"It doesn't feel real. She should come in the door at any moment," I said as the first batch of cookies went in the oven.
"You'll look for her for a long time. Nothing wrong with that."
Her calm acceptance of my feelings made it possible for me to think outside of the warm and comforting kitchen. It registered that I had seen the door to my father's office standing open and I wondered where he went. I had 10 minutes before the first batch was done.
"Have you seen my father?" I asked.
Charlotte shook her head. "He asked for chicken dumpling soup when I came in and then he disappeared."
I went to peer in the door of his office. The lights were off, but I could see his outline propped in a chair. He stared out the window, a glass of whiskey suspended in the air halfway to his mouth.
"Daddy?" I asked.
He jumped as if a gunshot had reported in the wood-paneled confines of his office. "Quinn, Jesus Christ, you sc
ared me. What are you doing creeping around?"
"You're the one sitting in the dark."
He grumbled and turned on the lamp next to him. His eyes were red and puffy but dry as he scowled at me. "How's your mother?"
"I don't know, she's still upstairs," I said. "How are you?"
"Probably a good idea. She needs to rest. I'm tired. Exhausted. You might not think it’s a big deal to drive from Vegas to L.A. all the time for school, but it takes a toll," he said. Finally, he noticed the glass of whiskey and took a long sip.
"Speaking of L.A., I should call school," I said.
"Your advisor spoke to all your professors. The funeral is in two days. You can stay with us until it’s over," my father said.
"The funeral?" I asked. A sour taste filled my mouth at the word.
"Yes, I have a friend at the Walton's Funeral Home, he's the director. Making all the arrangements. Viewing, service, reception, it will all be here. Cook knows the rest."
"It just seems so, I don't know, so fast," I said.
My father snorted. "What did you expect, Quinn? Decisions had to be made. Not everyone can go through life wavering like you do."
"Sienna was decisive. She kinda proved quick decisions aren't always the best, didn't she?" I could not take the angry words back.
He shifted in his leather chair and refused to look at me again. "Check on your mother before dinner," he said and turned the light off.
I retreated back to the kitchen, and Charlotte took one look at my face and folded me into a tight hug. "He's just grieving. Anything that comes out of his mouth the next few months is pure rubbish."
"I, I accused her of being rash. I actually joked about where her quick decision-making got her. It was awful," I said.
"No one can know what went through her head. Sienna always had her mind made up and wouldn't let anyone change it. A trait I'm happy you did not inherit from your mother."
Charlotte and my mother had a long-standing habit of arguing over recipes. Though my mother did not cook, she clung fast to a few beliefs of how things should be done and would not hear reason.
"Everyone always says Sienna is just like my mother."
"It never bothered you before," Charlotte said.
"What bothers me now are the ways they are the same. The big mood swings and the perfectionism. It’s just not that healthy," I said. My voice was low; they were words that felt dangerous to say out loud.
"What's wrong with perfectionism?" my father asked from the doorway. "Do I smell something burning?"
I ran for the oven and pulled the sugar cookies out just before the edges burned. "Nothing is ever perfect, and people who strive for it end up stressing themselves out over something they can never achieve."