It must have been hundreds of times that he’d snuck down these stairs for a late night snack as a teenager.
Now, thirty-plus years later, he was still tiptoeing in his socks, stepping carefully over the ninth step to avoid the creaking sound and making his way into the kitchen, leftover spinach lasagna on the brain.
As he stepped into the kitchen, he discovered someone else had beaten him to the punch.
“What are you doing up?’
Cece jumped, gasping loudly as she turned around. “Shit, Dad! Sorry. You scared me.”
He let the swearing slide. She was pretty good about not using obscenities too much, and he and Pam were of the mind that it wasn’t really the words but the intention behind them that mattered.
“Can’t sleep?” he asked instead. “Don’t let Mom catch you with that,“ he added, gesturing to the jar of peanut butter and the spoon she’d stuck into it.
She shrugged sheepishly and reached into the bread box. “I know, I know. Why are you up?”
Her turning the tables tone of voice wouldn’t be effective for at least 15 more years.
“Lasagna,” Jim smirked, moving to the refrigerator and taking out the pan. He cut a piece on to a plate and started the microwave. Cece spread peanut butter on two slices of bread.
When the timer dinged, he pressed the End button quickly so as not to wake Pam or the twins.
“Come on,” he said, gesturing to the table. She carried both plates as he went to the fridge again.
“Milk, please?” she requested, and Jim nodded. He pulled a half open bottle of Chianti out as well - Pam loved chilled red wine and he’d developed a taste for it too - and poured himself a glass. He filled a glass of milk for Cece and brought both glasses to the table.
For a few moments, there was silence except for the sounds of chewing and swallowing. Cece’s tongue snuck out to lick some peanut butter from her lips.
“Dad?”
“Hmmm?”
She gestured to his wine glass. “Can I try?”
Jim hesitated a minute and then pushed the glass toward her. “Sure.”
He watched as she took a sip and held the wine in her mouth, her lips pursing a bit. She didn’t look pleased.
“So?” he asked.
She gulped, swallowing it down, and reached quickly for her milk.
“Kind of… sour tasting,” she remarked, taking another bite of her bread and peanut butter.
He nodded. “It’s an acquired taste.”
Neither said anything else for another minute or two, just sat in comfortable silence. The clock on the microwave changed from 1:13 to 1:14 in the morning.
“Dad?”
“Yeah, Cee?”
She swallowed a couple of times and chewed her lip. He knew she was gearing up to ask something. He tried to anticipate what she wanted. A credit card? Permission to go to some rave (did kids still go to raves?)? A car for her upcoming 16th birthday?
He hoped it wasn’t something too outlandish.
“Am I allowed to drink?”
Definitely not what he’d anticipated.
“What?”
She took a sip of her milk. “I mean, other kids drink. At parties and stuff.”
There hadn’t been too many “parties and stuff” yet, but they were starting to come more frequently.
“Do you?” he asked, and it wasn’t an accusation, but a genuine question.
She sighed. “I had a beer once,” she admitted. “Or really, I held a beer and drank a little, because beer is gross. I don’t get why you like it so much.”
He chuckled. “I like good beer. And when you’re older, we’ll have a good beer together.”
Cece gave a half smile. “Are you mad?” She took another bite.
Jim paused a moment before answering. “No,” he said, and it was the truth. “All right, the drinking thing?”
She nodded.
“I know some of your friends do it,” he said. “And I’m not going to pretend I didn’t drink a little when I was a teenager.”
Cece smiled a bit.
“Plus I know that if I tell you something’s forbidden, you’ll want to run out and do it more,” he added, “so here’s what I’ll tell you.”
He set down his fork and she leaned forward a bit.
“I’m going to trust you to be responsible,” Jim informed his daughter, looking directly at her. “I’m going to trust that you will never get into a car with someone who’s been drinking, even a little, and that you’ll never drive anywhere yourself if you’ve had anything to drink.”
She nodded.
“If you’re curious about trying something,” he continued, “I’d rather you come to me or Mom and ask us.”
“Corrie said she likes screwdrivers,” Cece replied. She smirked.
Jim laughed to himself at the memory of “Orange Vodjuicekas.” The kids knew their parents had been part of a documentary, but they weren’t impressed. Cece had been more curious about Jim and Pam’s courtship of late, though. He thought maybe he’d dig up the Blu Rays.
That was for another time though.
“If you want to try a screwdriver,” he told her, focusing on the conversation at hand. “I’ll make one and you can taste it. I’d rather be here and be able to take care of you if you don’t react well to something than have you go out to parties and sneak a bunch of alcohol.”
Cece nodded slowly. “Okay…” She sounded like she wasn’t quite sure of the catch.
“But that doesn’t mean,” he clarified, “that it’s okay to go into the liquor cabinet by yourself. And there’s definitely no drinking here with friends. If you want to taste something, ask me or Mom and we’ll give you a little, but I’m not taking responsibility like that for someone else’s kid. That’s non-negotiable. Clear?”
Cece nodded. “Clear,” she replied, in a tone indicating she knew objecting wasn’t an option.
Jim nodded back, praying he was saying the right things.
“And I know it would be naïve of me to expect that you wouldn’t drink at a party every now and then,” he continued, “but I want you to promise me that if you do, you’ll call me to come pick you up, no matter what time it is.”
Oh god, how he prayed he was saying the right things.
Cece looked doubtful.
“You won’t get in trouble,” he said. “The important thing is for you to be safe. If we have reason to be concerned, we’ll address it, but Mom and I trust you.”
That trust word had worked wonders with him as a kid. In retrospect, “I trust you” was the smartest thing his father had said to him as a teenager. Of course, the line had worked on him and Larissa, but had brought about the opposite of the desired effect with Pete and Tom. So fifty-fifty.
Hopefully, his odds would be better.
Cece nodded again. “Okay,” she agreed. “Cool.”
She stuck out her hand solemnly and Jim shook it.
They went back to their food. He speared a forkful of lasagna. She took a bite of her sandwich.
She swallowed and pushed her plate toward him.
“Want a bite?”
He looked up and grinned at her.
“Sure, baby girl.”
She made a damn fine peanut butter sandwich, his kid.
Author's Chapter Notes:
Cece is far less bratty here than in the last chapter. Hopefully she's just coming across as a typical teenager and not as a bipolar one.
Chapter End Notes:
I had this conversation, almost verbatim, with my father when I was 13 (in a car, not a kitchen). Let me tell you, it worked like a charm. I think I had two drinks in high school and maybe ten in college before I turned 21. Seriously, I think "I trust you" might be the most brilliant thing a parent can tell a teenager.
