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3 <artist> Jason Heft <front cover embroidery> Megan Grimwood

Where do we come up with the theme for each issue of Dossier Magazine? To be quite honest, this issue’s theme seemed like somewhat of a no-brainer. “Second Chances” embodied almost everything we at Dossier were feeling.

Internally, we wanted a second chance to prove that the success of Issue 1.1 wasn’t a fluke. We wanted to prove to ourselves, to funding committees, to both our supporters and antagonists that Dossier was not only a much-needed publication on our campus, but a much sought-after source of inspiration, reflection, and community.

Externally, we wanted a theme that could speak to people on different levels. So we bookended Dossier 1.1 with a call to arms; we asked you to step up to the plate and give not only us, not only Dossier Magazine, but mostly yourself a second chance… a second chance to speak, to draw, to be heard, to be seen.

Thus, the inception of Dossier Magazine 1.2 began. Everyone interpreted “Second Chances” a bit differently… as we had expected, as we had hoped for. For some, “Second Chances” meant simply not throwing in the Adobe Illustrator towel and contributing layouts for this very issue; they gave creativity a second chance. For others, our theme met digging into their souls to expose the demons that kept them from moving forward; they gave their hearts a second chance.

And for one other, it just meant seeing what would happen when she reheated leftovers from some of the most très très chic (ahem) places in Kansas City; she gave food a second chance?

So, there you have it- the essence of Issue 1.2. One minute you’re reading the psychological turmoil of unrequited love and the next you’re bombarded with images of a pseudo- cracked out Kate Moss juxtaposed to Korma Sutra rotting cheese balls.

We’ll leave you with that imagery to wrap up the first year of Dossier Magazine! It’s been a long journey, but we’re so grateful to have spent the 2009-2010 academic year with you. But please, don’t cry for us! We’ll be back in the fall with a brand new set of editors, artists, and writers to carryon the Dossier legacy. So submit! You could become a part of that legacy, and we sincerely hope you do. Give yourself a second chance.

Sincerely,Tara Kloeppel and Corey LightCo- Editors in Chief

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I am writing this letter to apologize for my absence in the last class. You must believe that I truly wanted to be there; in fact, your class is often the highlight of my week. I know that I am a graduate student now, and I should not miss class. I know that the primary difference between graduate and undergraduate work is my own dedication, and I must make every effort to be in class and be enthralled with my own course of study. And yet I was not in class, and for that I must apologize, but I will do my best to explain.

I did not make it to your class because I was involved in a car accident. Well, no, that is not correct, because I was not involved in a car accident; I was very close to being involved in a car accident. And, taking care to describe vividly and accurately, it must be said that it was not a car accident at all, either, because no cars were involved. It was a collision between a boxy, white delivery truck and a woman.

I will do my best to describe the situation. The woman was running across the street (I believe the intersection was Troost and 67th, but I admit to not really remembering the cross street) and had just passed in front of the cab of this delivery truck, which was making a left turn onto Troost. She passed the cab by inches, but not by enough of them. She was sideswiped by this truck, and she fell down to the ground one foot from my front bumper, just as the light turned green.

I remember a sickening lurch in my stomach, as if by reflex, I let my foot off the brake for just long enough to roll one inch forward before I managed to get my car into park. A man in the next lane over, looked at me, did not yell that there was a woman lying on the ground in front of my car, but rather, looked as though he was wondering whether I was truly blind enough to not realize what had happened.

I jumped out of my car. I was wearing my suit, professor, for I had taught a class that morning for my graduate assistantship, and I always wear a suit in order to project the proper aura of authority-- I say this because description of clothing is, as you say, integral to our knowledge of a character. I attempted to check on the woman, but others were there before me and had already checked on her; I attempted to call an ambulance, but another man had already called one. I stood there, and I watched this woman, who I did not know, lying on the

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ground unable to move, and I watched the truck driver who hustled out to the scene. I watched and felt I could do nothing for it had all been done already.

