I spoiled the living daylights out of Barbara the next day. The vet called in the morning and said she did great all night long. I was able to pick her up immediately. She was a new dog from the one I dropped off. I thanked the vet over and over until she said, "I actually have some other patients, so..." As soon as I got her home she had fresh water, special fancy food from the refrigerated section of the pet store, and I busted out a new toy for her too. I was worried she'd have bad memories of my apartment, but she marched right in and made herself at home. I took a couple pictures for Ryan and Marnie to prove she was okay. Marnie texted, "Pretty baby! So happy she's feeling better!" Ryan sent two thumbs up and typed, "She's lucky to have you!" Ha! That was a joke, but I vowed I would do better.

I snuggled with Barbara all day. Around one o'clock I got a call that there was a delivery for me downstairs. I made Barbara promise to stay put and ran down to the front door. A kid thrust some flowers in my face. A balloon was attached that had a little dog on it holding a sign that said "Get Well!" In the elevator, I pushed the dancing balloon to the side and rooted around for a card. "To Barbara," it read, "Stay out of the onions, dawg! Love, Mario." I giggled. Barbara didn't find the note as funny as I did, but she was fascinated with the balloon.

"Barbara wanted me to tell you to tell Mario thank you for the flowers and balloon." I texted Ryan.

"That guy is always sending flowers to the ladies!" he replied.

It was nice to have a day off and I definitely wanted to be with Barbara to make sure she didn't relapse or anything, but it allowed me too much time to think. Mostly about my dad. I couldn't get Eric's root beer float stories out of my brain. He never did anything like that for me. In fact, he seemed to go out of his way to avoid me.

Except.

There was one day.

A night actually. I was a freshman in high school and was a nervous wreck for my first week of exams. I was up studying my algebra long after everyone else went to bed. Except my dad who stayed late at work. Probably scheming and conducting shady business, I realize now. This was only about a year before he was arrested. But if I push past that unsettling fact, I remember going downstairs for a snack. He was watching TV. Something on PBS I think. I stuck my head in the living room when I heard the TV, thinking somebody just forgot to turn it off, but there he was. Sprawled on the couch, hands crossed behind his head, watching a cooking show.

"Dad?"

"Nora. You startled me." He immediately went back to watching. The chef was making buso ruco. He was so calm in the kitchen. His copper pans so shiny. I sat on the floor in front of my dad. When he didn't kick me out, I took the liberty of upping the volume a few notches. The chef pounded the veal flat (??MORE). The mere suggestion of the meal's scent made my mouth water. "I could see you doing something like that," my dad said into the dark, the blue light from the TV altered my vision and maybe my hearing too. My dad had never once suggested I may be good at something.

"Really?"

"Yeah. You'd be a good cook."

The next day, I pored over my mom's cookbooks until I found a dish that I thought I could manage. She did a ridiculous dance when I offered to make dinner that night. "Mom, are you raising the roof? No."

"Woop! Woop!" She wiggled around, palms to the sky. "I get the night off cooking!" Despite her over-the-top reaction, I was delighted to be in charge. It was nothing fancy. BLAH. Nobody raved about, but my dad went back for seconds. And that was all the encouragement I needed. My mom rarely cooked the rest of my high school career. It became my job and my joy. What I thought would be my life. I suppose I owe that to my dad.

"Of course he was also responsible for your humiliation for the remainder of high school, your parents' divorce, and only a step removed from that would be his part in your mom's untimely death." A shadow sat on my loveseat beside Barbara, who didn't seem the least bit bothered by the wispy figure stroking her back.

"Wow, I thought maybe you guys were done with me. Haven't seen a shadow in a while." The woman smiled. Everything about her was round, somehow even her smile seemed to stretch vertically rather than horizontally. Her hair (or what would be her hair, I guess) was done in two fat curls, one on each side of her head, George Washington style. Her voice was sweet and southern. I must be getting somewhat used to shadows because instead of being freaked out as I should be, all I could wonder was what kind of southern recipes she might have up her sleeve. Somehow, I doubted she was here to help me perfect my jambalaya though.

"Hi. Did you- can you read my mind?"

"Sweet girl. Come sit." She patted the seat next to her. Hospitality dripped off her like honey off a biscuit. Never mind that she was the guest in my home. I sat. "No, I can't read minds. Didn't Shadow One tell you that? She was supposed to."

"She did! She did. But you seemed to know what I was thinking just now."

Her laugh somersaulted across the room. "You were muttering to yourself, sweet girl. I'm afraid I just popped in at the right moment."

"Or the wrong moment. If you're here to talk about my mom and dad, then I think you got the short end of the shadow stick. They're my heaviest baggage."

"Mm. Families always are. Even the very easiest of families are heavy because of the love. Or the lack of love." I didn't have a response to that. She went on, "what are you thinking about Thanksgiving? You going to Tim's?"

"I guess."

"What are you taking?"

"Rolls. Store-bought."

The shadow snorted at me, but before she could argue with me on that, I asked, "What's your name?"

She clutched her heart, "Where are my manners?! I'm Millie, sweet girl." I didn't know if shadows had love lives, but I thought she and Pa would get along like gangbusters. Maybe I'd bring it up later if the timing felt right. They shouldn't be the only ones that get to meddle. "Now. About those rolls. Can I give you a dare? You can still take rolls, that's fine. But I dare you to make your dilly rolls." Millie was hardly asking a lot. Rolls were easy enough and dilly rolls only added one quick step. I twisted my mouth at her. Barbara sighed a content sigh and relaxed deeper into the shadow's ample lap.

"Okay," I said slowly. "I can make dilly rolls for Thanksgiving." If that was my dare, it was easier than the challenge Pa gave me to focus on other people.

She clapped her hands lightly. "That's super, Nora. Super! Now let's talk about your daddy." I should have known I wouldn't get off so easy. "He's almost served all his time hasn't he?"

"Almost." I sure didn't have to make this easy for her. If Barbara didn't look so comfortable on her lap I'd pull her right off and onto mine. I definitely needed the emotional support more than Millie did. I settled for watching her little ears twitch in her sleep.

"Well, good for him. Prison's no joke from what I hear. 'Specially if you know you deserve to be in there."

"Right."

"Challenge number two-"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa! I already got my dilly roll challenge. I think that's sufficient, don't you?"

"Nora Marie. You are a strong, smart, capable woman. Don't short change yourself by thinking you can't handle more than a dilly roll recipe you could make blindfolded and with an arm tied up behind you. You are getting no less than three challenges this evening sweet girl, because you can handle it."

Southern women: queens of backhanded compliments. She did not wait for me to reply, but went on, "Now. As I was saying, challenge number two is to go see your dad."

"Millie."

"Nora."

"I don't like my dad."

"People all over the world don't like their dads, but that's not the point. If you just 'didn't like your dad' I wouldn't push the issue, but your daddy issues are getting in the way of the rest of your life. The grudge has eaten away at you and made you bitter-"

"I'm getting better!" I hollered.

"You are. But you need a lesson in forgiveness, sweet girl. And you're going to get that by visiting your dad."

"If I go see my dad, which is a giant IF, then that needs to count as two challenges."

"No dice."

I threw my head back, "Throw me a bone here, Millie!"

"No negotiating with terrorists, or with a sweet young lady who needs a shake-up in her life." I wondered how much shaking my life could handle, before I came down like one of Morgan's block towers. "And since you brought up the third challenge, here it is: you need to read the postcards."