Almost Friends

Epilogue- Kyle

Epilogue

Kyle

October, 2014

Kyle: I have to go now, gotta eat breakfast with the fam. TTYL Eric : )

I hit send, slide my phone into the pocket of my jacket, and head to the kitchen.

The smell of sticky rice with egg and sausage drifts my way and I can't help but take a deep breath, inhaling the aroma.

As I pass the sitting room and make my way to the kitchen, I hear Mom and Dad laughing and making a racket while they prepare breakfast.

I like the noise. It reminds me of the way our home sounded when I was little. Back then, we didn't have this huge house; we lived in a regular two-bedroom in Baton Rouge. I shared a room with Cam Hong and our family didn't own a second restaurant on the outskirts of Swamp Rose. That meant Dad was home at least a few days each week. He and Mom worked together like a team. It wasn't until I was about eight that he and Mom decided to expand by building the other two restaurants. That's when we moved to this house and that's when Dad started spending four to five days a week out in Baton Rouge, trying to keep an eye on all three of our family's investments.

But lately, because of Grandma's stroke, he's been spending more time with us and I hope he makes a habit of it.

I slip into the kitchen, unnoticed.

Leaning down, I give Grandma a peck on the cheek and whisper, "Bonjour."

Her wheelchair has been pushed up to the table where she's patiently waiting for her breakfast. Her glass of orange juice is nearly empty and her little journal is opened to a page that's full of writing. I know she can't write anymore- which is beyond sad -so I assume she's reading something she penned before her stroke.

She gives me a smile and points to her glass of orange juice.

She needs a refill. I grab the glass and head to the fridge.

Mom and Dad are both at the stove, their backs to me. They're so concentrated on cooking that they haven't noticed my presence. They speak to each other in Vietnamese. "Is she sick?" Dad asks as he adds a pinch of salt to the pot of rice in front of him. "She's so skinny."

"Why are you making more rice? We already have enough. And no, she's not sick, she's just watching her figure," Mom says. "Something Cam Hong should be doing."

I clear my throat. Both of my parents jump and turn around.

"Kyle, I didn't hear you come in," Dad says, a sheepish look in his eyes.

I glare at him and, shake my head as I turn to the refrigerator. "Well, I'm here."

"What are you doing in the refrigerator?" Mom asks while she grabs an orange from the fruit basket. "We're cooking breakfast. You don't need anything else."

I tense, a streak of panic flashing up in my stomach. Is she saying that because I've gained weight? I knew I shouldn't have added that chicken to my salad last night.

I take a deep breath and push my illogical thoughts into silence.

Well ... sort of. They're never really silent because the guilt that these thoughts leave in their wake is like the trail of slime left behind by a snail. The guilt-ridden trail has become a gut-feeling that has yet to completely leave me. But thank God for Meagan and the counselor I've been talking to on the phone. Because of them, I now understand that what I know and what I feel are two different things.