Is Mama coming home soon?

I slurped my cocoa as I pondered my next question. The time felt right for the big one. “Is Santa real?” Dad’s eyes narrowed, deciding whether he should tell the truth. “No,” he said. “Dad?” He looked over and smiled at me. “Juni?” “Is Mama ever coming home?”

ON A SATURDAY IN MARCH BY SPENCER STOREY JOHNSON 34THPARALLEL MAGAZINE ISSUE 79

Dad nosed the car up to the curb outside Sue’s Café, the wheels displacing a wave of grey slush. Dad got out first and swung me over the icy black water. We went inside hand in hand.

We stomped our boots as we crossed the mudroom and as we pushed through the interior door we were met by a blast of warm, sweet air.

The smell of food and the rolling chatter of the diners always revived something in my father and I saw him relax.

Dad did his best to keep some sense of normal life. Mom was dying and our world was falling apart. In the beginning I only knew that she was very sick.

Sue’s café was packed, the eating, talking, breathing fogging every window.

Maura always held our booth for us. She led us over. Dad nodded to a couple of regulars. Our booth was at the big front window, the one with the Sue’s Café logo painted on it in cracked red and gold letters. I liked to peek out through the hole in the “a” at the people passing on the sidewalk.

We took off our coats, tucked scarves and gloves in the pockets, and hung them on hooks at the end of our booth.

As Dad and I slid into our places opposite one another the burgundy leather squeaked.

Maura brought our drinks—coffee for Dad, hot chocolate for me. Dad warmed his hands over his steaming mug of coffee and I counted the marshmallows. Fifteen this time. Two more than last week. I dunked them in the hot chocolate and scooped them one by one into my mouth.

I looked at the other diners as we waited for our food. In the corner by the kitchen I spotted the librarian and her husband sharing a bowl of fresh fruit. The owner of the deli where Granny bought me school snacks sat at the bar alone, hunched over a heap of scrambled eggs and a tall glass of iced tea.

I noticed a boy from school, a fifth grader, a year ahead of me, with his family at one of the big round tables in the center of the room. I hoped he hadn’t seen me. Not that I thought he knew me as anyone other than the girl whose mom was sick.

Maura weaved over with our food. She lifted the tray from her hip to the table and spread out our usual breakfast feast: two perfect stacks of pancakes.

Dad’s came plain with a jar of peanut butter. He peeled the stack apart and spread some peanut butter between each layer and topped it off with a square of regular butter.

My pancakes came smothered in whipped cream, powdered sugar, bananas, and blueberries, which I drowned in syrup.

Maura refilled our drinks, and I begged for more marshmallows, but Dad shook his head. Maura gave me an exaggerated what-can-I-do? shrug and retreated to the kitchen with the tray.

I ate my sugary mess in minutes and waited as patiently as I could for Dad to finish. His progress was measured, not cutting a new bite until he’d swallowed the one he was chewing, taking a long sip of coffee after every third bite.

I kicked my heels against the bouncy leather seat and scratched lines with a fork in my leftover berry-stained syrup. I poured a Splenda packet into a small mound on a napkin.

When our plates were cleared, our coffee and cocoa topped off, it was time to talk.

Dad looked across the table at me. “What have you got for me, Juni?”

I thought for a moment, running through the list of pressing questions that swirled in my mind. “Why am I called Juniper?”

The corners of his mouth twitched almost imperceptibly under more than a week’s untrimmed stubble. “That’s an easy one. Your mama likes the smell.”

“What’s juniper, then? And what’s it smell like?”

“It’s a tree. Or a shrub.” He shrugged. “I should know that. And it smells sharp. Like gin.” He chuckled at the obvious confusion on my face. “It’s like a Christmas tree, mixed with mint and oranges or lemons. Kind of.”

I processed this information, trying to blend my memories of those smells.

“What’s gin?”

“A grown-up drink. Like beer or wine.”

“What’s a shrub?”

Dad laughed, only a small burst, but enough to draw attention from nearby tables.

“A small tree? Or maybe more like a bush. I don’t really know. We’ll have to find out.” He drew a pen from his pocket and scribbled “shrub?” on a napkin.

We stayed on plants. Why do trees have bark? Dad didn’t know. It went on the napkin. Is a tomato really a fruit? Yes. Why? Something to do with the seeds. Onto the napkin. Why do I have to eat vegetables? Because they keep your bones and brain and blood healthy. And they help you poop. I burst into a fit of giggles.

My questions wound down and Dad called for the check. He paid and we sat quietly finishing our drinks. Dad set down his mug and sighed. “Are you ready to go see Mama?”

I nodded and imitated his sigh as I put down my mug.

As we slid out of the booth and put our coats back on, I asked my usual closing question: “Is Mama coming home soon?”