Daddy was in the kitchen making breakfast when I came downstairs. Lily was already awake, sitting at the table, dangling her feet and looking out the window.
“Morning Daddy,” I said, rubbing my eyes.
“Hey, good morning sugar plum, ” he said, leaning over to kiss the top of my head. His whiskers were rough.
“Are those gingebread pancakes?” I asked, wrinkling my nose.
“Yes, and I don’t want to hear a word about it,” he said, brandishing the spatula at me. “You don’t have to eat them if you don’t want, but Lily asked and I’m making them.”
Lily looked over at me, and I frowned at her. “Lily can’t even eat them,” I whined.
“But I can smell them,” she said.
“And mama likes them too,” Daddy added, flipping the pancakes high in the air. He was trying to win me over. He knows I love it when he flips the pancakes. But I was not in a mood that can be lifted. I wanted buttermilk pancakes.
“Is Mama awake yet?” I asked.
Daddy shakes his head. “I don’t think so. Why don’t you–”
“I’m awake,” Mama said, padding into the living room, yawning and stretching. Her nightgown had fallen off one shoulder, and her hair was a a tangled mess all over head head. “Baby, can you get me a glass of water? I have a headache.”
Daddy handed me a glass and I took it to the water cooler, filling it halfway up so there was room for the ice that Mama liked. I don’t like my water too cold. But Mama does. I pressed the button on the refrigerator and ice plopped into the glass. The water alomst reacheed the rim. I put in just the right amount.
When I handed it to her, she sleepily mussed my hair, and smiled. “Thank you, angel. So, gingerbread pancakes, huh?” Mama made a face. “I was hoping for buttermilk,” she said, looking pointedly at Daddy.
Daddy sighed, and turned to me. “Go upstairs punkin,” he says. “Mommy and I need to talk for a minute.”
I looked back over at Lily, who climbed down off the chair and followed me up the steps. But we didn’t go to my room like we–I–were expected to. We sat on the landing, just out of view, so we could hear.
“I heard what you were saying to Emily,” Mama said. “I thought we were on the same page about this. I thought we agreed, Tim,” she says. She didn’t sound sleepy. She sounded angry.
“I know. But I don’t know that it does any harm, and–”
“You made gingerbread pancakes for her imaginary friend, Tim! Emily doesn’t even like gingerbread pancakes! What do you think that tells her?”
Lily turned to me, her knees drawn up to her chin, her arms wrapped about her legs. “How come you don’t like gingerbread pancakes?” she whispered.
“They’re too spicy,” I whispered back. “And they don’t taste good with cheesy eggs and grits.”
Lily stuck out her tongue and squeezed her eyes. She doesn’t like grits. “I don’t like it when Mama and Daddy fight about me,” she said, resting her chin on her knees.
“Well, don’t worry about it, because they’re not fighting about you, they’re fighting about me.” My stomach was starting to hurt.
“I guess you can look at it both ways,” Lily said. After a minute, she got up and headed to my bedroom. I realized I didn’t want to hear Mama and Daddy fight any more, and I followed her. It didn’t matter that Daddy made gingerbread pancakes for Lily. I wasn’t hungry anymore.
