Sneak Peek: Current Project

I’m pouring myself a cup of our house-blend coffee when Merry blows past me to the front door, her running shoes squeaking on the black-and-white tiles. She flips the ‘Open’ sign over to ‘Closed’ like it’s a winning poker hand. The plastic sign slaps the window glass, then the doorknob clicks as she twists the lock. This might be the last time Merry ever locks up. I close my eyes and raise my cup to inhale the cinnamon-scented steam. I’ve been trying to freeze-frame these ‘lasts’ all summer. And all summer, the comet of time has just kept streaking past, despite how hard I’ve tried to clutch its tail.

Samson appears at my side, interrupting my thoughts before they spiral. 

“You save any for me?” He raises his favorite cup, a sleek blue insulated tumbler etched with U.S. Navy insignia. 

I arch an eyebrow at the rhetorical question. I’d never put my emotional support cup ahead of his mission-critical refill. 

“I’ve got more than enough hands with all the kids,” he says as he reaches for the carafe in front of me and pours enough to get him through closing. “You can just do paperwork or whatever while we finish clean-up and pound out tomorrow’s prep.”

“So…you want me out of your way.” 

He looks at me sideways as he twists the tumbler lid closed, no doubt trying to assess if my teasing tone is camouflaging an imminent eruption of what he’s taken to calling my ‘empty nest angst’.

“Yep,” he nods. “I’ve got these kids running smooth as a V-8 today. Your mopey mood would just gum up our engine.”

Before I can protest his ‘mopey’ diagnosis, he jostles my right shoulder with his left. “You’ve got, what - forty-eight more hours with them?”

I shake my head. “Jim and I aren’t driving Mable to her move-in day until Thursday, but Merry leaves tomorrow.“ 

I’m not ready. I haven’t let myself imagine the impending quiet of our dinner table without the cacophony of M&M and all their associated chaos. When Merry left for college, we of course missed her very much, but Mabel’s extracurricular schedule consumed our calendar, and her theater friends filled Merry’s chair at most dinners. Now that we’ve had all summer with both girls, their boisterous energy caulking every crevice of our free time, this feels like a more jarring transition. When was the last time Jim and I had an empty house?

I’m not sure my memory’s slideshow will go back that far. How far? Twenty years back, seven military moves ago, eight Air Force postings in the past. A lifetime.

“These last few weeks disappeared faster than popsicles on hot pavement,” Samson muses.

I nod, but I’m distracted. Merry’s chatting with the last customers to leave, two women at the corner table with three sugared-up preschoolers and a newborn-filled stroller.  Her khaki shorts and red t-shirt are covered by the white lab coat she brought back from college instead of one of the cute monogrammed aprons I’d ordered for all the staff. 

I sigh. With teenagers, some battles just aren’t worth the ammo. 

Misinterpreting my sigh, Samson asks, “How you holding up, really?” 

Merry is only a teen for a few more weeks, and won’t be home to celebrate her 20th, but I stuff that thought back into my brain’s junk drawer before I answer. 

“Oh, you know, like I drank a cocktail where the inebriation and the hangover are dancing a tango. One minute, I’m fizzy with joy over how smoothly they’re launching into the big, bright world; the next minute, I’m queasy with worry about all the terrible things that could happen to them once they leave our safe little town.”

“Nobody would buy that drink.” Samson runs his thumb along his jawbone, and I notice how much more white he has in his wiry beard than in his tight black curls. “But I know the feeling.“ He gives my shoulder an empathetic squeeze, then heads back to the kitchen before I can ask him how long it lasts, if it ever goes away.

While Merry takes the women’s payment and assures them there’s no need to rush off, I top my coffee with a splash of cream from the mini fridge and power off the coffee machine. I prefer a French press or Moka pot at home, but we rely on this high-end automatic to meet the café’s need for volume and speed. Good old-fashioned drip coffee is our top seller year-round, which says a fair bit about our customer base, both geographically and socioeconomically. It’s good coffee, though, custom-blended by a local roaster. If the cafe had a signature scent, it would be the cinnamon-laden, slightly nutty aroma of our house roast.

Merry glides back across the dining area like she’s on skates, then twirls through the saloon-style swinging doors into the kitchen. When she shouts, “Last shift, done!” I hear Mabel yell, “Finally!” as the other teens cheer.  I blink ferociously until my vision clears. I probably look like I have Tourette’s, but today will not be the day I start weeping in the presence of customers.

I’m not usually so emotional, but this whole week has bombarded me with the bittersweet shrapnel of too many ‘lasts’. I grab a spoon and swirl the cold cream into the coffee, ensuring it’s a degree or two below scalding. While I take my first sip, I close my eyes and concentrate on the cafe’s aromas. My shoulders loosen by degrees as I identify each piece in today’s symphony of scents: the lingering sweetness of this morning’s waffles, the smoky caramel of the wood-fired maple syrup we drizzled over them, the buttery richness of biscuits and peppery tang of gravy, and some faint floral notes drifting in the open windows from the house up the side street. The layered fragrance centers me, and I open my eyes.

