Мэтью Квик - Forgive me, Leonard Peacock

I remember making banana–chocolate chip pancakes when I was little—like maybe when I was four or five years old—and getting mix everywhere and Dad was softly strumming his acoustic guitar at the kitchen table and my parents were happy that morning, which was rare, and probably why I remember it. Mom and I cooked and then we all ate together as a family.

Normal for most people, but extraordinary for us.

For some reason, I must have banana–chocolate chip pancakes in order for everything to be okay. Right now. It’s the only thing that will help. I don’t know why. That’s just the way it is. I tell myself that if Linda makes me banana–chocolate chip pancakes, I can forgive her for forgetting my birthday. I concoct that deal in my head and then attempt to make her fulfill her end of the unspoken bargain.

“Can you make those for me now—banana–chocolate chip pancakes?” I ask. “That’s all I want from you. Make them, eat breakfast with me, and then you can go back to New York. Okay? Deal?”

“Do we have the ingredients?” she says, looking completely perplexed.

“Shit,” I say, because we don’t. I haven’t been shopping in weeks. “Shit, shit, shit.”

“Do you have to say shit in front of your mother?”

“If I get the ingredients, will you make me breakfast?”

“That’s why you wanted me to come home? Banana–chocolate chip pancakes? That’s why you tricked your teacher into getting so worked up?”

“You make them for me and I won’t give you any more problems all day. You can go back to New York with a clean conscience. Problem solved.”

Linda laughs in a way that lets me know she’s relieved, and then she runs her perfectly manicured nails through my newly stubbled hair, which tickles.

“You really are an odd boy, Leo.”

“Is that a yes?”

“I still don’t understand what happened yesterday. Why did your teacher call me and demand I come home? You seem fine to me.”

Herr Silverman must not have told her it was my birthday, and I don’t even care about that anymore. I just want the fucking pancakes. It’s something Linda is capable of doing. It’s a task she can complete for me. It’s what I can have, so that’s what I want.

“I’ll go get the ingredients, okay?” I say, making it even easier for her.

“Okay,” she says, and then shrugs playfully, like she’s my girlfriend instead of my mom.

I rush past her, down the steps, and out the door without even putting on a coat.

There’s a local grocery about six blocks from our house and I find everything I need there in about ten minutes.

Milk.

Eggs.

Butter.

Pancake mix.

Maple syrup.

Chocolate chips.

Bananas.

On the walk home, with the plastic handles of the grocery bag cutting into my hand, I think about how once again, I’m letting Linda off easy.

I try to concentrate on the pancakes.

I can taste the chocolate and bananas melting in my mouth.

Pancakes are good.

They will fill me.

They are what I can have.

When I arrive home, Linda’s in her office yelling at someone on the phone about the color of tulle. “No, I do not want cadmium fucking orange!” She holds up her index finger when she sees me in the doorway and then waves me away.

In the kitchen I wait five minutes before I decide to do the prep work by myself.

I slice three bananas on the cutting board. Carefully, I make paper-thin cuts. And then I stir milk and eggs into the mix—adding the chocolate chips and banana slices last. I spray the pan and heat it up.

“Linda?” I yell. “ Mom? ”

She doesn’t answer, so I decide to cook the pancakes, thinking that Linda eating with me can be enough.

I pour some batter onto the pan and it bubbles and sizzles while I pour out three more pancakes. I flip all four and then heat up the oven so I can keep the finished pancakes warm while I cook Mom’s.

“Linda?”

No answer.

“ Mom? ”

No answer.

I put the finished pancakes into the oven and pour more batter.

I realize I made way too much, but I just keep cooking pancakes, and by the time I finish, I have enough to feed a family of ten.

“Mom?”

I go to her study, and she’s yelling again.

“Jasmine can go fuck herself!” she says, and then sighs.

She’s staring out the window.

She’s oblivious again.

I sigh.

I return to the kitchen.

I eat my banana–chocolate chip pancakes.

They are delicious.

Fuck Linda.

She’s missing out.

She could have had delicious pancakes for breakfast.

I would have forgiven her.

But instead, I use the garbage disposal to grind up all the leftover pancakes.

A few mirror shards fall in.

I let the machine crunch away until it finally jams and I can once again hear Linda cursing at her employees.

She doesn’t come out of her office—not even when I take off and slam the front door behind me so that the whole house shakes.

Dad,

It’s S, your daughter.

I’m writing you on my eighteenth birthday—well, technically, it’s the day after; it’s past midnight. I’m manning the great light because you fell asleep in your chair again and old habits die hard. I’m going to give you this letter tomorrow when I leave Outpost 37 for the first time so you won’t ever forget what a great day we had together.

(Side note: The stars are amazing tonight—like we could swim in them. Cassiopeia is shining brightly.)

I have this suspicion: I think you’re mad at me because I want to leave, although you’ve never said as much. You think I’m leaving just so I can find a boyfriend, or at least that’s what you tease me about. (And I swear—if you use the word hormones one more time, I might kill you!) And while I would like to have a boyfriend (BECAUSE THAT IS NORMAL!) and meet people my own age in the horrid “tube city,” there are many other things I’d like to do as well.

I’d like to see dry land.

I’ve never seen it.

I want to stand on earth.

That’s a simple but profound thought for a girl who has lived her whole life on water.

You can surely understand that on some level, even if dry land is “overrated.”

I’m looking forward to attending classes with other people my age, even though you’ve told me so many times that people aren’t always kind or considerate like Papa was and you and Mom are. Still, I’d like to see for myself—have conversations with so many different people! I’d like to find someone who kisses me every time he sees a shooting star, like you kiss Mom. And I think that maybe I can excel in post-school, especially since I did so well on the entrance exams, and afterward I can make you proud by putting good into the new world somehow.

Thank you for making me “pancakes” on my birthday.

Even though you had to use bread mix and you said it wasn’t as good as pancakes back when you were a kid, especially since we had no “syrup” because there are so few “maple trees” left. I appreciated the effort, especially after hearing the story of how your mom and you made them when you were little—with “chocolate chips” and yellow fruits called “bananas.” I hope to see and taste a banana one day. I choose to believe that they still exist in tube city, where all sorts of things exist—things that I have only dreamed about, like stores and restaurants and dogs and cats and movie theaters and sky walks and so many other nouns we’ve seen on the visualizer beam whenever the signal is strong enough.

And your birthday present to me was also . . . beautiful .