Page 5 of Delay of Game
Who knew having a teacher in the house would turn me into a constant ‘please’r?
“I’ll open a bottle of wine. I think we all could use a glass,” Mom said, her voice high-pitched and thrumming with excitement. “Which do you like, Gracie? White or Red?”
“Red is fine,” she said, dipping her head.
“Let me just pop down to the wine cellar and pick us one out,” Mom said. “Mila, go get forks and spoons for everyone at the table. Plates, too.”
The silence made me itch, and I considered following Mila into the kitchen. She’d only set the table a dozen times before, and we’d lost as many plates. I’d threatened to order a cheap set of plastic plates and use them until she could be trusted with Mom’s china, but was immediately overruled when Mom said that’d be another ten years at least.
“I really am sorry, Mr. Grant.” Ms. Evans kept her eyes down, cheeks turning a faint shade of red that matched the flowers on her dress.
My chest tightened as another rush of guilt washed over me.
“Please.” There was that word again. “Don’t. I shouldn’t have been so cranky. It’s been a long day. I didn’t mean to take it out on you.”
“No, I understand.” Beneath her long eyelashes, her eyes misted. She sniffed in, forcing a smile as she met my eyes. “I had to put my aunt into a memory care facility recently. I have been…prone to random bouts of crying ever since.”
She emitted a garbled noise, dabbing the corners of her eyes. “But don’t worry. I’ll pull myself together by the time school starts.”
The conversation seemed to ricochet from bad to worse. Somewhere deep in my chest, I felt a tug to comfort her. To say something. That sounds incredibly difficult. I’m sorry for your sort of loss. Mila cries all the time, you crying was just more white noise.
But it’d been so long since I’d reached out emotionally farther than Mom and Mila.
“That sucks,” I mumbled, relieved when Mila emerged from the kitchen, an overly large stack of plates in her hands.
“That’s too many plates, girl,” I said, standing up to scoop the top half out of her hands.
She crinkled her nose, surveying the table. “Four people. Four plates. Four bowls. And four little plates.”
I counted the stacks. “We need that many?”
“Salad, bread plate, and pasta,” Mom said, holding two bottles of wine in one hand and a corkscrew in the other. “Mila, how many plates is that all together?”
“You don’t need to turn dinner into a math problem just because her teacher is joining us,” I grumbled.
“What’s after ten?” Mila asked, setting down a bread plate in front of me.
“Eleven,” Ms. Evans and I answered simultaneously.
“Right, eleven.” Mila nodded solemnly as she moved onto the salad bowls. “And what’s after eleven?”
“Clearly, we need to work on her numbers,” I said somewhat apologetically.
I’d barely transitioned out of the “keep Mila alive” portion of parenthood, and having her teacher at our dinner table just exemplified how far behind I’d fallen in my parenting duties.
“Counting to ten is great, Mila. Very impressive.”
I raised an eyebrow, unsure if her teacher was being polite or seriously had a bunch of kids who couldn’t count.
Mila smiled, her closed-mouth, smug smile only given in response to compliments.
"So, Rob, Gracie and I actually know each other." Mom set one bottle of wine on the table and popped the cork on the second. "Do you remember me telling you about my friend, Mercy?"
The name sounded vaguely familiar. Maybe wildly dumb names just ran in Ms. Evans family. I couldn't exactly fault her for that. "Maybe."
"Oh, you remember Mercy. She did pottery with me a few times."
Ms. Evans’ eyes softened. "Do you remember the planter she made?"