I love every detail of this space where we’ve spent so many happy hours as a family. Our retro “1950s diner/ice cream parlor/malt shop” vibe is firmly established by the brushed aluminum tables and the candy-apple red upholstery of the bar stools, chairs, and booth cushions. Gooseneck lights with brilliant chrome barn shades accent the cotton-candy pink walls, and matching pendant lights hang from the bubble-gum pink ceiling. On either side of the cherry-red front door to Main Street, the white window ledges are stuffed with Tiffany-blue knick-knacks. They came with the place. Jim’s Air Force career had us move far too many times for me to amass such a collection. 

Diners love our “summer at the shore” atmosphere (never more than during the gunmetal gray days of Northern Michigan winter), and I’m planning to play it up with some ‘beachy’ new menu items soon. Admittedly, the cheerful palette will frustrate me a bit when I want to join the other downtown shops festooning their windows with autumn colors. But clashing with the neighbor’s fall motif is really the decor’s only downside.  

I people-watch out the front windows for a few minutes, and wave to a few locals when they catch my eye. The sun’s been loyal as a Labrador Retriever all summer, and there’s a perfect breeze off Lake Michigan today. The last customers finally leave, their little ones leaving a sticky trail all the way out the door. I remember Merry and Mabel in their preschool years, and don’t miss the grubbiness. Not that teens don’t bring their own brand of messy, with their dirty laundry deposits all over the floors and their roomful of empty soda cans that can never seem to find the recycling bin. There are plenty of things I won’t miss in the wake of their departure. If I just keep thinking of those things, maybe I can get through the next few days without drowning anyone in my tears.

I hear Samson barking assignments to the crew, and I’m drawn back into the chaotic energy of the back of the house. When I check in with Samson, both his hands are clenching the laminated checklist we use to track each employee’s cleaning tasks. 

“You sure you’re good?”

Samson nods and waves the checklist in a ‘get-outa-here’ gesture, so I keep moving until I reach my very professional office, sandwiched between the kitchen’s back wall with the electrical panel, the sidewall of the pantry, and the door to the utility corridor. It’s so snug that if someone flings the walk-in cooler door wide open, it deepens the dent in the side of my roll-top oak desk. Jim and Samson call this my “cloffice.” I prefer to think of it as my cockpit. For the last three years, it’s where I’ve created menus, chased down hard-to-find ingredients, emailed vendors, and paid endless invoices. I’m comforted by the squeeze of the tiny space, and my thoughts settle as I open my laptop to work on our fall menu.

“MOM!” Mabel’s voice pierces the soft cocoon of instrumental music in my earbuds, which have officially failed to deliver on their noise-cancelling promise. Unsure if I’ve been working for five minutes or 45, I swivel my chair toward her voice and catch her mid-eye roll. 

If I squint, I can still see the bold three-year-old within the new high school grad. I remember her as a chubby preschooler evading her babysitter to crash our grown-up lawn party. She showed up ready to rumble in a neon green tutu over leopard print leggings and a sparkly purple swimsuit. Now she’s a soon-to-be college freshman in a merlot-hued, V-neck blouse that accents her full figure and makes no attempt to disguise her stomach rolls. I love that she refuses to shrink into our society’s template for beauty, that she never shrouds her plus-size body in penitential black. It also wakes me up in a shivering sweat at 3 am. 

“Why are you squinting? Were you asleep?” Mabel asks as she stares into my wide-open eyes. They might’ve been a little glazed over from staring at draft descriptions of our fall menu items, but I swear they were open. 

I shake my head ‘No’ because I was absolutely not dozing off at my desk. Mabel’s hands-on-hip stance conveys the indignation of a girl who disdains sleep as much now as she did in toddlerhood. We used to find her building mega-cities out of empty cereal boxes at midnight, or serving tea to her action figures at 3 am. Our little night-shift worker.

“What do you need?” I ask as I slip my earbuds back in their case. Mabel’s eyes graze my plain red t-shirt and ancient jeans, and I sneak a sideways glance at my reflection in the laptop screen. A fair amount of my wavy brown hair has escaped its bun, and not in the attractive “messy bun” look the teens can pull off. I look unhinged.

Mabel cocks her head, switching deftly from condescending judgment to plaintive request mode. “Do you have all the sundae stuff ready?” Her face-framing burgundy curls stay perfectly in place as she juts her chin pointedly in the direction of the kitchen’s center island, where I obviously do not have an ice cream party prepped. 

It was my idea to give each of the departing teens a sweet sendoff, but I underestimated both the hours and the gallons of ice cream it would involve. You’d think at least a couple of the summer crew would have worked the same last shift. But, no. Somehow, the schedule of departures has required individual sundae sessions followed by nearly endless hugfests before eventual teary send-offs. It’s felt like we were in the running for longest Midwest goodbye on record, but it’s provided the perfect cover for my own often overflowing tear ducts.

