Total pages in book: 74
Estimated words: 69910 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 350(@200wpm)___ 280(@250wpm)___ 233(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 69910 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 350(@200wpm)___ 280(@250wpm)___ 233(@300wpm)
“I’ll show you chopping! You added too much sugar. It’s better with a sour edge. It’s supposed to be tart. It’s rhubarb, for the love of dingleberries.”
“It’s not supposed to be so tart that your face sucks into your arsehole. Then we’ll all walk around looking like you.”
We didn’t hear any of the fridge or cupboards rage, but I’m hearing the rhubarb rage now. It’s time to step in.
I round the corner and clear my throat. “Dad, I’m sure the crisp is going to turn out fine. Thank you both so much for pitching in to help with the fridge and cooking. We really appreciate it.”
Gerry looks a smidge guilty at the insult to my dad that I very clearly overheard. My dad, on the other hand, is steamed like a teapot. His face isn’t red from the heat since it’s perfectly chilled in here. I’m not going to take sides, even if I think rhubarb should always be tart. But it’s good when it’s sweet too. It’s basically the one food I would eat forever if I could only ever eat one food for the rest of my life.
Gerry opens his mouth to say more, but I rush forward and inspect the crisp. They’ve worked miracles in the short time I showered. My dad was working on mixing up the rhubarb filling, and Gerry took over the crisp topping with the oatmeal, brown sugar, and flour.
“This looks so good, and we haven’t even baked it yet.” I snatch a piece of rhubarb, loving how my mouth and tongue immediately go fuzzy with it. The sweet taste hits first, then the bitter and sour when I crunch down.
“Feral,” Gerry comments. “Eating it raw.”
“Don’t call my son feral, you dithering bonehead!”
“Enough,” I protest, still chewing. They both look like they’re ready to go at it again, so I clarify. “Enough doesn’t mean insulting each other more.”
We all hear footsteps at the same time. I don’t have to tell my dad or Gerry to get on their best behavior because they both do it automatically for Patience. It’s remarkable to see the way they change. Her dad stands up straighter and puts on a smile, while my dad looks less feral himself and more friendly and open. I know they’re just trying to please Patience after she was so upset. They’re trying their best. It’s obvious from the fact that no new assholes were torn during this team-building process.
Patience looks fresh and clean. She smells fresh and clean, and she’s flushed from her shower, her hair dripping wet like mine. She put on a floral maxi dress that flows all over the place and has a line of buttons from the top to the bottom. There are little ties in the back, and it looks entirely country. In her arms, she’s holding the world’s scariest doll. The thing was made to look like it’s been gardening. The dress is a matching mini to the one she’s wearing. When I look down, I realize her dress has been shortened and hemmed at the bottom. Did she borrow fabric from it for the doll’s clothes? It sure looks that way. The hair, though. Always the hair. This one is ankle-long. It looks real, but as in a really awful wig. The doll is pasty white with little pink spots on her cheeks and drawn-on large green eyes. Somewhere, Patience found a tiny set of glasses, a little garden trowel, and a miniature book. She’s sewn all of them onto the doll.
“I wanted to show you my latest creation in honor of the gardening and baking we’ve been doing.” She thrusts the thing out proudly. “Her name’s Gretchen the Gardener. I just love her! She turned out so well!”
Gah. Glerp. Gulp. “Well” isn’t the word I would use. I mean, yes, she’s well-made. But she’s lovely in a nightmarish sense.
Gerry gulps like I just did. “She’s beautiful, honey. I love the little finishing touches you put on her.”
My dad’s eyes shoot to me like he’s asking me if I knew about the dolls before, how many are in the house, do I have extra locks for his bedroom door at night when those dolls start walking, do they shapeshift, and can they get under the cracks, rendering the locks useless?
I shoot a look back at him, saying yes, I knew about the dolls, and yes, I’ve slept soundly every night, and no, I haven’t woken up to one slithering the walls. The only night-time disaster we’ve had so far was the bird that somehow got in here and screamed its head off about it.
“I’ll just…get this finished and into the oven,” my dad says about the crisp. He quickly turns around.
Gerry shuffles his feet a little and nods. “That’s right. Crisp. Finish. Oven. Yes.”
Like a miracle, our dads work together, throwing all their effort into the dessert.