“And I thought: that’s the dinner.”
Seven plates.
His mother in the center.
His wife and daughter not at the table.
“I’m going to draw it again,” he said.
“Next week.”
“And again after that.”
“Until I get it right.”
He came to see Wren every other day.
He sat in the nursery and fed her bottles.
My father was often nearby.
At first, the two barely spoke.
Eventually, Dad began teaching Roland small things he had recently learned himself.
How long to let the milk sit on your wrist.
How to hold Wren when she fell asleep.
One afternoon, Roland looked at the fading mark on my father’s wrist.
“You practiced before she arrived?”
“Six times.”
Roland stared at him.
“I never practiced anything.”
He looked toward me.
“I just assumed my mother would teach Simone.”
Three weeks later, Beverly called again.
This time I answered.
