Proof (by Heather)

Brandi Engler and Greg Sampson meet a week before his wedding. One of them is allergic to almonds. Write their story.

Day 1.

Greg, nursing the last of his coffee, startled as the little waitress dropped into the booth opposite him.

“Hi,” she said. “I saw your wife leave and I thought I’d say hello. Well, I guess judging by all the lists and the new shoes she was showing you and no wedding band and stuff, she’s not your wife yet, but…” She seemed to run out of steam and dropped her eyes.

Greg inspected her closely. She was a cute kid, 15 at most. He’d seen her numerous times at the diner on a weekend and always liked being served by her. Maybe the affinity was with her bright red hair and liberal sprinkling of freckles, very like his own. But at the moment her freckles were standing out on a rather white face and she was shifting uncomfortably, chewing on a cuticle.

What on earth was she doing here?

“Hello,” he said warily.

“It’s okay, the boss knows I’m here,” she said, glancing toward the kitchen. “I told him you were family, you know, the red hair and all.”

“Well, it might be okay with him, but I’m not sure it’s okay with me. And by the way, you’re right about her, she’s not my wife yet. We get married next Saturday.” His direct gaze challenged her.

“Yeah, well, cool,” she said, shifting again, completely missing the challenge. She stuck out a hand. “I’m Brandi.”

“Brandi?” Greg stifled a sarcastic comment as he gave her hand a quick shake. “Greg. Greg Sampson. Okay, Brandi, what brings you here?”

Brandi’s eyes darted around the room, then met his own firmly. “Okay, well, I might as well just say it. Okay. I’m…I’m your daughter. Gina Engler’s my mother and I figured out you’re my dad.” Her eyes dropped in panic, then raised to his again to see how he was taking it all. She quickly went back to chewing on the cuticle.

Greg sat still as a ghost, trying to integrate the ramifications of what this minx was up to. Yes, he remembered a Gina Engler, memorable because she was his first fumble, at the tender age of 15, and because she’d dropped him after a couple months and moved away somewhere with no further contact.

His throat tightened and an unfamiliar fear raced its way through his body. Almost before he knew what had happened, he’d splashed the last of his coffee into his mouth and grabbed a handful of dollars from his pocket to leave on the table. “I haven’t got time for this nonsense,” he said. “Try some other sucker.” He stormed out without glancing at that freckled face again.

Day 2.

Greg eased into the booth and caught the redhead’s eye. He jerked his head toward the seat opposite him, an imperious summons. He saw her speak quietly to the tall guy at the stove and then she came over. She stood stiffly at the table, freckles even more pronounced than yesterday.

“Brandi? Brandi, is it? Look, I apologise for yesterday. I was a little shocked but that doesn’t excuse how rude I was. Sit down.” He glanced at her and added hastily, “Please sit down.”

Brandi eased into the booth and stared at him warily.

Greg proceeded carefully. “You made an interesting claim yesterday. I assume you don’t have any proof, other than the dubious honour of our sharing a headful of red hair.”

She looked at him evenly. “Well, actually, I’ve got three proofs. And you don’t need to be so patronising.”

Greg’s stomach roiled but he kept his face friendly and neutral.

She continued. “And I don’t want to cause any trouble for you or your wife with the spiky silver wedding sandals. I just wanted to meet you, and like, let you know.”

“Okay, don’t YOU be patronising.” I can’t believe it, he thought. It feels like I’m talking to a mirror here. He leaned forward. “So show me your ‘proofs’.”

’Scuse me a moment,” she said, launching herself out of the booth. She came back from the kitchen seconds later with a Billabong knapsack. “Okay, Proof #1.” She drew out two photos. One was her, taken indoors somewhere and looking brightly at the camera. The other was him, obviously taken at a booth in this café. Both photos were face on.

He glanced up at her, hoping his eyes didn’t betray his anxiety. He looked back at the photos. The blue eyes. The riot of freckles. The wide mouth, wide forehead. You could have been looking at the same person, with photos taken 15 or 20 years apart.

“We look alike,” he said tightly. “That’s hardly proof.”

He was almost reluctant to say it because he didn’t want to see Proof #2.

