Donuts

Donuts

Dad is in the hospital.  

My bag was already packed.  I didn’t leave right away.  I did tell everyone I would be there as soon as I could.  I could fly but that would get me there sooner than I’d be ready.  Like an annoying bad habit I kept checking my phone.  Family members flooded me with messages.  They were just as surprised as I, and when would I be there?  All these texts bombarded me, only his end of the line remained inactive.  I waited for him to stop me from going.  I think I was waiting for him to prove to me that I hadn’t wasted these years.  Obviously the facts were in front of me, of which I clearly ignored.  The heart believes what it wants.  I wanted so badly not to be wrong.  Not so much wanting him to return.  Just before dusk I finished the dishes, zipped my bag for the final time, pocketed the keys and opened the garage.  

On summer picnics we friend donuts in the deep-fryer in the backyard.  Before the fireflies came out and the swath of mosquitoes, Mom would plug in the fryer and bring out the cloth-covered flour-dusted dough, the ring-shaped ones and the round balls.  A large bowl of cinnamon sugar sat next to the plate swathed with paper towels.  Dad kept the yard meticulously trimmed and sodded with soft grass.  All of us kids ran amuck barefooted after the last day of school.  Once the oil reached 360 degrees Mom began frying the dough.  Summer was good as long as the sunlight extended past bedtime hour.  The grown-ups would sit on the front porch and talk with glasses of iced tea in their hands.  

Mom set aside a batch of donut balls for me.  She knew I liked the center to be a bit gooey.  Dad liked the outsides to be a bit crispy with a generous dusting of cinnamon sugar.  He would dip his donut in the sugar bowl before each bite if Mod would let him.  Grandma ate hers without the sugar, but she liked hers piping hot before all the grease got soaked onto the paper towels.  Even on the hottest summer day she drank her hot tea.  When she has a donut, she has something to dunk.

The worst day of my life during high school was the day I got the rejection letter from the number one university on my list.  All my classmates knew that was my first choice, technically the only worthy choice, and I had told everyone who asked that I was going to that school.  Shame and horror were understatements I experienced when the realization dawned on me that everyone would know that I won’t be going there.  I didn’t want to go to school the next day.  It was too much for me to bear.  I had cried all night so that in the morning my eyes were pink and perfectly puffy.  Instead of making me take the bus, Dad drove me.  When he missed the turn to the school I didn’t bring it up.  When we got on the highway that led past the school and our neighborhood I became curious.  When we continued a few minutes more along the highway I began to think more about our destination than the humiliating rejection.  We entered another town, one we don’t often visit unless Mom had a special purchase or two to make.  Her favorite antique furniture store was here.  It was in the historic downtown sector where the streets were made of bricks and a fountain was at the center of the rotary.

We entered downtown, and Dad drove past the furniture shop.  He hadn’t said a word, and I felt like I shouldn’t ask.  When he pulled up to Madeline’s Bakery I remembered how to smile again.

Madeline’s Bakery was a dreamy shop the size of a comfortable family-owned restaurant.  The walls were painted Meyer Lemon yellow, Victoria Secret pink and Peacock green with striped wallpaper at one end and an oversized chandelier near the front entrance.  Worn upholstered chairs with fabric armrests surrounded pedestal tables with pink checkered tablecloths.  The aroma that greeted you right after the cheery bell jingle above the door was enough to make even a person who wasn’t hungry crave a delicate and sugary treat.  

That morning Dad ordered a six-treat box and said I could pick whatever confection I wanted.  I favored the eclairs and most things with chocolate.  We sat in the high-backed chairs against the window and ate.  He had coffee and I had tea.  We took a bite of each six deserts and watched people walk along the sidewalk.  Dad didn’t say anything, and that comforted me.  Eventually he pulled out the newspaper and read as he sipped his coffee.  Eventually the shame of not getting into my number one school began to fade.  By the time I finished the eclair I was too stuffed to think about university.   Mom never knew I didn’t go to school that day.

It would be so much easier to purchase a plane ticket.  A three-hour flight would beat a 16 to 18-hour drive.  Why did I feel pressured that I must say something to him?  Grandma didn’t talk when she worked her magic in the kitchen, but oh my could she talk when she’s wasn’t working.  It surprised me that Grandma didn’t understand Dad so well.  It seemed like they were most alike.

We sat in the high-backed chairs against the window and ate.