I make a show of carefully considering my menu. “Hm . . . well, how about I get the cheese and eggs plate and you can try ’em out?”
He frowns while considering this and I study him while waiting for an answer. Was I this careful and introspective as a kid? I’m not sure, but Dixie says he reminds her of me and I do see some similarities. Mrs. Lawson has obviously been bathing him but his clothes are about a year too small and his hair is too long and falling in his eyes. His arms are small, wiry, and bruised and contain several sores and old scars.
“I guess that would be okay,” he finally answers, and I have to think for a second to recall my question.
“Great.” I set my menu behind the napkin holder and turn to the frizzy-haired, frazzled-looking middle-aged waitress bringing Liam and Dixie’s OJs to the table. “Can I get a cheese and egg plate, white toast, with bacon and hash browns scattered, covered, smothered, and chunked?”
“Sure, handsome,” the waitress tells me. “And to drink?”
I glance at my companions. “I’ll have what they’re having. Orange juice, straight up.”
Dixie rolls her eyes but Liam looks mildly amused. Kid could use a little entertainment in his life. And I’ve been where he is. Having people feel sorry for you and giving you sad-puppy eyes, while I know they mean well, doesn’t help. It just makes you more uncomfortable because now you’ve got the burden of their pity and pain and discomfort to deal with on top of everything else.
I understand something about Liam that Dixie may never grasp.
He doesn’t know his situation hurts other people because they care about him. He only knows that his life is the way it is, and as far as he knows, everyone goes hungry, or has junkies all over their house, or gets shoved or hit or kicked or sometimes completely ignored like an unwanted pet. I was nearly in middle school before I completely understood that my life wasn’t like everyone else’s—that it wasn’t that way for other kids. What I understood long before that, though, was the pity and sickening sympathy I got from teachers and social workers and ladies from the local Junior League. I didn’t like it and I’m betting Liam won’t, either, so I resolve to behave normally and to try to help Dixie ease up and mask her concerns—for now, at least. I remain cool and calm and laid-back on the surface, making jokes and small talk until our food arrives.
Under the table I am texting Sheila Montgomery like a madman telling her to call me as soon as humanly possible.
After taking a few bites of my food and scooping a few bites of eggs onto Liam’s plate so he can try them out, I realize Dixie isn’t eating. She’s watching Liam. The way he’s testing food to make sure it’s edible—a habit that develops after you’ve desperately ingested soured fruit or chugged milk that has long since gone bad because you had no other option—and then shoveling it in like it’s his last meal once he realizes it’s okay.
I nudge her knee gently with mine. “Eat, Bluebird,” I mumble under my breath.
She jerks a little as if in a trance and then picks up her fork.
Most of the time we eat in comfortable silence. Liam is out of breath when he finishes because he hardly took one while he filled his belly.
“After this,” Dixie begins, turning to me as she continues, “we’re going to have a campout at my house. Movies and a tent and sleeping bags. We’re even going to make s’mores by roasting marshmallows on the stovetop like Nana and Papa used to. Would you like to join us, Gavin?”
The way she speaks my name, enunciating both syllables, I can tell it’s an invitation of desperation. I know she’d really rather have space from me after everything I told her but she needs my help tonight, with Liam, in not letting her huge heart show.
“What do you say, man?” I dip my head to catch Liam’s eye. “That okay with you? I’m pretty good at roasting stovetop marshmallows. Not to brag or anything . . .”