Page 32 of Intermission
“Thank you for Christmas vacation, Lord,” I begin. “And for Christmas music that makes me feel so warm and loved and joyful. Thank you for our home and for our dinner. Please comfort those who aren’t as blessed as we are tonight and help us to remember the real reason for Christmas is the birth of Jesus.” Forgetting the “no singing at the table” rule, I end my first extemporaneous, non-rhyming dinner table prayer, singing, “O come let us adore hi-im, Chri-ist the Lord,” and adding a quick, “In Christ’s name, amen.” before lifting my head.
When I open my eyes, Mom and Dad are staring at me.
Dad clears his throat and picks up his fork. “Well, ah, thank you,Faith.”
Mom does not make a move toward her own dinner. Instead, she crosses her arms and leans back in her chair. “What was that?”
“Sorry about the singing at the table part. It wasn’t on purpose. I’ve been listening to Christmas music all day, and... I guess I just felt like praying differently tonight. Sorry. I should have asked first.”
“No, it’s fine.” Mom blinks a few times, shakes her head, and turns her attention to her dinner. “We all suffer from the Christmas Crazies sometimes.”
Dad, who already has a fork and knife poised to cut his second or third bite of steak, looks up. “Where is Gretchen?”
“She went out to eat with some old friends from high school.”
“Again? She’s been home on winter break for almost a week,” Dad says, sawing a bite of steak with hard, quick motions, “but she has yet to grace us with her presence at the dinner table. This is getting ridiculous.”
Someone besides me is unhappy withGretchen? Shocking.
“Oh, give her a break, Joseph,” Mom says. “Gretchen hasn’t seen her friends in ages.”
Dad scowls, but doesn’t argue. Not that I expected him to.
Back to the status quo. May Her Golden Highness’s reign remain unhindered.
I cut into the center of my steak and almost gag as reddish liquid escapes from a bright pink center. “Seriously, Mom? Rare? Do you know what kind of bacteria and parasites can transfer into the human body when meat is undercooked?”
“Oh, not this again. It’smedium rare, Faith. I used the meat thermometer. It’s fine.” Mom cuts a piece of her own steak, sticks it in her mouth, chews, and swallows. “See?”
I look at my plate again, where cow blood is spreading across the surface. “Would you be really offended if I nuked this for a minute or two?”
“You want to microwave filet mignon?”
I nod.
Mom lets out a long breath. “Is it going to make a difference as to whether or not you eat it?”
Again, I nod. “It’s oozing blood, Mom.”
“It’s not oozing. And that’s not blood. Those are the meat juices. It’ssupposedto be that way.” Mom sighs and cuts another bite off her steak. “Fine. Microwave the flavor right out of it, if it makes you happy.”
“Thanks.” I take my plate to the kitchen and set the microwave for three minutes. When it’s finished, I rejoin my parents.
“Did I hear you tell your mother you’re going out tonight?” Dad takes a sip of his water. “With Jenna?”
“Yes and no.” As usual, Dad has absorbed small parts of multiple conversations and then combined their content incorrectly. “Yes, going out. Not with Jenna.”
“With aboy?” A teasing tone enters Dad’s voice.
“Girlsandboys. Also, menandwomen. I’m going caroling at the nursing home with a bunch of people.”
“Look, Janet, she’s blushing.”
“Dad!”
“Is that Davidson boy going caroling, too? The one you went to Homecoming with?”
“No.” I laugh. “Tanner doesn’t sing. Let me correct that. Tanner shouldn’t sing. Believe me, I’ve heard him.” I give an exaggerated shudder. “It should be prohibited by law.”