Professor, you must understand that I dearly wished I were in your class at that moment. I wished that I were discussing the properties of character with you, rather than observing those qualities in the truck driver standing next to me, the only other white person on the scene, whose movements indicated that he was more concerned that he would probably get sued and lose his truck than he was worried about how much he had hurt the woman lying on the ground a foot from my car. I wished that we could be considering how to develop tension naturally within the context of a narrative rather than feeling that tension rise as I saw a police car approach with flashing lights. We could have been discussing how to incorporate surprises into stories, but instead I was explaining to the policeman that no, I was not the driver who had hit the woman lying on the ground a foot in front of my car, that it was the driver of the boxy white delivery truck. But I had no choice in the matter.

The ending to the incident was ambiguous, in keeping with modern fiction, for I was sent away after giving my statement, before the woman had even been loaded into the ambulance. There was no proper dénouement, no satisfactory conclusion, no affirmation of the power of the human spirit. It was merely an event, and the only lasting memory of it is how disturbed I am by the fact that I cannot help but look at it through the eyes of a critic. I keep looking for the plot, for the meaning, and there is none. A woman was hit by a truck. That is all.

So I apologize, professor. As I said, I love your class dearly. But even though my clock said I still had ten minutes to get to campus before your class started, I could not help but feel I had had enough literary experience for one day.

Sincerely,

Your Student.

<design> Colleen Lucas

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<design> Lauren Nolting

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<medium> Etching <artist> Zac Yaw

8 <artist> Jason Heft

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“Second Chances” is a great theme, and I’m honored to be the first guest curator at Dossier Magazine. I chose these images by the following artists because they address the theme in several unique ways.

The first artist featured is Colleen . These images are striking and provocative when you first experience them. Upon further investigation, you see the vulnerability of the poses and the figure’s poor attempts to protect herself with scraps of fabric. The tights and nylons wrapped around the figure acts as a second skin that’s cobbled together to cover the naked figure. When you are asking for a second chance you are risking rejection, and the figure in these images is barely covered while being thrust into the spotlight.

The next artist is Whitney Kinnison. This image has a classic film noir look. It is reminiscent of Cindy Sherman’s early pieces of Complete Untitled Film Stills. The figure in the image is ghostly and introspective. Could the figure be experiencing transcendence, yet be apprehensive about it? I think we all have felt as if we were watching ourselves doing something with a degree of separation and objectivity. This image captures those dark conversations we have with ourselves and puts it in gritty cinematic elegance.

Our third artist is Chris Obert. Chris uses salt as his medium to express loss and remembrance. People come and go in our lives, they leave their mark, and over time, it slowly distorts and drifts away. Salt has such a heavy history. It has a physicality that is sharp and acrid... at the same time light and fleeting. Salt is the perfect metaphor for memory; it burns a scar then fades away quickly.

The last artist is myself. I chose to express the theme of second chances through the context of a Facebook message. The advent of Facebook fascinates me. Our society acts concerned about civil liberties and even engages in slight paranoia over policies like the Patriot Act, but sees no problem with revealing everything about itself on personal networking sites. In this piece, the viewer reads a private message from a saddened boy to his ex- girlfriend, in an attempt to win her back. The piece uses humor to highlight the message sender’s immaturity and self-centered nature. Upon reading the “take me back” letter, I want the viewer to come away with the realization that sometimes when we ask for a second chance, we really aren’t ready for it.

Enjoy the images.Davin Watne, Adjunct Professor of Art

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<title> I Want You Back, IM<artist> Davin Watne

12 <title> Nylon #1, Nylon #2 <artist> Colleen Lucas

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<title> Double <artist> Whitney Kinnison

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<title> Charles <artist> Chris Obert

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<title> Charles , Forgotten <artist> Chris Obert

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I will one day invent a magic serum that cures all humans of that most despicable and uncomfortable attribute: Jealousy. I will become rich, so rich in fact that I retire and spend the rest of my life as a worldwide traveler, floating about exotic lands for the rest of my life, free to read what I please and deal or not deal with whomever I wish, never to serve tables or chisle years off my healthful longevity by means of college backbreaking again. I will be envied by all who know me, creating the need for dispensing more anti-jealousy serum. Making my profits exponential. I AM A FUCKING GENIUS.

