Your deadbeat dad?" Jess is incredulous as I describe the letter my dad sent to me. "He’s got some damned nerve!" God, I hate to dredge up my childhood. It is really just unpleasant. And it makes me crave some sort of comfort food, maybe a roasted porc et choucroute, something warm and filling and loaded with fat. I ask the waitress if the chef can fix up something like that and she looks at me like I’m mad. "I’m sorry, ma’am. La Lettuce only serves salads. But you can add shrimp or chicken to the salad if that helps." The restaurant choice was Jess’ idea of helping out. Lucky me. This promises to be a memorable meal. Jess and I order our respective rabbit food, and continue on. "I don’t know. He’s dying or something. Wants to explain things." "So like his type. Goes off and does whatever he damn well pleases and then comes gallivanting back into your life just in time to keel over, expecting you to absolve him of his behavior?
