Page 5 of Don't Tell Me How to Die

“Sucking the serenity right out of the neighborhood,” Lizzie added.

Dad’s motorcycle roared into the parking lot and stopped at the reserved space next to the kitchen door.

Chef Tommy banged a metal spoon on an empty soup pot three times, and everyone in the kitchen—me and Lizzie included—yelled out in unison, “God bless Black Monday.”

It’s the standard homage whenever my father arrives at the restaurant—kind of like playing “Hail to the Chief” for the president. There’s a long story behind that ritual, and it gets recounted every year at the Thanksgiving feast for our employees and their families.

The back door swung open, and Finn McCormick charged into the room. He’s a big man, six feet four, barrel-chested, with a full head of thick hair that shook loose when he removed his helmet. He peeled off his leather jacket and yelled, “What’s cooking?” to the kitchen crew.

It’s a far cry from his past life with his preppy haircut, conservative suits, and monthly commuter ticket to his job as a stockbroker on Wall Street. That’s the life that ended eleven years ago when the market crashed.

“Good news, girls,” he said, spreading his arms wide. “You are done. Get out of here.”

“Are we fired?” Lizzie said. “Or did Child Protective Services finally catch up with you?”

That got a belly laugh. “You wish,” he said. “But alas, it’s only a brief reprieve. Your mom wants me to give you the rest of the day off and send you home.”

“Is she okay?” I said.

“Hard to say. What woman in her right mind wants to spend the day with her teenage daughters?” He flashed us a wide grin. “Just kidding. She seemed downright chipper all morning. Oh yeah—she’s fixing lunch, so she told me to tell you not to eat here.”

“Don’t eat at McCormick’s,” Lizzie said. “Good advice.”

Another big laugh from my father. Which of course was Lizzie’s mission in life. Early on she had decided she wanted to be a doctor, and ever since she read about the healing powers of laughter she became the family stand-up comic commando, bombarding us with one-liners every time any of us had so much as a sniffle.

My mother, of course, had a lot more than a sniffle.

“Dad, are you sure she’s okay?” I asked again.

“She looks better than she’s looked in months,” he said. “Besides, you know your mom. If she wasn’t okay, she wouldn’t want you guys around.”

“That’s great news, Dad,” Lizzie said. Then she turned to me. “Especially for you, Lobster Girl.”

“What do you mean especially for me?”

“How My Mother Beat a Rare Blood Disease,” she said. “It’s got all the makings of a great college essay.”

TWO

Lizzie got her driver’s license when she turned sixteen in March, and the four-year-old Acura Integra that had been all mine for ten months now belonged to both of us. We can barely share a bathroom, so we politicked for another car. But our parents’ logic, which basically boiled down to “you go to the same school—just work it out,” prevailed.

“I’m driving,” Lizzie said when we got to the parking lot.

“Fine,” I said. “But that means I’m in charge of the radio.”

“Oh God, you’re going to play that annoying shitkicker music, aren’t you?”

“I won’t know till I’m on the road. Make a decision,” I said, jangling the keys in front of her.

“This is why we each should have our own car,” she said, snapping the keys out of my hand.

She got behind the wheel, and I started rifling through the CDs.

I pulled out a Garth Brooks album, popped it into the CD player, and turned up the volume.

The pub is only three miles from our house, but it was enough time to make her sit through four annoying shitkicker songs.

There was a lime-green Honda Civic hatchback with a mashed right rear fender parked in front of our house.

---