Candles – Daughter
Olive, and take a step back from the stove.”
He was stopped dead in the doorway, hands up as if I was holding him hostage. Still dressed in the blue and white checked pajamas I’d bought him last Father’s Day, with his short hair sticking up, he looked like he’d sensed something was wrong and immediately jumped out of bed. That, or just smelled the wafting smoke coming from the kitchen.
I don’t know what I’d been thinking this morning when I’d crept down the stairs, bleary-eyed after a few hours of restless sleep. It was still the early hours of the morning, but the competition was tomorrow and sleep had been impossible. But even without that stress, the last two weeks had been horrible. Somehow, I’d ended up doing both interviews last week: one for the vice principal job, and the other the head of the art department at Rosa’s school. I had no idea how they’d gone. I felt like as soon as they started, I blacked out from stress. Rosa had called me after the second to ask about it, and was only mildly annoyed with me when I told her I had no idea.
After lying awake in bed, going through every possible way tomorrow could go wrong, I’d decided to recreate one of my favorite breakfasts. A recipe for cinnamon brioche French toast had come up on my socials, and I’d been left salivating over the memories of when Dad used to make it for me, remembering how the smell of cinnamon and caramelized sugar had filled the entire house after he’d made it. I hadn’t remembered how he’d made it, but armed with a video, I’d told myself it couldn’t be too difficult.
Apparently I’d decided to run before I could walk.
“It’s fine, it’s fine!” I tried to reassure him, looking down at the more black than brown toast sizzling in the pan, that was also wildly spitting hot butter all over the place. “I’ve got it under control!”
“The last time you were unattended near a stove, it caught fire,” Dad argued back, stepping closer and peering over my shoulder. His face scrunched up in disgust as he got hit in the face with a cloud of smoke.
“That was a freak accident, not me.” It was hard not to get defensive when that was brought up. Sure, the house smelled terrible for an entire week after, but there had only been a few flames and it had been a total accident. Nobody leaves a dish towel on a hot stove on purpose.
“Either way, let me help,” he said, a bit softer this time. “Throw that out, and we can start again.”
I grumbled, not loving the idea of going right back to the start, but knowing it was probably for the best. “Okay, but please let me help.”
“I’ll guide you, you get the fire extinguisher out,” he said mischievously.
I shot him a dead look, my lips pressed into a thin line, but his playful smile melted away my frustrations.
“You know I lived on my own successfully for many years,” I retorted, picking up the pan that held the failed French toast, and depositing the contents straight into the trash.
“Yes, and I have no doubt that you lived on a diet of ready meals and oven baked pizza,” he grumbled unhappily as he started to examine the ingredients I’d left out on the counter, picking some up to read the label.
“And what’s wrong with that?” I asked, plopping a fresh slice of brioche into the egg mixture I’d already made up.
“Not very healthy, all processed and high in salt,” he said. “Which recipe were you trying to follow?”
“Says the chef who cooks everything in butter,” I mumbled under my breath, passing him my phone. He took his time reading before letting out a small tsk.
“No wonder you ran into trouble, this is too complicated. Can I show you my way?”
With Dad’s help, starting again took far less time than it had taken me. Instead of frying, he opted to oven bake the French toast after a light fry–to seal the bread and give it a crisp, he’d explained.
We both sat at the kitchen table, steaming hot cups of coffee in hand, and waited for the food to bake.
“You’re getting better at this,” he smiled, lifting his mug to his mouth, the foam of the coffee leaving its mark on his mustache.
“Did you see the state of the pan?” My eyebrows pressed together as I spoke, not sure how he could think there had been a marked improvement.
“That recipe was over-complicated, and it’s an old pan,” he said, dismissing me with a wave of his hand. “Besides, I was surprised to find you trying to cook something tricky on your own.”
I shrugged. “I couldn’t sleep. The recipe had come up and it got me reminiscing.”
“You were always a sucker for cinnamon and sugar.”
“Still am,” I smiled. “I want to learn more recipes that we used to have, like the toast and oh, Mom’s favorite pie you used to make.”
“The truffle chicken dish?” he asked, and I nodded. The memories of the creamy chicken sauce, covered by layers of delicious, buttery flaky pastry, and a special grating of truffles were hard to forget, the home cooked food was some of the best I’d ever had.
“And those little crispy potatoes.”
He smiled brightly. “She did always love those potatoes.”
“Remember that time you served it differently,” I recalled, lifting my mug and taking a slip.
His smile exploded. “She did not like that. Think it was the closest she ever came to leaving me,” he said and we both laughed at the memory. She could be so grumpy, so specific on what she wanted, but when it was perfect she let you know, made you feel like we were the center of her universe. “Well, I’d be happy to teach you the recipes if you want. Maybe I’ll earn myself a couple nights off from cooking.”
“Like you’d leave me alone with your knives.”
He laughed, agreeing as he went to open up the oven, the smell of caramelized brown sugar filling the room. He served up the toast, placing two slices each into a bowl while I refreshed our coffees. We settled back down in front of each other, ready to dig into the long awaited food.
