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“Hey, want to go to Kiku for dinner?” Sushi might draw her out.
Taylor pauses, doesn’t look up. “I’ve got a lot of homework, Dad.”
“Ah, come on,” Michael replies. “I’ll let you drive,” he says in singsong.
Taylor’s glance raises from her phone, locks onto the keys Michael’s dangling in the air. He shouldn’t be letting her drive anywhere; she’s too young for even a learner’s permit; it’s against the law. But given that Michael is the moneyman for a criminal enterprise, it’s all relative. And it’s a manipulative way to spend time with her.
Soon, Michael is in the passenger seat on the short—but utterly terrifying—drive to Chestnut Hill. He tries not to instruct as Taylor drives. It only makes her more anxious. At last, she squeezes the sedan into a spot on South Rosewood. He tries not to exhale too loudly as she kills the engine.
In the restaurant, they’re taken to a table in the back. As Taylor considers the menu, Michael finds himself staring at her. She looks more like her mother every day. The dark flowing hair, wide-set eyes. Until her mother lost all her hair, lost all the weight and that glint in her eyes in those final days.
“What?” Taylor says, catching his glance.
“Nothing.”
“Stop, like, staring at me.”
Michael smiles. “So how was school today?” he tries again.
“I told you. Fine.”
“Very descriptive.”
She frowns. “It was like always.”
“Did you learn anything new?”
She shrugs, keeps her eyes on the menu.
He needs to let it be. He picks up his own menu. It’s pointless because he gets the same thing every time they come. “What looks good?”
“I think I’m going with the shrimp tempura roll.”
He nods. “I’ll have the same.”
“Copycat rat.”
That stings his heart. It’s something her mother used to say to her. If both got up to go to the restroom at the same time, copycat rat. If both said they liked the same book, copycat rat. If both were tired. Same. The expression made no sense and he wasn’t sure where it came from. Perhaps that kids’ movie about the rat that moved to Paris to become a chef that Taylor loved so much.
It’s strange having children. As they get older there’re always reminders of when they were small. When they would rush to the door when you got home from the office. When they would hold your hand and wanted to spend every moment with you. The reminders of Taylor as a little girl are bittersweet because the memories include her mom.
The food arrives and Taylor gets more talkative. She shows him a funny TikTok video, rants about how she can’t stand her French teacher, tells him something about a pop singer he’s never heard of.
Michael decides it’s time: “Hey, do you know a kid named Anthony O’Leary?”
Taylor looks up, eyes to the ceiling as if she’s trying to remember. She shakes her head. It’s surprising because the Academy is a small school.
“Remember I told you a client’s son was starting at the Academy?”
Taylor gives him an expression like she hasn’t the foggiest.
“Well, my client’s kid started there a few weeks ago. My client says he’s having a hard time.”
Taylor sips her water like she knows what’s coming and is dreading it.
“Anyway, it would be really great if you could maybe reach out. Introduce him to some kids.”
“Daaad.”