Really, though. I'd rather be comatose, or head trauma'd, or geriatric, or rabid, or raging, or immobile, or detained, or kicked in the shin, or bloated, or blistering, or self-destructed, or temporarily mute, or combusting, or starving, or anything but jealous. Jealousy is detestable. Come to think of it, COMPLAINING about jealousy is detestable to an extent. It's as if jealousy is that-which-cannot-be-named. There exists no way to approach the topic without sounding like a big ol' asshole, unless you are the Mother Teresa of emotional humanitariansim, and can say, "what, me jealous?".

I don't need to be a world traveler. I have nervousness (I say as I shiver my pale shoulders and push my glasses up the bridge of my nose with the tip of my index finger). And I definitely don't need a hedonistic life of gratuitous pleasure, soaking up base bliss until my greased up artieries clog and my heart explodes through my chest. Just, a little fun. A modest amount of "CRAZZZZZY GRAB-BAG TIME!" each week to spread where I might, with whatever and whoever. Teeny bit. Eh?

I'll start small and muffle my urge to spite those who have more _____ and aren't _____. It's honestly like a knee-jerk reflex, I promise. Like I said. Nothing naueseates myself more than being jealous.

17<design> Lauren Nolting

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In the past few weeks, I have been collecting inexpensive leftover food from a variety of local restaurants. As I have tasted the horrors and delights of leftovers, I have noticed that rules always accompany reheated food. The politics of preheated plates are simple: thou shall not eat leftover food in the fridge, period. I recently moved out of my parent’s house and into a house with two of my friends, and the other day I broke the cardinal rule. I couldn’t help myself. There was a white squared box with metal handles calling my name, and I knew whatever ethnic food was inside was going to be at the bottom of my stomach within seconds. Only did I learn later, that when we initially said we were “sharing food” this did not mean we were sharing leftovers. Of course, I get it now. When I decided that leftovers were to be the topic for this issue, I carefully chose to try leftovers with meat in them, so that my two vegetarian roommates could not retaliate over their pizza I ate earlier this month. Their leftover pizza was the spark that gave me the idea to review restaurants according to how their leftovers taste. I really think more restaurants should be judged by the sustainability of their food after it leaves the restaurant than the actual ambiance and experience of dining out, because sometimes I just like to curl up on my couch and eat a heaping plate of cold pizza.

Imo’s Pizza is the only St. Louis styled pizza place around the area. The cheese is weird but tasty, and the crust is thin. I ordered pizza from them a while back and it came a little late so they gave me a coupon, which I used to purchase an entire cheese pizza leftover fantasy. Generally pizza is fantastic cold out of the fridge or fresh out of the microwave. The crust is nice and soggy, the cheese is firm, and the

sauce is sweet. I wish I could say the same for Imo’s, but the pizza tasted like bacon flavored EZ cheese. I’m fairly certain good pizza should never taste like EZ cheese or bacon unless they are used as toppings.

Cancun Fiesta Fresh, living up to the redundant yet fantastic slogan “fast and pronto,” is indeed a very speedy little Mexican joint. I usually get the veggie burrito because, although it is lathered with sour cream, just the word vegetable makes it seem healthier (I can assure you it is not at all healthy). The burrito trumps Chipotle and then some. I took half of the humongous burrito home and reheated it until it was lukewarm the next day. Boy was I in for a nice surprise. All of the ingredients mixed and somehow shifted into evenly distributed bites of heaven. I would almost recommend the reheated version of this dish. I approve.

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Korma Sutra, another restaurant (on a fancier scale) located in Westport is a complete dining experience. I always order a yummy yogurt drink called mango lassee to accompany my meal. Although taking their dishes home wasn’t as much fun as sitting down to enjoy the food, they still threw in some of their delicious pan and weird appetizer crackers. I was particularly excited to try Indian food leftovers because Indian food is my favorite. Little did I know the horror in store for me. Indian food with homemade cheese and sauces such as matteer paneer, or anything else with the word “paneer” in it, just clumps together in the bright lights of the fridge. The sauces form a sort of glue, sticking to the cheese and rice. The bread on top of it all absorbs a rotting cheese smell. I haven’t eaten Indian food for a little over a month now, and I don’t know if I will be ready for a little while. I’m taking small steps on my way to recovery.

