If you haven't read "The Surgeon's Child-1", I would suggest you do or you might be confused at points in this chapter. Just click the "View Novel" button in the top-right corner. Thanks in advance for comments, crits, and likes!:]
I step outside my apartment room, huddling underneath the small balcony that is the walkway for the third floor. The apartment wraps around a small parking lot in a square formation, leaving out one side to allow people in and out of the complex. Each side of the building holds three floors and four rooms on each. I walk to the end of the second floor walkway and start down the stairs connecting them all. The parking lot is slick with the now downpour of rain and sections of it have a rainbow hue from the oil that is finally becoming it liquid form instead of being caked on the pavement.
My car is an old, gray, Dodge Neon that still happens to work after all these years. Not counting the works after I bought it used. An old battery, a defective piston, and smaller problems the mechanics happened to find including an oil leak. But since everything is new, it should last me a few more years. Blue light from the room in front of my car looks liquid on the asphalt as it forms into many shapes as the rain washes down the grate drain. I look into the room to see a little girl watching the television, legs curled up to her chest and stuffed animal cuddled in her arms. She sits far back on the striped couch as if waiting for something bad to happen. But the longer I look at her the more her features remind me.
The long, dark brown hair, large brown eyes for a tiny face, and the short body in fuzzy PJs that are probably her personal favorite. Painful memories fill my head and I look a way, gulping a lump forming in my throat. I can clearly see her doing the same thing as the girl. She would sneak into the living room late at night or very early in the morning just to see what’s on the tube when we were a sleep. Sometimes she would wake me up and we would watch together, the volume so low you had to hold your breath to even hear. Other times she would tell me what she watched with great detail when are parent weren’t listening. Stories about confusing cartoons and stand-up people joking about people in D.C. Back then she would say, “the people dad complains about”.
I take one look back at the girl, who now has a small smile on her face, and then unlock my car with a familiar beep-beep, getting in quickly for cover. I start up the Neon, turning on both the headlights and windshield wipers, and back up. While waiting to turn on to Lanyard Street, I can see up close the shell of the burnt-down apartment. Its ten stories stretch up high and most of the windows, that go five across, are broken from the heat of the fire. On the small concrete stairs that lead to the warped wood of the double doors are flowers and wreaths, heavy downed by water. Either they are from the grieving families or sympathetic strangers. Maybe even both.
The drive over to Bill’s Big BBQ is only about ten minutes. The family diner is a classic with its long body and windows crowding up the front. A blue and red “Open” sign hangs next to the double glass doors, my ticket in. The small, two-row parking lot is mostly empty besides four other cars, so picking a spot to park isn’t hard. I cut the engine and stare at the diner. It seems too small to need a waiter. But maybe the owner just cooks or isn’t the people type. Sort of like myself. I shake my head and step out of the car, locking it as I shut the door, and rush inside, covering my head with my arms.
When I open the door to the inside of the diner, a small bell jiggles, alerting the two women who were talking at the counter. They swing slightly on the bolted down, red cushioned bar stools. One woman is much younger then the other, making me think they must be mother and daughter. The young one has auburn hair in a ponytail down to the middle of her back. Her eyes are gray, which seems strange for someone with red hair. I always see them with brown eyes. Her features define her face, which is a bit thin. Natural pink lips, high cheekbones, a straight nose, and a thin body at the height of five feet seven inches. A nice looking woman all in all. The woman’s mother, I assume, looks just like her, but with age showing on a picture perfect face. Her hair is also losing its fullness and color, which is turning into a duller tone. I smile at the ladies, who both give a small smile in return. The youngest one looks down and points at me.
“You probably shouldn’t have worn that white shirt, sir,” She says with a voice to match her flawlessly and with a touch of southern. “Rain’s a bit dirty.” I look down at my shirt, taking my fingers to pull it from my chest and inspect it better. She’s right. Small dirt speckles litter the front of my shirt and cover my shoulders. Wonderful. I sigh and shake my head, brushing the front of my shirt. It doesn’t help, but cause the speckles to turn into small, faded streaks. I groan and let my arms droop in defeat. The younger woman gives a small giggle that doesn’t sound too mocking. I look back up at them. They both wear darker colors, the younger one in a black polo and pants, and the older one in a navy business outfit. I look like the idiot.
