Georgia on Her Mind(71)

“Would you like some cookies? They’re fresh from the oven.”

I perch on a stool at the breakfast bar. “S-s-sure.”

She slips a couple of chocolate chip, peanut butter chip cookies onto a plate.

“How ’bout some milk?” she asks. “Oh no, you’re a Diet Coke girl.”

“How’s it going in here?” Dad enters with a clap of his hands.

“Earl, can you run out to the garage? Get some Diet Cokes for Macy.”

“Sure thing. Back in a jiff.” He disappears through the side garage door and returns a few seconds later. “You want a glass with ice, Mace?”

“Hold it!” I hold up my hands. “Who are you people and what have you done with my parents?”

“Oh, Macy.” Mom chortles and shushes me with a wave of her spatula-wielding hand.

“No, seriously. What are you two doing up so late? Dad, don’t you have to work tomorrow? Mom baking cookies at midnight? Growing up, you wouldn’t let me microwave popcorn after eight.”

“Things change.” She slides another sheet of cookies into the oven.

“I’ll say.” I bite hard into a warm cookie. “But mutate into weird? I don’t know.”

“Here ya go, kiddo.” Dad hands me a glass of ice and pops open a can of soda. He perches on the stool next to me and asks Mom for his own plate of cookies, which she supplies.

I take a long sip of my drink and consider my next move. If these people are in fact my parents, and not aliens, how am I to respond to this? Usually they are responding to me, my idiosyncrasies, my oddball notions.

“How was your drive?” Dad shoves a whole cookie into his mouth, then goes to the fridge.

“Fine.” I watch him take a swig directly from the milk jug. That confirms it. An alien has replaced my dad.

“Oh, Earl, here. Use this glass.” Mom shoves a tumbler into his hand and plants a kiss on his lips.

I almost slip off the stool. A public display of affection? “What is going on here?” I pound the countertop.

“Eat your cookies.” Dad alights on the stool next to me.

“Is one of you sick, dying, ravaged with cancer?”

“What?” Mom stands up from where she’s bending over the oven, shuffling cookie sheets around.

“Cancer?” Dad echoes.

“Yes, cancer.” Have they gone deaf, too? “Either of you dying in six months?”

“No, no, darling. No one is sick or dying. At least, not that we know of.” Mom comes over and pats me on the arm as if that news would be the last straw.

“Then why did you call me up here? Why are you making cookies at midnight and running around like teenagers?”

Dad’s hearty chuckle rumbles from his chest and Mom tee-hees behind her mitted hand.

“Should we talk now or wait until the morning?” Dad addresses Mom.

“We can wait until morning.”

“Absolutely not,” I protest. “Are you trying to kill me? You made me drive all the way up here, so you’re gonna tell me, now.”

“Let’s just put it on the table, Kitty.” Dad motions for her to pacify me with more cookies.

“Whatever you want, Earl.” Mom drops a chewy, gooey cookie onto my plate.

“Out with it, Earl,” I say, tipping my head and eyeing him from under my brows.

He claps his hands together. “We want you to come up and take over the business.”

I choke and swallow. “That’s what this is all about?”

“Yes.”

“I told you I’d pray about it.” Their gazes are locked on me and I’m feeling a little squeezed.

“And?” Mom asks, her voice like a first soprano.

“I don’t know.” Am I yelling? ’Cause it sounds to me as if I’m yelling.

“How did the Chicago interview go?” Dad inquires.

“Great, actually. They offered me a ton of money and a grab bag of corporate perks.”

“I see.” A shadow of disappointment falls over his face.

“What’s the rush about the business, anyway, Dad? You’re not going to retire, are you?”

“Your mother and I found out today we have an opportunity to go to England.”

Mom’s eyes light up like a firefly, her round cheeks rosy from the heat of the oven.

“So? Go to England. Sharon can manage the business for a few weeks.” I pick up the last cookie on my plate, my absolute last cookie. The five I just ate will be moving into my hip area any moment now and it’ll take a month of Sundays to jog them off.

“Not a few weeks,” Dad says. “Six months. At least.”

“Six months?” I echo, flabbergasted. “You just signed a deal with The Food Connection and you want to leave the business?”

“The Food Connection agreement has been in the works for a long time. I just saw it through.”

I’m baffled. “What will you do for six months?”

“Be missionaries,” Mom blurts out with a small squeal.

“Since when did you want to be missionaries?”

“We’ve been praying about what we should do in our senior years, after we retire. We don’t see ourselves playing shuffleboard in Florida or puttering around the house.”