LuLu’s Thai: I tried the tofu and chicken Pad Thai leftovers from LuLu’s because I just could not bring myself to a decision. Both tofu and chicken don’t seem to absorb spice very well, but in Thai food, everything is spicy. I am under the impression that they just bathe the noodles, meat and vegetables of a dish in a spicy sauce before served. I can normally dig any Thai place, even Tasty Thai, but LuLu’s is the best. Lulu’s is even better the second time around, cold or hot. Somehow the seconds are twice as spicy as before. If the meat (or imitation meat) didn’t marinate before making the Pad Thai, it marinated in my fridge and was a fine treat.

Any Barbeque place is usually scrumptious any time of the day. I particularly like a slate of ribs for breakfast, and I had just that waiting for me the morning after I visited Gate’s. My dad’s leftover lamb, and my BBQ turkey sandwich accompanied with roasted spicy potatoes and honey baked beans were all making their way into my unconventional breakfast. Gate’s famous sauce tastes just the same in the microwave, and the baked beans were delicious. The only drawback is the soggy spicy roasted potatoes. Some foods are meant for battle in the icebox and others just can’t take solitary confinement. Of course, the meat was good, except for the occasional bites of gristle. Gristle is always a complaint with meat unless it’s a yummy processed cheeseburger, which brings me to my last review.

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I guess you could say I have a bias for Winstead’s because I’ve devoted a few years working at the diner, but I cannot stop bringing food home with me. For some reason, the extra thick slice of onion Winstead’s garnishes their burgers with holds up great under a bun in the fridge. I think the slice acts as a freshener, keeping all the other condiments in check. For a nice vegetarian option, the grilled cheese on rye with a slice of tomato holds up very nicely overnight. Even the cherry limeades are refreshing in the long-term, and if you want to know a tasty secret, freeze the beverage and eat it with a spoon.

Kansas City is known for a lot of things, some of them good and some of them not- so- good. Apparently we are the hardest city to find a date in, but we make up for it with our delicious barbeque. I think Kansas City should not only be known for its barbeque, or the fountains that might not even shoot water because of budget cuts, but also for its revolutionary leftovers. Most of the popular restaurants of KC have perfected the recipe for reheat-ready food.

<imgs> Corey Light

When is one ever truly ready for change voluntarily unless they are thrown into the thick of it? Never. Come May 7th myself and my fellow seniors will be participating in a commencement ceremony where we will bid adieu to the University of Missouri-Kansas City, and begin a new. Merely looking at the new beginning ahead seems impossible when leaving my security blanket of seventeen years—academia. My field of study has pushed me to look “outside the box” and participate in larger conversations in academia. But is this new beginning and change going to bring structure and a cubical, therefore, muting my voice in corporate America? No matter what the future holds, it will hold a second chance for me and my fellow seniors to redefine ourselves and adapt what we have learned to the world around us.

With my second chance rapidly approaching, I have to determine what it is I want this change to mean. So far, my attempts of adjusting to the new identity of being a soon-to-be post-grad is in the form of a piece of 8 ½ x 11” paper—my resume. This document, with everything I have ever accomplished listed, feels like the introduction of a character in an epic poem. In exchange for the family lineage found in an epic poem, I have listed every job, award, and internship I have ever participated in. But does that define who I am? It has for Careerbuilder.com and Monster.com. After posting my resume, these liaisons to my “dream job” have matched me with jobs I know absolutely nothing about, but have matched me to them due to the new definition of me—a piece of paper.

During my time as an English major, there have been many “pieces of paper” that have been life changing. Usually, theses pieces of paper were in fact great works of literature: novels, plays, and of course, epic poems. They allowed me to gain insight into a character, story, and even history… just as a resume is supposed to give insight regarding a future employee.

