Isabel Alvarez knew her father's kettle by the sound it made before it boiled. A soft knocking, then a rush, then the click that always sounded like a decision.
On the phone that morning she heard only the knocking.
“Dad, have you put water in it?”
“Of course.”
She waited.
“How much?”
“Enough.”
Enough had become a troublesome word. Enough food. Enough sleep. Enough help. Rafael used it to close doors she was trying, carefully, to open.
She tucked her phone between ear and shoulder and searched the counter for her keys. There were crumbs beneath the place where she had left them. She brushed the crumbs away before she picked the keys up, completing the easier task first.
“I'm leaving for work. Denise comes at ten.”
“I know who comes.”
“I know you know.”
He sighed. She hated that sigh, partly because she understood it.
With a patient she would have found a way to ask without correcting. Her father had taught her to ride a bicycle and argued with her about money and waited outside a dance in an old car with no heating. He could make her twelve in a single breath.
“What are you having?” she asked.
“Tea.”
“For breakfast.”
“Also tea.”
“Dad.”
“Eggs. You told me yesterday that I had eggs.”
She had. She remembered the conversation almost word for word and disliked how much of it she wanted to repeat.
The kettle clicked.
“There,” he said.
“Tea. Then breakfast.”
“Are you giving orders?”
“Yes.”
At least that made him laugh.
“There's a man across the street with a shelf,” Rafael said.
Isabel put one arm into her coat.
“What man?”
“The one trying to get it through his door. He's turned it three times.”
“Perhaps it's too big.”
“I'm sure he'll appreciate our assessment.”
She smiled and reached for the other sleeve.
“He's got it halfway in now. No, he's coming out again. Somebody inside must have an opinion.”
Rafael went on describing the maneuver. Isabel checked that the stove was off and missed what happened next.
“What?”
“Never mind.”
“No, tell me.”
“You're going to work.”