We All Fall Down

Chapter 3

Rick

I'd offered to pick her up so she didn't feel intimidated walking up to my house alone. But Patrice wasn't a woman who needed a security blanket. My father gave an approving nod over his crossword puzzle when I said as much. Mother wrung her hands and mumbled something as she disappeared into the hallway to vacuum the already spotless carpet.

"She's just nervous," my father said to me in that comforting tone he used when my mother found herself fussing over things that were out of her control. "You've never brought a girl home before."

"That's because no other girl is like Patrice." I looked out the window that faced the street, waiting to see her turn the corner.

"Felt the same way about your mother," he said in a way that made me turn back to face him, because in that moment it all came together for me. Patrice was not like any other girl, and I didn't need to date anyone else to confirm what I already knew.

"I think she might be the one, Dad."

I heard my mother slam a cabinet in whatever room she was eavesdropping from. My father casually placed his crossword in his lap and folded his hands on top of it before looking me in the eye.

"Well then son, I can't wait to meet her."

The sound of our doorbell pulled my gaze back to the window where I could see her standing confidently at the front door to my right. She fidgeted with her hair and smoothed her skirt. She wore a dark pea-coat over a green dress that I'd not seen on her before, and I was touched to think she'd gone through the effort of purchasing something new for the occasion. Her hair spilled in loose curls over her shoulders with a piece at the top pinned to the side to accentuate her heart-shaped face.

"Are you going to get the door or just make her wait until the postman comes?" My mother spoke from behind me.

"Oh...right," I replied and took three clipped steps to the door.

"Patrice! So very lovely to finally meet you!" Mother said over my shoulder. I was a bit taken aback by the look on Patrice's face. She didn't appear as self-assured from this angle as she had from my view at the window.

"Hello, Mrs. Adams," Patrice spoke carefully, as though my mother was standing beside me with a butcher knife.

"Won't you come in!" My father came up on my right side and placed a firm hand on my shoulder, grinning widely at Patrice. My mother complimented her dress as she helped to remove her coat and hung it on the coat rack beside the door.

Patrice didn't reply, rather timidly stepped inside with a tight smile on her lips. I escorted her to the dinner table that my mother spent much too long setting, adjusting, removing and replacing bits of things to make it just right. My father thanked my mother for her efforts, kissing her lightly on the cheek as he does so often that it's not remarkable to me, but Patrice's eyes grew wide, her face flushed.

"I told you, they're harmless," I teased, giving Patrice a wink as she picked at her fingernails in her lap.

"I don't know that I can do this," she whispered out of the corner of her mouth. My heart plummeted.

"Do what? Have dinner? Do you feel ill?" I asked, thinking it was the only reasonable explanation why she would be acting so peculiar.

"I told you. I don't do parents," she swallowed, her face paled to a color that matched mother's hand-stitched seat covers.

I reached over and tried to hold her hand, give her some reassurance and was even more surprised to find she was trembling. My mother whisked over to us with a beautiful roast and placed it at the center of the table. My father held a pitcher of water and made a ceremony of pouring it into each of our glasses.