So why should I disregard a piece of paper when so many others have been so meaningful? Does this mean that a resume functions the same way as a literary text? Possibly. When looking at the facets of a resume there are many similar techniques we utilize to introduce ourselves to an employer that are also executed in literary texts. For example, the objective statement of the resume or what we like to call in the literary world, the preface to a story. Each allow the audience insight to what is to come or past history that might not be immediately obvious. Sometimes you have references that are listed to give additional information regarding what you have said about yourself. Could these be substitutions for the footnotes found in literature that often serve to reiterate or clarify? Absolutely! Because as we all know, if someone else doesn’t say it’s true, it’s probably not… especially in literature and resumes.

Consequently, if a resume employs the same ancient principles we see used again and again in literature, one can find relief; if applied correctly, any resume could become a great work of literature. While the idea of a new beginning is exciting and terrifying all at the same time, it is approachable because of the fact that myself and my fellow graduates already have the tools to create an ordinary “piece of paper” epic. Through its epic nature, a resume can give more insight than what meets the eye.

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25<poem> Bailey Grim <design> Tara Kloeppel<poem> Bailey Grim <design> Tara Kloeppel

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Hi, my name is Emily and I’m a bibliophile. For those of you who don’t know what a bibliophile is, it means that I have a deep and consuming love of books. Yes, I am a bookworm. I rush out to buy a novel and I have more books than I do shoes (shocking!). I would rather curl up with a book than most anything else, barring of course watching Sex and the City episodes, but that’s a whole other story.

Us bibliophiles are somewhat of a minority. But I think that if we put down the cell phone, logged off Facebook, and picked up a book we just might give some much needed majority love to books. They have seemed to be sorely lacking in popularity. Books are not just the things we read before TV came along.

Now I understand that reading a book for fun seems like a crazy idea after getting done reading all the required texts for your classes. Trust me, even I, as an avid reader, roll my eyes at those teachers spouting about this guy or that guy and his revolutionary writings about something or another. See, it didn’t stick. Oh, well. Anyway, my point ladies and gentleman, is that reading can be fun and just as entertaining as watching Law and Order reruns.

Stop laughing at me. I’m serious. It really can.I know this all can seem deranged. However,

that’s what I intend to do. I am trying to motivate the masses. Well, the masses within printing range. I’m trying to motivate these said masses into giving books a desperately needed second chance. So get comfy and hear me out.

Before I begin my pitch I would like to state that my reasons for wanting you to give books a

second chance are based on my love of them. It has nothing to do with the fact that I want to make my living writing books and selling them out of my very own bookstore and am deathly afraid that I will never be able to make money because people have stopped reading books. Really, that’s not why I am writing this. (Ok, fine, maybe a little bit.)

Selfish motives aside, by the end of my ramblings I hope I can at least persuade some of you to think twice about putting magazines under your “Favorite Books” section on Facebook. That’s right; I saw you. I feel the need to clarify this: magazines are not books. If for no other reason, pick up a book and read it so you don’t sound like a complete idiot. See, I am thinking about your interest, too.

How, you ask, did I become a bibliophile? It all started at a young age when I was given a book of fairytales. Yes, it’s a cliché. I am a female who grew up reading fairytales. Mock all you want, but Cinderella, Beauty, the Swan Princess, and of course, Aurora were my homegirls (ha-ha that should be a shirt). Fairytales were my gateway drug to the wonderful world of literature. Soon I was circling entire pages out of the scholastic catalogs I got in school and rushing home to show my mom all the cool books I wanted! I soon learned the joys of public library- all the books I had circled available for free. Sweetness.

I moved from Little House on the Prairie (too boring), to the adventures of the Boxcar Children, to such classics as Goosebumps(!). But it wasn’t until I read Anne of Green Gables by Lucy Maud

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Montgomery that my obsession, excuse me, my love of books really began. Just writing about it takes me right back to my childhood bedroom, with all its lovely (gag) pink and the discovery of a whole other world. I still harbor a fantasy of going to Prince Edward Island, where undoubtedly I will meet my Gilbert.