I love that the summer staff have such positive memories at the cafe that they cry to leave. Being sad when something ends means you had something pretty wonderful. 

Mabel’s pursing her glossy lips and shaking her head, presumably because I haven’t answered her instantaneously. “Mom, I think your executives are dysfunctioning again.” 

She scowls at my snort-laugh, and her voice reaches its most blistering pitch to inform me, “This is Merry’s last shift!”

Yes, of course I know this. Though I might subconsciously be trying to ignore it. Merry’s going into her junior year down in Kalamazoo, where her data-loving brain is thriving as a Biology major. So much so that she’s pretty confident of an internship placement next summer. So even if Mabel comes back to the cafe for our busy season, it will never again be the four of us together. This chapter of our family is finished. 

OMG, what alien spawn has taken possession of my tear ducts? This is getting ridiculous.

“On it,” I say, propelling myself past Mabel toward the stainless steel island to assemble the farewell festivities beneath the hanging pots and pans. I begin gathering an assortment of syrups, nuts, and jellies. I collect the bowls and spoons, dodging Bruce, whose awkward shuffling from the dishwasher to the silverware cubby is a runway obstruction to the rest of the team’s airliner-like efficiency. When his face isn’t parallel with the floor, his eyes hide behind a curtain of shaggy blonde hair. Samson says the brain package is sold separately with some kids, and Bruce’s parents didn’t pony up for the upgrade. 

I don’t know what it’s going to be like this time next week. What will it look like to run my little family business without my family? I try to remind myself of all that will stay the same, like Samson and the regular diners, but my mind veers back to what won’t. No more cheers of “Let’s Go, Air FOURce!” before we open for breakfast, no more kids versus parents competitions to inject fun into tedious tasks like assembling takeout boxes. M&M assure me they will not miss these moments, but I refuse to believe it. You don’t know how much you’re going to miss something until it’s gone. 

In summertime, our ‘back of the house’ feels like an overstuffed poptart with staff squeezed in and bubbling out at the seams. It’s hard to believe that in another week, it’ll be back to just me and Samson. And dear, bumbling Bruce. God help us. Of the dozen local kids who’ve made up this summer’s crew,  I know he’d be Samson’s last choice to retain through the winter if we had a choice. But we need the help, and Bruce is the only one who won’t be leaving when school starts. I don’t think he’s dumb, but I’ll admit there’s something a little feral about him. 

The staff gathers around the island, forming a necklace-shaped loop with Merry as the golden pendant. Her dark blonde hair swishes against her pale cheek as she turns toward each person congratulating her. It’s hard for me to read whether she’s genuinely enjoying her inclusion in the little rite or is uncomfortable with the attention and just playing along for the group’s sake. There’s no trace of my genes in her introverted personality or Scandinavian appearance. She’s all Jim, just bottled into a more petite form with a porcelain-doll face. 

I wish Jim could be here, but he’s just started his new job up at the ski resort. His transition, motivated by the financial squeeze of the girls’ college costs, leaves me to manage the cafe’s daily operation alone for the foreseeable future. It’s fine. I’ll be fine.

Samson is walking toward the freezer, but stops abruptly to catch my eye. 

“Glitter on a cow pie is still a cow pie.”

I take a second to absorb this koan before responding, “You know, mostly I don’t think of you as being from the Midwest, but every now and then it peeks out from under your world-traveler trenchcoat.”

“You make me sound like a flasher on the subway.”

“Oh! I was picturing, like, a Carmen Sandiego figure.”

“I’m not sure that’s better?”

“You’re a man of mystery, Samson.”

“That I am,” he agrees as he walks on. 

Mabel holds an ice cream scoop like a microphone, serenading her sister with some pop tune she knows Merry hates, as she waits for Samson to pull the 5-gallon bucket of vanilla out of the freezer. Mabel’s features and coloring match mine, testifying to the Hispanic strands in our mixed heritage, but her theatrical disposition is all her own. I take no responsibility for it, no matter what Jim says.

When Samson slides the bucket in front of Mabel, I glance at Bruce, hoping for a rare moment of eye contact. He’s hunched like a heap of wet laundry, his head tilted down to his empty bowl, and I wonder why I have such a soft spot for this stormy sky of a boy.

I feel a chill and glance across the kitchen to the window over the sink. It’s closed, so what’s the source? 

“Dad!” Merry yells, spotting Jim walking through the back door a second before I do. 

The teens offer clamorous greetings before syncing up to chant, “Mis-ter-Jim, Mis-ter-Jim!” like he’s the captain of the football team. 

Jim’s eyes search the room, and I smile when they find me. Whatever he sees in my face brings him straight to my side, where he wraps an arm around my shoulder. We walk a few steps closer toward the island as Mabel starts scooping the ice cream. I grab a napkin off the pile, preparing for the tornado of tears. I know it’s coming, because no matter how many deep breaths I take or how present I try to be, the endings are just beginning.