“You applying for the job here?” The older woman asks.
“How’d you presume that?” I reply, getting a chuckle from her.
“Well you don’t look like you’re on a lunch break,” She jokes, checking me up and down. I really need to get nicer cloths. “I’m Maya Albert, Bill’s wife. This is my daughter, Elizabeth.”
“Beth, for short.” She corrects quickly. I smile at her, making her a little red-faced. A shy personality? Doesn’t seem to match her up.
“I’m Nolan Darkwood,” I inform. “I’m guessing your husband runs the place? I am here to look for the job.” Maya nods and swivels on the bar stool to completely face me before standing up and walking around the counter to the swinging kitchen door behind it. Moments after she leaves the room, I can smell the food that gives my mouth a start. I can feel it fill with saliva and I gulp it down to keep myself from drooling or spitting when I next open my mouth. My family always loved the grill. My dad always had something to do with it for each dinner, since he was more into cooking then my mom.
Headache. That’s what I get now every time her memories come up. Even when I saw that little girl, a slight pain punctured me. Now it’s a pound, like someone with a hammer in my head hitting against the inside of my skull. The pain of loss trying to escape but my brain is too stubborn to let go. Instead, it makes me suffer. This time it’s the memory of the cookout we had for her on her 12th birthday. Dad was on the grill and she came up to him and watched as he flipped the burgers, covered in his birthday special spices. Dad turns and smiles down at her, his face free from the deep wrinkles of old age. His blue eyes have this sparkle to them as he looks at her. She turns her head, dark pigtails swinging like a pendulum of a clock. Her smile brings happiness to any moment.
In slow motion, I can read Dad’s lips as they ask if she wants to help with her birthday dinner. She looks so surprised and nods her head in quick, short motions. Dad smiles wider and pulls over a patio chair, holding it steady as she climbs up and kneels on it. Dad gives her the spatula and takes her wrist gently, guiding it underneath the burger and tipping it slightly to flip it. She giggles as she does it again by herself, Dad standing beside her with a proud expression on his face.
I put a hand to the side of my head and rub it in slow circles, closing my eyes. I don’t remember this happening with my dad. The memories of him causing me pain each time something happens to remind me of him. There was a mournful depression that made me sluggish and I shed tears here and there, but there wasn’t physical pain. Is it the bond that happens to be causing it all?
I open my eyes and exhale slowly, taking my hand a way from my head. My eyes look up to find Beth staring at me with a concerned look. I stand straight, giving a forceful smile that comes underdeveloped.
“Headache?” She asks, a smile of her own. One that would say: Been there, done that. I give a stiff nod and look down at my wrist. I have this urge to tell her why I have this now pulsing pain stuck in my head, but it’s the thought of bringing her name to my lips, to speak them in the air untainted by her name, that stops me. I came here to forget, not reminisce in the pain of her loss.
“You want to sit down?” Beth asks. I look up her, only then realizing that I look like the village idiot standing feet from the front door. I rub the back of my head and give a small chuckle.
“Yeah.” I say and walk over to the bar stools. I sit in the one next to where her mother was sitting, resting my elbows on the cool plastic of the counter. It’s flawlessly clean minus the small scruff that is no doubt forever stained there. I gaze over at Beth. She raises one eyebrow.
“You’re new in the city, aren’t you?” She says. I smile, shake my head, and look a way for a moment.
“Are you a family of physics or am I open like a book.” I answer, giving her a questioning stare. It’s her turn to laugh. She shrugs and tugs on a small charm bracelet. The charms consist of a dog, a house, a stick figure-like drawing of a girl, and a tree. Some of the charms’ colors have pealed showing it’s not only old, but probably very special to her.
“I just don’t really see guys your age wanting a job as a waiter.” She responds. I raise an eyebrow.
“How old do you think I am?” I say and she laughs again. “There are plenty of them, though.” She pushes a hair from her face too small to fit in her ponytail and looks at me.
