“Already Dead” Ch. 4

As her father sat, Harriet went to work putting together dinner to the best of her recollection.

Her mother had taught her how to cook her favorite meal a few years ago, and she quietly thanked god when she found all the ingredients were on hand. First thing first, she had to defrost the pork chops.

Taking out the chops, she placed them in a sealed plastic bag and submerged them in a bowl of cold water. Every time the water would heat up to room temperature she would changed it out.

Rinse and repeat.

It was a technique her mother had taught her, and it worked like a charm. Above all the other lessons her mother had imparted upon her, it was her time saving obsession that did the most damage. The whole “work smarter, not harder” adage was something she had bemoaned as a kid, but as she got older she found herself using it more in conversation. In school, she had heard about scripts, and how we tend to play out behaviors and such of our parents as we get older.

And here she was, finding great satisfaction in the fact that in less than thirty minutes the pork was thawed and in the oven, the potatoes were boiling, and the frozen peas were set to the side for a quick heating. It wasn't anything spectacular, and she imagined she had mistimed the potatoes, but it was certainly not a bad attempt considering. Her mother would be proud. She was sure of it.

The thought of her mother in a living sense caused a sob to lunge out of her. Her father didn't seem to notice, and she covered her mouth as spasms of grief pulsed through her, causing her shoulders to lurch and her chest to heave.

After a few moments she swallowed hard and pushed it down to a place that was manageable. She would handle that shit later. She wanted her father to see her standing strong on her own, so he wouldn't worry. So he could pass in peace.

She could wait a few more days.

The final step was the dirty gravy. It was easy to make, mixing the drippings from the pork with a package of gravy and water. Her mom hated resorting to it, preferring to make the gravy wholly from scratch, almost like a small fuck you to the gods of time whenever she had to cook on a deadline on short notice.

Dirty gravy. How many times had her mom resorted to it? Could she even tell the difference?

She doubted it, but she wasn't going to tempt the fates. Everything was going so well. She wasn't going to mess it up by screwing up the gravy.

She imagined her mother rising from beneath the tarp just to comment on her cooking. She stifled a laugh, then wished it would happen.

Her mother didn't move.

“Hey dad? Dinner is ready!”

Her dad mumbled something in response, then slowly rose from his chair after a few attempts. When he arrived in the kitchen he looked haggard and spent, but the look on his face when he saw the spread laid out on the table made all of the effort worth it.

“I didn't know you mom taught you how to make pork chops.”

“She didn't,” she admitted, “So if it sucks you need to keep your mouth shut.”

He smiled broadly. “I'm sure you did a great job.”

He maneuvered himself and took a seat. She soon joined him in the spot across from him. As they ate, they said very little. It wasn't until they were halfway through the meal that her father spoke.

“Did you know that your mom made us pork-chops on our first date?”

Harriet smiled. “Why do you think they are my favorite.”

He sighed heavily to himself, lost in thought for a few moments. “I know, it has been hard on you. Dealing with all of this. Dealing with me-”

“Dad, you don't need to explain-”

“I do. I really do. I don't say enough just how proud I am of you. You are like, all the good parts of your mom and I.”

She cocked her eye at him.

“Mostly your mother,” he added in. “I just wanted you to know that. I want you to know your mom is proud...”

Harriet waited for him to finish, but the words wouldn't come. His vision clouded, as he limply gripped onto the edges of the table to steady himself. But he found he couldn't hold onto the table anymore. When he tipped over and plummeted to the ground, he wasn't even aware me was falling.

“Dad!” Harriet cried as she rushed over to him. She tried to put her hands on him, but his body began convulsing, his fingers cracking as they seized up, his head contorting until his eyes were facing the front door. A few thick, wracking heaves, followed by him vomiting over his plaid button down, ended as suddenly as it started.

He stopped moving. His body relaxed.

He wasn't breathing.

At first, she simply sat there, arm partially extended, her eyes barely focusing. Then she fell back, skidding and clawing her way to the farthest corner before an involuntary scream erupted out of her chest. It was louder than she would have imagined she could scream, she realized. But that thought was soon lost as a deep numbness spread over her.

Her eyes focused on the clock above the doorway.

8:37.

He died at 8:37.