I’ll confess I only read the first Anne book. I know, you would think I would have read the entire series the way I am going on about it. But I haven’t. (Do you know how many there are?!) Lack of follow-through aside, Anne of Green Gables opened up this magical new world for me. Suddenly I wasn’t surrounded by pink in Olathe, Kansas, but on Prince Edward Island getting into all sorts of hi-jinks with Anne. That is when I first realized I love books. I never felt alone while I was reading. While all the girls where forming their little cliques; I was discovering a new world, an escape. Anne, or more over Lucy M. Montgomery opened my eyes to the joys of reading.

Sure, I had read books before discovering Anne and her adventures. To be honest I have read books since then that I would say were better. However, for better or worse, that book, those characters, and Prince Edward Island, is the story that I can credit as the beginning of my addiction. Through the years, all the growing pains- which I’m convinced never stop- through relationships, through all the good and all the bad, books have provided me with an escape... with a comfort.

While going through my “rebel” years, ages 15-17 respectively, my reading preferences changed as much as I did. Long gone were those carefree stories about an orphan triumphing over obstacles and in came stories with dark undertones. Maybe it was just all my teenage angst (whatever that is) that drew me to books like Crank by

Ellen Hopkins, which traces a teen girl’s descent into meth addiction. Or Go Ask Alice, an anonymous diary of a girl in the 1960s that relays her drug addiction, and ultimately, overdose. Breathing Underwater by Alex Flinn is about a boy’s anger issues and his father’s abuse. And the one that stands out, White Oleander by Janet Fitch, is a telling of a girl thrust into the world of foster care and her sometimes fucked- up experiences. During those years I couldn’t get enough of angst-ridden books (maybe if I use it enough the word will make sense). They allowed me to feel like I wasn’t alone in all the confusing and often sad feelings I was experiencing. Let me just clarify, I have a great family and have no past or present serious drug addictions, as long as you don’t include chocolate. But these books still spoke to me at a time when I thought I was the only one going through trouble.

By 18, that feeling of not belonging, of always being

<img> Emily Mathis

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misplaced had grown. So what, you wonder, did I read? Historical fiction. That’s right boys and girls, give me Henry the VIII, a sordid love triangle, and I was in bliss. Or how about Vlad the Impaler and a secret history to uncover, as was the case with the Historian by Elizabeth Kostova; check it out its awesome! I time-traveled to Scotland when there were still clans and witch-hunts. For the next two years, I lived in the past, which oddly helped me deal with the present. When it all got to be too much, I could lose myself in those pages. It was a blessing.

Now I am going to broach a subject that may cause discomfort to many. Deep breath. Twilight. There I said it. Don’t pelt me with tomatoes just yet. Hang in there. Now, I am woman enough to admit that while I read the whole series, they really aren’t the greatest books ever. And let me clarify, for the record, the movie really did suck. All the stereotypes and criticism aside, those books rejuvenated my love affair with literature. I devoured them (ha-ha devoured them) and quickly went in search of more books to get lost in. I couldn’t get enough of reading. Mind you, I was going through a loner phase, so I had time on my hands. I got to the point when I was reading at least 5 books a week. I know it sounds like a crazy amount of reading but to me it was heaven. I read every genre; sci-fi, romance, thriller, horror, mystery, young adult, more historical fiction, chick-lit, and classics. You name it, I read it. I fell in love. I discovered new worlds, new ideas, new places; I lost myself in them. I became the kick-ass heroine deep in the trenches of zombie wars, I climbed the Himalayas, I was a bounty hunter in New Jersey, a wizard in training, I got to be anyone I wanted when I was reading. I had all these adventures, all from Kansas. Its crazy-amazing the adventure you can have inside books. Never have I had those kind of adventures watching TV or surfing YouTube.

So, my jilted friends, instead of surfing the Internet why not go to Barnes and Nobles (that’s the big place with all the books), and pick up one that catches your eye. I guarantee there is one for everyone. See if you can’t understand us crazy bibliophiles. Books deserve a second chance; they deserve not to get lost in our tech-obsessed world. So man- up or woman- up, whatever, and keep our culture from depleting and read something you aren’t going to be tested on. You won’t regret it.