“True,” She says. “But you just don’t look like one of them.”
“Hm.” Is all I reply and take a glance at the swinging door. They must be discussing something or Bill must be busy. I hear a sigh escape from Beth and I have to stifle one of my own. She also begins to fidget on the barstool.
“Would it be wrong to ask why you came here?” She finally asks. I look at her confused.
“Why would it be wrong in the first place?” I counter back with my own question. She shrugs again.
“Some people are like ‘Mind your own business’ or ‘Get off my back’. Just similar things like that.” She answers. I laugh and she looks at me a bit surprised.
“What type of people do you meet everyday?” I question. She sighs again and looks a way, back at the door where I was staring off. She looks a bit defeated, like the question itself wears her out. Shoulders slumped, face weary, limbs loose.
“Not people like you, that’s for sure.” She responds. I stare at her for a moment more before looking behind me. The rain has caused a heavy overcast, giving a bright afternoon a dusk-like look. The rainwater streams down the street towards the closest grate to fall into. I wouldn’t be surprised if it started to thunder, even if the weather reporter says nothing about a thunderstorm.
“You didn’t answer my question.” Beth says. I look at her, confused for a moment, but I quickly remember. I take in a sharp breath and hold it, my gazing falling from her face. The reason for the move here. It’s clear in my head, but the name doesn’t pop up. I try to keep it hidden, push it to the basement or attic of my brain and forgot that it’s there. Memories mix into each other, new and old, as her name tries to push through the bars of its cell. I open my mouth and only air from the breath I was holding comes out, no words. No reason why.
But I don’t have to answer because a man comes bounding through the kitchen door, startling Beth and me. The man isn’t big, but he does have a noticeable potbelly going on underneath his stain apron. He has a small mustache stretching lip end to lip end that is the same color of his short hair that is receding further back on his head. Black with speckles of white. His eyes are the same gray as Beth’s. He looks at me and smiles.
“You must be Nolan.” He says. I nod, shrinking my quarter sized eyes back to normal. He sticks out a hand for me to shake and I grasp it. His shake pops my elbow with the force. I rub it when he lets go.
“Well, Nolan,” He says, loudly. “You’re hired.” I look up at him surprised. I blink a couple of times to make sure that there is no possibility that I could be dreaming. I even secretly pinch myself.
“Really?” Is all I can reply, but it doesn’t seem to bother him.
“Yep,” He says. “I’ve been needing another waiter for two months and I’m sick of waiting. See I already have the cooks, which is her uncle-” He points at Beth. “-and myself. But I need the two waiters. Which will be Beth and you.” I look over at Beth, who smiles. So she’ll be my partner? Why didn’t she tell me? And the people she deals with…I guess I’ll be feeling her pain then. I look back her dad. Suddenly his face gets stony and he points at me with a finger.
“But, don’t try anything, sonny,” He threatens. “I’m not afraid kick someone out with them screaming for their mother.” I nod. Beth sighs and shakes her head. She must hear this a lot, I guess. But thinking of her makes me wonder if he’s just talking about the restaurant.
“Yes sir,” I reply. “Do you want me to fill out a résumé?” He points a finger in the air.
“Ah, yes!” He exclaims and turns back towards the door, pushing it open to stick his head in. The smells from before are stronger as the door is left open longer. But this time, spices are more pronounced.
“Maya! Get me a résumé for this lad here.” Bill yells. Beth snickers at “lad” and I look at her with an eyebrow raised. She gives me this smirk, rolls her eyes, and looks back at her dad, who is listening to his wife yelling back at him. He shakes his head and walks into the kitchen once again shouting, “Woman, you know I can’t hear that well!” Beth and I both laugh at that one. I look over at her amused.
“You have an interesting father.” I say. She nods and gives a quick glance in my direction.
“I know. I have to live with it.” She responds. The diner doors make the same jiggle as when I walked in and she gets up as two people come through. The costumers are teenagers and they look like a couple as they giggle and whisper, picking a booth, with has the same red cushioning as the bar stools, in the back of the diner. Beth walks over to them, takes a notebook and golf pencil from her pocket, and ask what they like to drink.
