Blue-Plate Special

              Ann-Marie stared into the blue-plate special sitting in front of her. It looked like a gelatinous formation of a volcano that had gone extinct but somehow never hardened. How can restaurants serve this and call it food she thought to herself.

              “Eat up dear,” came her grandmother’s voice. “This looks so delicious.”

              Ann-Marie tried to form her face to look pleasant, to take away the look of nausea and shock that had formed when her grandmother reminded her that she was supposed to eat the coagulated mush that had been placed in front of her. As she lifted her head to look at her grandmother across the table she knew the smile had to look pained and not natural. Ann-Marie quickly shifted her face to look at her mom so that her grandmother wouldn’t feel bad about forcing her to eat disaster on the plate.

              Agnes was looking down at her lap. One might think she was quietly praying, her eyes seemed lowered, and she looked reverent. Ann-Marie knew that the prayer she was giving was to the gods of electronic mail. Agnes had learned the art of writing agendas and meeting notes on her smartphone somewhere around the release of the iPhone 3. As technology got better, Agnes was able to move from outright working on the table in front of her into her lap or other concealed state. While it would seem her eyes were improving as she melted into the technology in her fingers; the reality was the screen just got bigger. All this did was make it harder for her kids to engage with her. As she pulled off the table and into her own little bubble.

              “What’s wrong dear,” asked grandma. Ann-Marie shifted her gaze from her mother worried that she had allowed her feelings to show through. Between the food and her mother’s teenage work behavior, Ann-Marie was not in a good place. “Why aren’t you eating?”

              Ann-Marie smiled and took the cue to start moving food around on her plate with her fork. The first pass did nothing. Ann-Marie wondered if the cool air of the restaurant had caused the once jelly-like consistency to begin forming a rock shell that would hold this form in place for generations. Her second pass with her fork managed to shift some of the meat creation into the playdoh mash that according to the menu was mashed potatoes. Ann-Marie’s stomach turned. She saw that each color on her plate seemed to have a border and that even though things were touching she wasn’t sure that they were actually touching. Even each food item was revolted by the one next to it.

              Ann-Marie heard her grandmother’s fork touch the plate and she knew her grandmother had disengaged her eyes. Ann-Marie looked over to her brother who was staring back at her. She tried to decide if her brother was concerned about his own plate of food or if he was just being his usual creepy self. Grandma had ordered the same meal for everyone, and Jack’s plate was built in the same way Ann-Marie’s was, a conglomeration of beige but with multiple sheens. As Ann-Marie looked up from Jack’s plate to his face she saw that it was creepy brother time. He rarely ever spoke to her, but rather just stared. Agnes claimed there was nothing wrong with him, he was just a 10-year-old boy. Ann-Marie personally thought the kid needed to see some kind of psychologist or psychiatrist as he obviously was mentally disturbed. The kid locked his own door to his bedroom when he left so no one could go in there. Like someone was out to find his precious lego creation to use it for a top-secret mission. Ann-Marie did not understand him, nor did she want to. Jack rarely ever engaged with anyone in the family. She did see him talking to other kids, but whenever she got close he would stop. Ann-Marie suddenly wondered if she had even heard her brother’s voice in the last two years.

              As she looked around the table she realized, that other than her brother glaring into her soul, no one was actually doing anything. Weren’t family dinners suppose to be enjoyable? A time to converse and share about each other’s lives? A time to laugh and tell jokes. Wouldn’t this fabulous dinner be better served in the confines of her own room where she could just throw it in the trash bin and no one would know, and where she could have a conversation with her friends through snap chat and laugh at TikToks? Why was this a forced process every week? A fake perfect family moment but without any form of perfect. It was like the anti-perfect family.

              “You should eat before it gets cold, dear.” Grandma’s wise advice made Ann-Marie worry that if she let it get cold, would she wind up in the dentist’s chair. Ann-Marie gave a side smile to her grandma. She knew it would get grandma to look away again and was kind of a truth in how she was feeling: sideways. Then she wondered if she stood up and walked out of the restaurant would anyone notice. Maybe she could call a friend to get her. Order an uber? Maybe just start walking and find another family to join. Maybe she shouldn’t maybe anymore.

              Ann-Marie gently pushed her chair back and stood up. As she stepped out of the chair her leg caught the arm. She thought it might pull the attention of someone, but no one seemed to notice. Ann-Marie tucked her phone into the back pocket of her jeans, glanced around. Her brother continued to stare but said nothing nor made a face that showed he understood what was happening. Ann-Marie sidestepped further, put her hand on the chair as if to push it in, and decided she would rather leave the impression she was there. She stepped back from the table, one, two, three steps. No one noticed. She turned and walked away.