Chapter 3

A COLD HARSH WINTER light greeted me on Sunday morning. For a moment, I relaxed in bed and stared out through frosted windows to an ultra pure white landscape, so white it hurt the eyes. A light wind stirred snow into mini flurries. We’d accumulated almost four feet of snow; enough to completely hide the bushes in the back yard.

Clattering noise from the kitchen filtered through the bedroom door. Rolling out from under the thick quilt, I shivered as I strode into the bathroom, turned the shower on, dropped my pajama bottoms, and stepped into the warm water. It took a moment for me to stop shivering.

By the time I entered the kitchen an aroma of freshly brewed coffee was blending with toast. Sia turned from the stove and smiled.

“I was just about to wake you up. I’ve made scrambled eggs and toast.”

Walking over to her, I bent and kissed the crown of her head, inhaling her scent, a delicious aroma of sleepiness and sweetness, completely Sia.

“Morning,” I mumbled, moving to pour coffee, then parking my butt at the round kitchen table, an ancient, much waxed solid oak piece of furniture Soraya had spent months hunting for.

While I sipped the strong coffee and let the magic of caffeine sweep cobwebs from my brain, I studied my daughter. She’d let her hair fall free in a wavy mass down her back. She’d dressed in worn jeans that hugged her rear, giving it a rather lovely shape - or was that just me now appreciating it? Her olive green sweatshirt was mine, the Cirque de Soleil logo on the back with Alegria, the name of the show, under it. The top was way too big for her forcing her to fold up the sleeves. It looked very cute on her. I’d always been partial to Soraya wearing my clothes. It seemed Sia had inherited her mother’s taste in male haute couture.

“Here ya go,” she announced, placing a plate in front of me and another at her place.

I inspected the scrambled eggs and toast while she poured herself a glass of orange juice. Small, green slivers in the eggs told me she’d added chopped chives. The first bite was delicious, rich creamy eggs with a hint of onion bursting in my mouth. I added a bite of only slightly burnt toast. Wonderful.

For the next few minutes there was silence in the kitchen as I stuffed my face, cutlery tinkling against stoneware plates.

“Delicious,” I announced, pushing an empty plate away.

“Thanks.”

“What are you making for dinner?” I asked with a smile.

Sia grinned. “McDonald’s.”

I frowned. “Not. What are your plans for the day?” I asked, taking a sip of coffee.

“I thought I’d study for school,” she calmly announced.

I choked on a mouthful of coffee, coughed hard and looked at her. The angelic smile, a Mona Lisa-like smile, showed her amusement. “Okay. Got me. What are you really planning for the day?” I coughed to clear my lungs again.

“I thought I’d go to church,” she announced.

“Right. And pull my other leg.”

Sia laughed, bright, light, happy. It made me smile.

“I’m gonna clean my room, vacuum, and do the laundry,” she informed me.

Yeah, sure. “While you’re at it, mop the kitchen floor and shovel the drive, okay?”

Sia laughed again, her blue and brown eyes twinkling. But then an amazing change took place. It was magical to watch. Her eyes softened, her laughter faded away to a small, almost shy smile.

“I love you, Dad,” she said softly.

Man-oh-man, was I lost. She very rarely told me how she felt about me, usually a quick, “Luv ya,” as she’d head out the door. This time it was so different. This time it was sweet and heartfelt, so much so, it brought a prickling sensation to my eyes.

I reached across the table, brushed her hair lightly, cupped her cheek, and rubbed her pale freckles with my thumb.

“I love you too, Sia.”

“Enough to buy me some new sneakers?” she asked brightly with a hopeful grin.

I managed to hold the line - no new sneakers. The day passed with me shoveling the drive, vacuuming, and mopping the kitchen floor. My darling daughter took off, picked up by Lara and her mother “to check out what’s new at the mall”. What could have changed in the six days since she’d last been there?

By six-thirty, I had a previously homemade frozen lasagna in the oven scenting the house with delicious aromas; a side Boston leaf salad prepped and ready for a red wine, Dijon, and shallot vinaigrette dressing; and a soft loaf of homemade garlic bread waiting to be warmed in the oven.

I found a bottle of Chilean Santa Carolina Reserve Cabernet Sauvignon, uncorked it with a pop, and poured the rich ruby-red wine into a glass, leaning back against the counter to take the first sip. Velvety smooth, rich red slipped down my throat leaving a peppery tail in my mouth; dry, excellent.

With the glass in hand, I headed to the living room, turned on the television and watched the evening news. Darkness had fallen. I briefly wondered what my daughter was up to and when she’d be home, then became distracted by a news item about ISIS attracting Jihad brides. What in the name of sanity would induce a woman to desire a life as a Jihadist wife? Didn’t they understand how they’d be in servitude to the male? A life of no free will? Was the world going crazy?

How bad did a girl’s home life have to be to desire such a bleak fate? Shit! If Sia ever...

“I’m home, Dad!”

“About time,” I yelled in response. “You didn’t meet any Jihadists while you were out, did you?”

Sia strolled into the living room. “What are you talking about?” she asked, her eyes puzzled, a shopping bag in one hand.

“I thought you might have decided to become a Jihadist bride,” I said.

“A what?”

“Never mind. What did you buy? A chador?”

“A what?” my confused daughter asked again.

I laughed. “Forget it. So you bought something. What?”

Sia smiled. “It’s for you,” she announced, handing me the bag.

Digging in, I pulled out a large sweatshirt, royal blue with a Mexx logo. “Very nice. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome. I’m gonna change. What’s for dinner? Lasagna?” she asked, sniffing the air. “I’ll put this in the bedroom,” she added, grabbing the sweatshirt and heading out without waiting for a response.

Fifteen minutes later, Sia walked in wearing a lovely royal blue Mexx sweatshirt that fell to mid-thigh, bare legs and feet below, sleeves rolled up; utterly cute, perfectly edible.

“That’s mine,” I informed her.

“Uh-huh. I’m breaking it in for you. You’re welcome.”

Somewhat lost at her logic, shaking my head and smiling, I stood up to finish dinner preparation and refill my glass of wine. Sia followed me into the kitchen chatting about her mall visit, the new fashions, some “really amazing sneakers, Dad,” and how maybe she needed some more jeans, or a new dress, or maybe both.

With no prompting, Sia set the kitchen table while I removed the lasagna and put the garlic loaf into the oven. In no time we were eating. Dinner was excellent, filling, very satisfying. I even liked my garlic breath.

By seven-fifty, we were in the living room. I prepared and started a fire to counteract the icy cold air leaking though warped window frames. Sia settled at one end of the couch, dragged an Afghan blanket over her bare legs and started hunting for a show we’d both like on TV.