Conor swallowed, still not meeting his eye. Then he swallowed again.
Can we talk about it more when Mum gets better?
His father slowly sat back in his chair again. “Of course we can, buddy. That’s exactly what we’ll do.”
Conor looked at him again. “Buddy?” His father smiled. “Sorry.”
He lifted his wine glass and took a drink long enough to drain the whole glass.
He set it down with a small gasp, then he gave Conor a quizzical look. “What was all that you were saying about a tree?”
But the waitress came and silence fell as she put their pizzas in front of them.
“Americano,” Conor frowned, looking down at his. “If it could talk, I wonder if it would sound like you.”
AMERICANS DON’T GET MUCH HOLIDAY
“Doesn’t look like your grandma’s home yet,” Conor’s father said, pulling up the rental car in front of her house.
“She sometimes goes back to the hospital after I go to bed,” Conor said. “The nurses let her sleep in a chair.”
His dad nodded. “She may not like me,” he said, “but that doesn’t mean she’s a bad lady.”
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