Dad didn’t speak, but his answer was in his smile, which burgeoned into a giggle that seemed to say, “Yes, but I don’t mind.” For the briefest of moments, the rambunctious energy that radiates from my father was muted. It must have been a lot to take on; before he’d had a chance to process the news and what it meant for the coming months, we’d been all over his shit with our ill-conceived scheme to accelerate the car before the key was even in the ignition.
The three of us left the laminated floors and medicinal odors of the hospital for the summery colors and the comforting aromas of baked bread at our Hillcrest breakfast haunt. While Jane enjoyed her cheese plate, I my quiche and coffee, and Dad his demi-baguette and tea, we spoke of pleasant things. An hour later, we stepped outside to find that the rain had stopped, and the sidewalks glistened in the warm light of the sun.