Searching Lucas

I woke up around midday—refreshed as though I'd slept for days.

Last night's apparition lingered fresh from within memory. And I use the word apparition lightly. Spiritualists might have called it a wandering soul from the beyond, searching for something, holding onto unfinished business in the human world. Religious fanatics—depending on which extreme—would have called it either a demonic entity or a divine being.

Kids from my homeroom would call it for what it is: a ghost.

I remembered my Dad's face in vague detail. His wise eyes and withered face conveyed an expression of a person who had seen it all—yet remained grounded.

Jess and Nate sat outside with the radio on the table, playing on the local news. They sat there wordlessly, ears tuned to the broadcast, holding onto every word with dear life.

Jess was the first to talk upon seeing me. "You overslept?" She smiled.

"I couldn't sleep last night."

"Yeah. I know."

I moved to the empty chair between Jess and Nate.

"I saw my Dad last night." My intuition impulsed me into telling them both about last night. After all, it's not every night I get to meet the presence of my late father.

Jess kept her eyes on me as I sat down. "You did? How so?"

"It was like a ghost, just floating outside. Dad was smiling at me, Jess. As if he was saying, 'hello.'"

"I see," Jess nodded. "I dreamed about Terrance as well. He was giving me advice like he always did." Jess then smiled thinly. "That's a good omen,"

"What's that?"

"It's like a prophecy, but in a good way."

"You ever watched that movie, Lucas?" Nate joked.

"He's too young for that, Nate."

"So? I watched a lot of scary stuff when I was his age."

"And look how you turned out."

"Like a champ,"

We laughed softly in unison. It felt like weeks since we laughed wholeheartedly like this. Nate then looked at me. "So, Lucas. What are you craving for? I am known for making the best buttermilk pancakes and whiskey syrup. All the guys in my band called me 'sous Hussey'"

"Sous Hussey?"

Nate nodded. "The chef's right hand. We had someone from the group who had worked in the Harlem kitchens for years. It's a good environment if you can handle the fast-paced environment, the screaming matches, and the occasional knife cuts."

"Sounds scary."

"You get used to it."

Jess called out my name. "What do you want to eat?"

"What do we have?"

Jess thought about it for a while. "Canned food, mostly. Eggs. Flour."

"Pancakes it is," Nate clapped his hands playfully. "You want to help, kiddo?"

"Really?"

"Really."

***

Being on the run leaves little time for pleasantries. Add having a terminal illness, and all we have left are the choices on how we decide to spend each passing minute. Jess had her heart set on making this trip memorable. She had bent and even broken her rules to keep me content. Of course, I'd recognized Jess's constant sacrifices, but it wasn't until adulthood that I appreciated her determination and courage.