Inevitable and Only
Lisa Rosinsky
For my mom, who read this one in the right order
CHAPTER ONE
After three and a half weeks of waiting—or really, fifteen years, nine months, and the slowest three and a half weeks ever—there it was. I dropped the junk mail and bills onto the hall table and picked out the long envelope with a rectangular bump, stamped with the words “Official Documents Enclosed, Do Not Bend.”
“Dad!” I shrieked, running into the kitchen and flapping the envelope in his face.
“Error. Error. Cannot. Read. Moving. Object,” he said in Malfunctioning Robot Voice, taking a block of tofu out of the fridge.
I waved the envelope again. “It says ‘Department of Motor Vehicles,’ Dad, guess what it is!”
“Speeding ticket?” he suggested, unwrapping the tofu.
I rolled my eyes. “It’s addressed to me, not Mom.” I don’t know how my mom manages to get so many speeding tickets—she drives, like, less than ten miles a day.
“Mmm, fermented soy juice,” he said, switching to his Gollum impression, as he drained the block of tofu in the sink. “Fermented ssssssoy juiccccce.”
Dad’s tofu scramble isn’t bad, if you ask me. Mom grumbles, but if she’s not home while Dad’s cooking, then how can she expect to be served whatever she wants? When we go out to dinner she likes to order fancy stuff like brussels sprouts salad with truffle oil or chickpea fritters with date compote. But that’s just on special occasions like birthdays, or to celebrate when Josh wins a cello competition. Most nights, Dad cooks, and it’s usually something like tofu scramble or black bean burgers or Quinoa Surprise.
“Dad, focus!” I said. “It’s my learner’s permit!” I ripped open the envelope and pulled out the laminated card triumphantly. “See?”
He pushed his glasses down his nose and looked at the card over them, preparing his snottiest British accent. I know the tell-tale signs. Martin Chuzzlewit Voice, he calls it. I think he just likes saying Martin Chuzzlewit. “Why, yes, indeed, it does seem that the state of Maryland is permitting you to learn. But to learn what, is the question? To learn the fine art of helping your father steam a spot of broccoli?”
I took the head of broccoli he held out and began breaking off bits and tossing them into the steamer. “Can we go out tonight? Please? Just to drive around the ShopRite parking lot. I won’t go over ten miles per hour. I promise.”
Dad pursed his lips and pretended to consider, but I thought I saw a smile starting to crack through.
“Eight miles per hour! Six!”
“We’ll go right after dinner,” he said, in his normal voice, which I’ve always thought sounds just like the weatherman’s from the news and traffic report Mom listens to every morning in the car. Deep and resonant and, well, radio-like.
“Yes!” I shouted, dropping the last of the broccoli into the steamer. Josh had wandered into the kitchen, and he jumped at the noise and started to back away. But I caught him and lifted him off the floor, spinning him around in a circle, even though he’s almost as tall as me now. “Yesyesyesyesyes!” I said, spinning the other way.
“Put me down, please,” he said patiently. My little brother inherited all the patience in this family.
I put him down because he was really too heavy to spin anyway. “Did you hear me? I’m going to learn how to drive!” I waved my permit over my head.
“Can I have real cheese on my scramble?” he asked Dad, ignoring me.
Dad took a block of cheddar out of the fridge and set it down on the counter beside the tub of Daiya cheese. “Just remember you might turn into a baby cow one of these days, and don’t say I didn’t warn you. Which one do you want, Cadie?”
I sighed. “I’ll have the fake cheese.”
My parents have been vegetarians since they were in college—they met while peeling potatoes in their campus co-op kitchen—but Dad’s recently “jumped on the vegan bandwagon,” as Mom puts it. Usually while wrinkling her nose at the soy creamer or cashew butter Dad’s plunked in front of her on the table. Secretly, I think almond milk belongs inside an almond, not in a bowl of cereal, but officially I side with Dad on this one. As with most things.
Mom came home just before eight, and I had the table set, the water glasses filled, and the salad dished out onto four plates so we could start dinner as quickly as possible. At eight thirty on the dot, Dad pushed back his chair and announced, “Cadie and I are going out for a driving lesson, if the other half of the family would be so good as to take dishwasher duty tonight.”
Mom nodded absentmindedly, then processed what Dad had just said—I practically saw the wheels turning. Her head snapped around to me. “A driving lesson? Already?”
I held up my permit, which I’d tucked carefully into my sweatshirt pocket. Mom took the card and examined it. Then she sighed.
“Dios mío. My little girl. You’re growing up too fast.”
Something twisted in my stomach a little, and for a moment I wished I’d asked Mom to take me for my first lesson. Maybe it would’ve helped close the gap that had been widening between us for the past, oh, decade and a half.
But then she rubbed her eyes and said, “Go ahead, you two. Thanks for taking her, Ross. I’m beat. Could hardly keep my eyes open on the way home myself.”