Oh, and if you do for some reason regret it because you read a horrible book (it happens) please don’t blame me or worse give up, give it another chance.

-Your humble bibliophile

<artist> Jason Heft

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Joanna flipped through the pages of an old cookbook, and the kitchen filled with light as her aunt entered the room. She heard her mother running down the stairs after the phone rang only once, and she stood up from her chair to help cook for her mother’s birthday dinner.

“Joanna, will you check on the cake for me?” her aunt kneeled down and peered through the oven window.

“It looks fine, Aunt Deb. Is there anything else I can do? I feel like I’m not helping at all.” Joanna’s arm reached back onto the island counter as she examined the contents of the fridge. Frosting sat in a glass bowl on the first shelf. A sour smell reached her nostrils, and she wondered why there was a platter of deviled eggs, her dad’s favorite dish, resting on top of soda cans, her dad’s other favorite. She hadn’t seen the hors d'oeuvres since he left her mother.

Her aunt handed her a glass of red wine, and her mom’s voice lingered into the kitchen. Her mother stared into the mirror in the foyer. She dabbed lipstick down the middle and each side of her lips. Joanna sank into the living room couch, and pressed the wine glass to her tongue. The men of

the family sat in a circle around the football game glowing on the screen. A hand reached out and tugged on her shoulder, and she threw her head back in response. Her dad’s face met hers, and then Deb called everyone to the table.

“What are you doing here?” Joanna let the last drop of wine pass through her mouth.

“Your mother asked me to come,” he said.Food covered the tablecloth, and the cake

acted as a centerpiece. Her mother stood up and gestured Joanna to the seat on her left. The other seat was left open as they all joined hands. Her aunt started, lowered her head, and the entire party followed. Joanna whispered into her mother’s ear.

“Why did you invite him? Last time I checked, you couldn’t stand each other,” Joanna said.

“Jo, please. You should be happy for your father and I.”

Everyone took a seat, and her mother flattened a napkin on her lap. Her foot kicked Joanna’s as he walked into the room and sat on the other side of her mother.

“Luke, why don’t you cut the cake?” Deb said. Joanna’s eyes floated behind her head. She sighed.

“I guess I could, but I won’t ever try to cook one. Remember your 39th birthday when I cut into the thing and it damn near fell apart?” The table laughed in unison, and he cut into the cake. Joanna looked around to see if anyone else appeared as shocked as she was. Each of her relatives stared at him, smiling. They looked at her father with reserve as he picked up right where he had left off. Joanna dropped an egg onto her mother’s plate and waited for a response.

Joanna stared at her father’s right hand resting on her mother’s thigh. She shifted her weight in her chair and watched her mother brush the palm off her leg. They both slid their chairs back and rushed into the kitchen. Her mother tossed the egg into the trash can and grabbed her makeup bag off the counter. She began to freshen up in the mirror again. Joanna took the rolls from the oven.

“Why are you acting this way?” her mother asked.Joanna stood up straight, facing the woman in front of her. “I know you may think he’s

changed, but he will never change. I remember him, I know him. It’s not him.” She paused and focused her eyes past her mother, who stared off into the mirror again.

“I’m giving him a second chance. Everyone deserves one.” As her mother said this, Joanna could see the mascara running down her face through the mirror. The mirror had stayed in the foyer while the other kick-knacks had moved around it. Joanna’s mind raced as she tried to collect the thoughts she had stored about her father. She could remember his luggage sitting in that doorway almost a decade before. The bags were neatly aligned, as if he was planning on leaving for a short vacation. She heard her mother sobbing and chasing her father down the stairs. His face stopped in the mirror, and his eyes met hers. Not a muscle in his face moved, and when she looked back at her mother standing behind her, he left. She stood with her mother for hours that night, and again, in the kitchen across from the foyer, her mother was walking toward her.

She touched Joanna’s hair, and rested her head on Joanna’s shoulder, making the doorway visible. Joanna could see her father standing in the doorway. A blank expression glared through the mirror as she held her mother’s face close.

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