She ignored his reserve. “Okay,” she said, “well, how about this?” She triumphantly pulled out a piece of paper and slapped it on the table in front of him. “This is genetic testing, which you can do these days. I kept a glass you used one day and sent it off to the lab. And they took a swab from my mouth. According to this report, the DNA says that these two people are closely related. It cost me $160, ” she added, taking another nibble at her cuticle.

Greg kept his voice even. “The DNA of these two people might be the same, but there’s certainly no proof that I am one of those people.”

Brandi swallowed tightly. “Okay, proof #3.” She reached into her knapsack again and came out with a small zip-locked bag. Opening it carefully, she released a number of almonds onto the table. “I am severely allergic to almonds, and I’ve heard it’s an inherited trait. I’ll eat one if you will,” she said, looking at him levelly.

Greg, who had sat back sharply at the sight of the almonds, recovered himself and placed his elbows on the table a careful distance away. “Okay,” he said. “So you found out I’m allergic to almonds. Brandi, these are pretty feeble proofs.”

Brandi threw up her hands. “Okay, okay, I just thought you’d want to know.” She slapped at a tear that was threatening to run down her cheek and pulled herself out of the booth. She grabbed the photos and the report and stuffed them into her bag. Lips trembling, she said, “I’d better get someone else to clean up the almonds,” and walked off.

Day 3.

Greg approached the counter cautiously. It was school holidays and he had hoped Brandi would be working here on a Monday. Sure enough, he’d spotted her the instant he came in, and knew she’d seen him at the same time. He leaned over the counter and said, “Could I have a cup of coffee, please.” He hesitated. “And a conversation? With you?”

Brandi eyed him guardedly. “Why?” she said, energetically wiping down the counter.

“Because I have a proposition for you,” he said, watching her carefully.

“I told you, I don’t want any money, I don’t want anything. I just wanted you to know, that’s ALL.”

“Brandi, please come to the booth, so we can talk privately. Please?

It felt like a miracle that she followed him to a vacant booth and slipped in opposite him.

He leaned toward her, placing his hand near hers on the table. “Here’s the thing, Brandi. I get that you’re my daughter. I absolutely get it. And seeing you here, so radiantly beautiful, so full of life, it’s one of the most wonderful things that’s ever happened to me!” He blinked back the tears that threatened to overwhelm his voice.

Something happened in Brandi’s eyes. He saw the little leap before she furrowed her brows to cover it up. “And because I’m a bit slow-witted it’s taken me two days to actually take in the news. But I got it, and I’m here. How long have you known? How did you figure it out?”

There was a tremble in Brandi’s voice as she replied. “My mum’s a bit of a dipstick, well, she’s a total dipstick really, but she kept track of you, and she told me about you, and I saw a photo of her and you. I didn’t really believe her until I got this job at the diner, and saw you one day, and did the, uh, did the DNA thing.” The cuticle arrived at her mouth for another chew.

Greg took a deep breath. “Well, I spent all of last night talking with Amy about it, and about you. And she, well, Amy’s one of the earth’s blessed creatures and, well, in the end she loved the idea of there being someone else in the family.”

He swallowed hard. “Anyway, she’d like you to come to the wedding.” He paused, willing himself to let in the sight of the sun rising on Brandi’s face. “As a matter of fact, she’d like you in the wedding party. WE’D like you in the wedding party. One of her bridesmaids got whooping cough and dropped out a couple weeks ago. So there’s a spare size 8 dress kicking around and we’d like you in it. No kidding.”

There was a pause while conflicting emotions raced across her face. “This kind of thing doesn’t really happen, though, does it,” she said.

“It does if we want it to happen,” he replied softly. “Look, Brandi, neither of us is a fool. We both know that if we acknowledge we’re some sort of a family, it’s not going to be butterflies and rainbows. But that doesn’t mean we can’t tell the world and we can’t get to know each other and we can’t have a little fun on Saturday night.”

She didn’t speak for a full minute. Greg waited and watched her. Finally she spoke.

“What colour are the bridesmaid dresses?”

“Green, I think,” he replied. “Yes, emerald green.”

She considered. “That works for me,” she said, and took his hand to shake it firmly. A smile lit every corner of her face and went straight to the core of something inside Greg.

“That works for me,” he replied.


Word count: 1685
Alternative titles:
The Family Way
Three Days to a Miracle
In the Booth