Sara Ries

Holiday Inn kitchen, the day I am born: My father is frying fish for a party of seventeen when the call comes from the hospital. He stays until the batter is crispy, cold salads scooped on platters, rye bread buttered. Dad never told me this story. He told my boyfriend, one short order cook to another. Mom doesn’t know why Dad was late for her screams and sweat on the hospital bed. Once, when she was angry with him, she told me: When your father finally got there, the nurse had to tell him to get upstairs, “Your wife is having that baby now.” I hope that when Dad first held me, it was with haddock-scented hands, apron over his black pants still sprinkled with flour, forehead oily from standing over the deep fryer, telling the fish to hurry hurry.