Chapter 70

“You guys hungry?” my mother asked, waving the battered-covered spatula at us. “I made your favorite breakfast, Chris.”

“Do you want some help?” I asked.

She looked at me sternly, hands on hips. My mother’s infamous pose when she scolded me, even at thirty-eight. “I’m serving,” she said.

“Good. Because I’m starving,” I said.

“Plate me up,” Phillip nodded, grabbing my hand in his. “Lots of syrup and extra butter, please.” 18

After breakfast, Philip and I helped my mother clean up the kitchen. I rinsed dishes; Philip dried and loaded the dishwasher. My mother kissed both of us on the cheeks and scooted us out of the kitchen, calling us her loving sons. “You two must have other fun things to do with your time.”

By ten minutes after nine Philip and I had showered and dressed and were heading to Peoria to pick up my father’s ashes.

On the way out the door, my mother informed us that we’d be picking up three different cremation urns; one each for Mom, Paula, and me.