Astrid and Callie bring breakfast the next morning: croissants, coffee with thick, rich cream, and apricot pastries so light and flaky, they look like they can float right off the hospital’s china plates. This prompts Kellan and me to scowl at his cups of Jell-o and my dry toast while everyone else eats like royalty.
“I’m disappointed that Ewan hasn’t come by yet,” Astrid says, buttering one half of a croissant and slathering it with a pinkish berry jam from the Gnomish plane. “We had words about this, you know. Just last night.”
“Why bother?” Kellan sets his spoon down and motions for the croissant. To my surprise, Astrid hands it over.
“You’re not supposed to eat that!” I hiss.
Pure bliss settles across his face with a bite. “Croissants are better than Jell-o. You can’t argue that.”
I don’t, especially when Astrid hands me the other half, prepared just as tastily as Kellan’s. Goodbye dry toast. Hello tastiness! “To answer your question, Kellan,” she says, “I bother because, no matter what, he is still your father.”
“If he hasn’t changed his ways in fourteen years, I highly doubt he’s going to try now,” Jonah says, loading his own croissant with jam.
And yet, isn’t that what I keep hoping will happen with my own parents? With my mom, even just as recently as yesterday? Why is it Jonah and Kellan seem to be able to accept this from their father, and I can’t?
I think I’d like to, actually. I’d like to not care so much, to not build up hopes only to have them crash down in fiery disappointments around me more often than not. But I can’t do it. I can’t let go of my faith that someday, somehow, my mom and I will connect in a way we’re supposed to.
I can’t write her off yet. I’m not ready.
An exasperated sigh escapes from Astrid’s lips along with a gently lobbed admonishment back toward the twins. Then her attention shifts to me. “I also talked to your father last night, Chloe.”
My eyes are owl-wide as I swallow a much-to-large bite. The Gnomish jam is super tart, which probably makes me not only wide eyed but pucker lipped, too.
“Bet you didn’t know Mom is a meddler,” Callie murmurs from behind her coffee cup. Astrid glares at her daughter while the boys try to hide their amusement with coordinated coughs.
“Encouraging a man to come see his daughter in the hospital in not meddling,” the Council’s senior Seer insists.
“Was it truly encouragement?” Kellan asks. He taps a finger against his temple, cocking his head in fake confusion. “Or was it more along the lines of threatening?”
Astrid’s children burst into laughter, but Jonah sobers quickly, reaching under the table to take my hand. Because, obviously, my father needing to be threatened to come to see his daughter shows just how crummy of a father he is. And of how little he actually thinks of me.
I doubt he’s called. At least my mom has, even if she’s in Chile hunting a stupid plant obviously more important than me.
The smile drops off of Kellan’s face, too. “Sorry,” he says to Astrid, but I know it’s really meant more for me than her.
“As I was trying to say,” Astrid continues, obviously unbothered by her children making fun of her, “I spoke to Noel, too, but I was informed that he’s in a series of meetings all day and doesn’t think he will be able to come by the hospital.”
I break off a corner of the croissant and crumble it beneath my fingers. I don’t know really what to say here. Jonah knows how lousy my parents are; Kellan, too. Astrid heard a little bit from me about this last year during our session. But how much does she really know? And what about Callie? I’m not sure if I’m ready to open myself up that wide yet, even if these people here are all . . . what, exactly? Just Jonah’s family? My new family? Or, my soon-to-be family? And yet, a type of family unit I’m totally unfamiliar with. So I offer a simple, “He works a lot.”
Thankfully, Jonah quickly shifts the conversation away from my family’s failings to something much more palatable. But my appetite is gone, even though moments before I’d been starving.
Jonah and Callie’s competitiveness at cards yesterday was nothing compared to the viciousness I’m currently witnessing now that Kellan’s in the mix. Astrid, obviously being more intelligent than I, outright refused to play with them once a round was suggested and is now over in a corner immersed in a phone call. I agreed to join, though, and now wish my legs were flexible enough to kick myself with. I am clearly outmatched next to these three and not nearly as cutthroat as needed to persevere.
Simple translation: I have yet to win a single game against these sharks so far.
“You’re not even trying.” A pair of cards is slapped down in front of me; I literally jerk back into my seat at Callie’s venom-dipped accusation.
Only, she’s not talking to me. Because Kellan argues, “I was in a coma less than twenty-four hours ago. Cut me some slack.”