Sunday Dinners

Despite being the nicest restaurant in town, the Fishmonger was dingy by any other standard. The only edible seafood on the menu was aggressively fried to hide the taste of long-term freezing. The interior was windowless and dark, lit only by dim hanging lights shaped like starfish. For reasons incomprehensible to Stella, the owner had decided to decorate the walls with layer after layer of fishnet and shiny plastic crabs.

The first time Stella stomped through the cramped doorway in her heels and perfectly tailored pencil skirt, the entire restaurant collectively raised its eyebrows. One of the old men who was constantly clinging to the bar even woof-whistled. Now, however, her appearance was expected. The plump woman behind the counter barely glanced upwards before calling a half-hearted greeting and gesturing towards Stella's usual table. Tucked away in a back alcove, uncomfortably close to the bathrooms, was Stella's least favorite place in the entire world. She approached the familiar red booth reluctantly and carefully set her purse on the table. On her first visit she was foolish enough to lay it at her feet and spent the next day scrubbing grease off the leather.

As she settled herself into the booth she did her best not to look at the man sitting across from her. He was as grimy as the restaurant itself. He wore a fraying baseball cap to cover his greasy, thinning hair. His over-sized flannel fit loosely over skinny arms and legs, but the stained shirt beneath stretched tight around a barrel-like gut. Stella couldn't see his legs or his feet, but she knew what they would look like; torn jeans and the same leather work boots he'd worn for a decade. He had always been a predictable man. As her mother would say, predictably disappointing.

A genuine smile lit up his face as he watched Stella slide into the seat across from him, showing off crooked yellow teeth.

“You made it.” The man said in relief, the same way he did every week.

“Yeah.” Stella muttered, staring guiltily down at her perfectly manicured nails. The surprise and delight in his voice always made her stomach tie itself into knots of shame. “It's good to see you, Dad.”

The old man beamed.

As the waitress strode towards their table, Stella's dad fixed her with his wide smile. He seemed to think his joy at seeing Stella ought to be contagious. “Evenin', Pearl. I've already eaten, so I'll just be treating my daughter tonight.” He nodded towards Stella, his cloudy green eyes glowing with pride.

The knots of guilt and shame twisted themselves even tighter in Stella's stomach. He doesn't have the money for both our meals, but he still wants to treat me.

She met Pearl's expectant gaze. “Just a coffee for me, I think.”

Not bothering to conceal an eye roll, Pearl stalked back off towards the counter.

Stella's father waved a hand after the waitress, unfazed by her surliness. “Sorry about Pearl, she's always been prone to a sulk. We'll be sure to leave her a nice tip to make up for not eating anything.”

Stella merely nodded, still staring at her nails. She suddenly felt like she was thirteen years old again, sitting with her father at a diner table and trying to avoid eye contact with the wait staff because she knew they didn't have the money to pay for their food. Or sitting shotgun in his old pick up truck, staring determinedly at the peeling ceiling and trying to pretend she couldn't hear him beg the gas station owner to let him fill up on credit.

“Thank you for coming out today, Stel.” Her father was still wearing that blissful grin, the one that filled her with so much shame she thought she might burst. “I wasn't sure you were going to make it.”

Stella couldn't answer him over the lump in her throat. She stared across the table at his calloused hands and yellow, dirt-crusted finger nails. Mingled disgust and anguish rolled over her.

“You don't have a lot of fond memories of this place, and that's my fault.”

Stella grit her teeth as tears started to sting her eyes. The stench of cheap beer and old cigarettes was becoming overwhelming.

“I was a bit of a mess when your mother left and I didn't look after you like I should have.”

Stella shook her head. “Please, Dad, let's not do this again today.” Her voice warbled as she whispered the plea.

Her father blinked in surprise. “Do what again?”

“I just can't do it, alright? I can't stand hearing the speech again.”

“Speech?” Her father's face was blank with incomprehension.

“The speech you give every week.”

Her father still looked puzzled. He opened his mouth to voice another question, but Stella interrupted him.

“You're not really here.” Her head felt like a pressure cooker as the sobs built themselves up inside her. “You're not real. That night, I didn't come.”

Her father shook his head. “You're not making any sense, Stel.”

Stella pushed her fingers into her temples, trying to relieve some of the pressure building in her skull. “I just couldn't stand the thought of seeing you old and broken down. I couldn't think of anything to say to you. You were always so happy to see me and I was just... I was so ashamed of you.” Her voice broke as she gave life to this terrible confession.

Across the table, her father's silhouette disappeared in a blur of tears.

“You waited for me in this booth for hours, but I never showed up. At some point you started drinking.” Tears streamed freely down her face. “You never made it home.”

When she finally dried her eyes, the image of her father in his dirty clothes and fraying baseball cap was gone.

“I'm so sorry, Dad.” She whispered to the cracking red vinyl of the empty seat across from her. “I'll never miss another Sunday dinner.”