Searching Lucas

The first detail upon entering was the name: Charlotte's Diner in fluorescent, magenta lights on the front of the trailer-park-style establishment. Next, the waitress's uniforms and personalities: are lighthearted, decent, and in sober colors.

The menu came in a clean sheet with a plexiglass cover offering an array of American classics: baked meatloaf, hamburgers served on jack cheese, a dozen varieties of coke, three kinds of pies, and milkshakes. And judging from the neighboring retro-style sleek tables across the booths, the breakfast choices looked pulled from a cookbook. People were eating, and my stomach began to rumble.

I ordered the most expensive breakfast item on the menu for Lucas and me: the All-American bacon, smokey ham slices, fresh eggs, fluffy pancakes doused in syrup, potato latkes, and all the unlimited coffee at our disposal. Lucas settled for a tall glass of chocolate milk.

When the waitress finished writing down the order and left, Lucas seemed much more relaxed. It dawned on him that he would be with me. No matter how much Sylvia argued or complained, Lucas would not give in to her tantrums.

Friday morning went by slowly. We still had nine more hours before making it to Monica Williams's residence. She was already waiting on us to arrive. There I'll determine the validity of the place and whether Lucas will like it or not. After all, it's his opinion that matters.

Lucas was comfortable enough to allow some small talk. All I had to do was ask him one question, as he would always have an extensive reply.

He spoke about the one time Michael took him and Sylvia on a flight to Santa Monica for the weekend. Lucas described the beach as a carbon copy of a calendar photograph: clear blue water, white sand, and clear skies. They ate at the local restaurants and got a gradual sunburn. Sylvia purchased Lucas a pair of swimming goggles and a surfboard that he had used a couple of times and a CALIFORNIA Baseball cap he still possesses.

Lucas also spoke about his home room English teacher: this fun, free-spirited mentor (Who looked similar to me, according to Lucas.) with a magnetic energy that all the kids liked so much. What made this teacher special was that she had her doctrine and authority, but she wasn't bitter like the rest of Lucas's teachers in their state of seniority.

Eventually, our food arrived on a cart. Plate after plate slowly filled the square meter of the table, like geometric porcelain puzzles. We realized the amount of food in front of us. Lucas started with the single serving of potato latke while I grabbed a bit of everything.

Lucas moved the conversation swiftly, asking for my opinions about body modifications.

"Tattoos? Yeah, they're cool."

"One kid from my class, Jonesy, got a tattoo on his sleeve. His mom caught him one day and gave him a whopping."

I scoffed and shook my head. "Dumbass should've worn long sleeves."

"You think Mom would have let you have tattoos?"

It was the first time Lucas and I had brought up our mother after her death. We've always believed we would bring her up sometime when we were older: me in my thirties, Lucas in his mid-twenties, going through a quarter-life crisis, questioning, doubting his choices, the outcomes, the unknowns, and the what if's. Remembering Nancy: her nurturing aspects, the struggles she'd overcome. Of how she loved us dearly.

Lucas's question came from a place of curiosity, as I realized that he only had a mother less than a quarter part of his lifespan. It pained me. Motherlove was a concept he didn't have the opportunity to experience.

And yet, I pulled a convincing smile. "Heck no. She hated body modifications just as your friend's mother—any mother would."

"Do you have," Lucas lingered. I shook my head. "Why don't you get something now? You know, since you don't have a Mom to scold you."