The memory of the toast was nothing compared to the real thing, and the sweet cinnamon sugar left an unmistakable warmth in my belly. For a moment, it didn’t matter that I’d barely slept, or that it was still way too early in the morning and I still had to face work for the day. For a moment, I felt okay, satisfied with this piece of my childhood, and enjoying my dad’s company.
For a moment, I was okay, was lost in the happy memory and the world around me felt warm again. Just a moment, until Dad straightened his back, his expression solemn, and suddenly the delicious food turned to lead in my stomach.
Our lives were tangled together permanently now, tied together that invisible string that had always kept us coming back to each other.
“I wanted to know if you’d come with me, to go visit her.”
Sweat began to prick on my forehead, my fingers holding on so tightly to the silverware I was surprised it didn’t bend under the pressure.
“I-I…”
“I know you haven’t been yet,” he went on. “And I don’t want to rush you.” His eyes were soft on me, soft and caring and full of concern. But that did nothing to halt the anger surging through me, burning up any shred of self-control.
“But you are anyway.”
His face crumpled, creasing at the wrinkles as he took the accusation. He thought on it for a moment and then collected himself, not allowing himself to react to my anger. Maybe he thought that if he was better, I’d be better. He was wrong.
“She would’ve been heartbroken if you didn’t go,” he said gently. “She loved that she always saw you on her birthday–you always came over even if it was after work and she loved it. She loved you, Olive.” His words, despite his soft delivery, cut me open. The knife was hot and slick against a still healing wound.
“This isn’t fair, you can’t bring that up. If I’m not ready–” If I was ever ready, the thought rattled me to the core. If this feeling ever lifts, stops crushing me for a single moment. “–then you can’t guilt trip me into going.”
I stood up, pushing myself up from the table and grabbed our plates piling the dishes on the counter. His eyes followed every motion, and he kept his calm tone that was supposed to be soothing but was anything but.
“I’m not trying to–” he started to say, his back stiffening at the accusation. The calm was slowly slipping, but I didn’t give him time to finish.
“Yes, you are.” I shot him a look from where I stood at the sink, finding enough control to not throw the dishes in and watch them smash against the basin. He held my gaze, my fury threatening to melt with the guilt I felt for being so mad at him for just trying to help. But I held it, refusing to give in, the flames finally free.
“It helped me going to visit her,” he said, swinging his legs out from under the table so he could face me properly, but he remained seated and kept that unwavering gaze on me.
“That doesn’t mean it will help me.” I shook my head over and over again, leaning forward against the counter, my hands gripping the side as if holding on for dear life.
I tried to imagine it, going back there. I’d stood there as they lowered her into the ground, stood there as they gathered around to cover her up–and left her there. Dad had shown me the plans for the gravestone, asked me if I was happy with the wording. But I’d barely looked, barely managed to help. That’s what would be left of her? A stone marking telling us she’d once been here? That was it?
“I lost her too, you know. I’m going through this as well,” Dad said softly.
“No, you lost your wife,” I snapped, looking back at him. “My mom died, and I wasn’t even there.”
He bristled this time, visibly pushed back at my words.
“Olive.” My name was supposed to be a grounding, a comfort, but instead all it made me want to do was grab the plates and throw them at the floor, desperate to escape, desperate for this to end.
“Just let me deal with this the way I want to deal with it.” My words were a desperate plea, a hope he could let this go.
“It’s destroying you, Olive,” he said, voice breaking. “You’ve changed so much. I hear you at night moving about when you can’t sleep. I see you come in the door and you look exhausted, like you can barely stand up straight. And then when you cook with me you can’t stay still, you’re rattled. You barely talk about work anymore, and it’s all you used to talk about.” He stood up, hand waving around as he listed off all the things I’d thought I’d hidden from him. His voice grew louder, that softness long gone, and now filled with a parental fury I’d avoided from him in my youth. “And painting, Ol, it meant so much to you, no matter what you painted. I know you haven’t done anything since she died.”
“I’m getting through it.” Hot tears rolled down my cheeks as I lied, holding his gaze as he shook his head.
“No, you aren’t. You’re struggling and you need help.”
I was an animal backed into a corner, walls high all around me, and there was no escape. Not without a fight.
“I’m fine,” I said, trying to muster my strength.
“Just please, let me help you,” Dad pleaded.
“I’m fine.”
“Olive…”
“Please.” My final beg was strangled.
He stood in front of me, looking at me as if he was trying to find the right words that would put his daughter back to how she had been; put her back together like she’d never been broken at all. But he didn’t see that I’d been trying to do that myself for the last few months, didn’t see me trying to glue all my pieces back together, only to fall apart under the slightest pressure.
I was broken, irreplicable.
He blinked, a sheen in his eyes. “I’m always here if you need to talk.”
I didn’t have any more words, so I just nodded, taking the escape he finally offered. I walked past him, pausing for a moment to wonder if I could wrap my arms around him and squeeze him tight if I could pretend for long enough that I was okay, and in turn make him okay again too. But I kept moving, walking past Meatball who’d been watching from her bed the entire time, her little head following me as I left the kitchen and stormed up the stairs. I climbed back underneath my covers, wondering how on earth I was supposed to carry on like this.
