waitress appeared at the counter behind the register. She was probably in her fifties, with a pair of glasses perched on her pale, beaklike nose. She wore an electric red uniform, and the name tag pinned at her shoulder read CATHY.
“We came for breakfast,” Murphy announced, pushing ahead of Eileen and Claire. “And we mean to be satisfied.”
Cathy raised a brow at Murphy. “Do you, indeed?” She glanced at the clock above the register. “Pretty early to be up. If it were my Christmas break, I tell you what, I’d be sleeping in till noon.”
“We come from a long line of early risers,” Murphy said, conversationally.
That got an amused snort out of Cathy. She scanned the sisters before directing a question at Claire. “Just the three of you, then?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Claire replied.
Eileen rolled her eyes. She knew what had happened. Cathy had been assessing them, figuring out who looked the oldest and most responsible. It didn’t matter that Eileen was the oldest or a head taller. Of course Cathy would choose Claire. Adults always liked Claire best. She dressed right and smiled and called people “ma’am.”
Cathy grabbed menus and three sets of silverware and led them to a corner booth. Eileen scooted into a seat first, and Murphy joined her. That was something, at least. Adults might choose Claire, but Murphy chose Eileen.
“Drinks?” Cathy asked, handing out the menus.
“Do you have mochas?” Claire asked.
Cathy studied Claire. “Beg your pardon?”
“Mocha. The coffee drink. Like, peppermint flavor, or …” Claire trailed off as Cathy’s face went blank. “Never mind. A coffee, please. With skim milk.”
Eileen watched this play out smugly before adding a coffee, black, to the order.
“Me too,” said Murphy.
“Don’t be silly,” Claire said.
“Who’s being silly?” retorted Murphy.
“No law about kids drinking caffeine,” Cathy observed. “Three coffees, right up.”
As Cathy swept off, Murphy leaned across the table, telling Claire, “You always act like you’re way older than me.”
“All I’m saying,” Claire replied primly, “is Mom didn’t let me have coffee when I was fourteen.”
“Yeah, well, Mom doesn’t care what I do.”
Murphy said this blithely enough, but Eileen saw the force with which she flicked a sugar packet across the table. She recognized that force. It pressed against a small, sore spot that had existed under her skin for years. In that spot resided the knowledge that Leslie Sullivan was to her daughters what the sun was to its planets: warm, but distant; bright, but slowly burning out before their eyes.
Things had been warmer once. Eileen remembered mornings when they’d eaten Saturday breakfasts together, and Mom had asked about school and life, and they’d joked about TV shows. She remembered more distant and fuzzy days spent with Mom and Dad, her and Claire cuddled between them on the couch as they watched Wheel of Fortune. Dad had smelled of oranges. She remembered that clearly, even from thirteen years ago: the way the air turned citrusy when he was around.
That had been then, though, and this was now. Eileen didn’t think Mom even suspected her eldest daughter drank. For one thing, Eileen was sneaky about it. She brought in the booze from Safeway in her backpack and kept it hidden beneath her bed. For another, Mom was barely around. When Eileen got drunk at home, Mom was either working a late shift at Walgreens or locked away in her room, dozing to the drone of the TV. And this holiday season? She was thousands of miles away, on the distant shores of paradise.
Eileen really needed a drink, her sisters’ presence be damned. Maybe she could figure a way to slip the whiskey into her coffee. It would’ve been easier if she and Claire were sitting side by side. Not that she wanted Claire to—
“Three coffees,” Cathy announced, back at the table. She set down the mugs and pulled out her order pad.
“You guys have cheese curds?” Murphy asked.
“Well now,” said Cathy, “not a popular breakfast order. Normally, Mike doesn’t start frying till eleven, or so. But I can see if he’s feeling generous.”
“If he is,” Murphy said solemnly, “he’d make me the happiest human on earth.”
“I’ll have the yogurt parfait,” Claire said.
Eileen ordered a short-stack of pancakes, plus a side of bacon. Once the food arrived, she intended to stare Claire dead in the eye and say, “Yum, yum, gluten.”
Because Claire could say whatever she wanted about her “sensitivity.” Eileen had grown up with her and seen Claire pack away pizza and bagels like nobody’s business. Sensitivity, Eileen’s ass.