.”
When he leaves the kitchen, I check the dumplings before making the noodles, which don’t take long to cook.
When the food is ready, I prepare three plates. Placing two plates with chopsticks and soy sauce on a tray, I carry it to Dad’s office so I can eat with him.
Passing Louisa, where she’s wiping down the handrail by the stairs, I say, “Your food is in the kitchen.”
“Thank you.”
Walking into Dad’s office, I set the tray down on the coffee table, and take a seat on the couch.
“Come eat, Daddy.”
He gets up from behind his desk and sits down beside me. Picking up his chopsticks, he murmurs, “It looks delicious, sweetheart.”
I’ve put off discussing my plans with my father, and after swallowing a bite of a dumpling, I say, “I want to start looking at apartments.”
Dad’s eyes snap to my face. “So soon?”
