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Pan plopped into the dirt behind her father. Pain snatched her breath. Gohan turned at the sharp gasp. Pan teetered on her wobbly foot.
"Ankle again?"
"Yeah," Pan answered.
"When you fly, don't touch down so hard. We don't run with scissors because?"
"We could get jabbed in the guts!"
"Well sure but…," he sighed," It's the same principle. Slow down when you're trying to land," he said as he thumped on the cottage door with his balled fist.
The Son residence was a standard issue capsule home. It was plain, factory white, and still as small as the day it was decompressed. Chi-Chi's grand remodeling blue prints never made it on paper. They were shelved in the nagging corner of her mind and stamped with 'do not open until…'. The quiet settled design testified that the zeni never came and Goku was never home.
The chalk white house filled Pan's eyes. To her the roof reached up to the great blue sky. The wind couldn't wrap its arms around it. To pan, its contours owned the East from the West. The empty white walls didn't plague her thoughts. Her thoughts lingered on what kind of Cookie's will sit on the kitchen counter, and when the river would get warm enough for a swim since the winter was old, ready to give birth to spring and die.
Gohan stared at the quiet door and scratched behind his ear. Pan tilted her chin to his gaze, and a single brow climbed over her wide eyes. She held the bouquet by the flowers' stems; the carnations raked across the welcome mat. She cranked the door knob and waltzed inside. She abandoned the flowers on the wooden bench in the parlor.
"Grammy! Grandpa! We're here."
"Pan," Gohan cut her off, "We always knock."
"Hey guys!," Goku waved from his stool.
Steam rose from the piping hot cup of black coffee on the table. Pan brushed past Gohan as he took a seat. She went to the fridge with a mission in mind— some cool milk in her favorite purple cup. It had to be the purple cup.
Gohan politely decline the empty mug in Goku's hand. He stared into the empty ceramic mug. He didn't have to look around to hate his mother's absence. Her worn wicker chair sat empty. The leaky kitchen sink faucet dripped onto the empty basin. The smell of sharp black coffee lofted to Gohan's nostrils. Coffee in itself was pleasant, but the absent smells were more powerful. He longed for hand picked oats, porridge tempered with wild honey, eggs poaching in soft-melted butter, and stewed vegetables waiting on the back burner for lunch. It was just Goku, quietly serving himself another cup.
Gohan unrolled the top of the scrunched up brown paper bag. He sat the damp bag on his father's table, careful to keep his elbows off of it.
"More sassafras? Chi-chi 'll be tickled. Thanks," he grinned.
"You're welcome. There's something in there for you."
"Ohhh Gohan, don't you be doing that," Goku sad while he fiddled with the waxy wet paper.
"I wouldn't come without your favorite peas."
Goku's Black eyes skimmed the meager bag. His mouth watered at the savory, white peas. He lingered on four little green bean pods in the corner of the bag.
"Dad, where's mom?"
Gohan's voice drew Goku's attention. Gohan's features fell flat on his face. His black eyebrows fell heavy on his narrowed eyes.
"She went to visit grandpa Ox," Goku didn't miss a beat, "How's Piccolo?"
Pan's cup clattered on the kitchen counter. Gohan and Goku's ears followed. Their necks twisted. Bubbly milk sloshed over the side of the glass. Pan's finger tips turned white as she squeezed the flimsy plastic.
Gohan whipped his head to his father. A quiet frown crept across Goku's lips. Goku absent mindedly stirred his black coffee. He clenched his shoulders as the spoon dinged inside the mug. Gohan sighed and bit his lower lip. His hand crept over his tell-all mouth; it was his father's mouth.
"He could be better," Gohan said with a leery eye studying his observant daughter.
Goku's silence pressed for more.
"Bulma still hasn't figured it out."
"Sheesh, she doesn't even know?," Goku whispered behind a gulp of coffee.
Gohan's chair creaked as he leaned back into his seat. Sour bile climbed the back of his throat. A startled chill slinked down his spine. He wasn't sure if it was Pan's stillness or her watery eyes. Gohan examined his father, and the look was the same. Gohan whished he could spit the taste of failure from his mouth.
"Don't cry Panny."
His open arms called to her. She stuck to him, like metal to a magnet. Her wet face stained his white button up shirt. The cold ivory buttons pressed against her face. He squeezed her tight, but his eyes lingered to his own father—the man in the orange gi. Gohan wouldn't deflect Pan with a naïve grin and cheerful yet empty words.
"I don't want hi- -I'm to-o be sick daddy!"
"I don't either."
"Can't Ron-Ron make him better?"
"No baby," he chuckled, "We already asked Shenron for something this year."
"What do we do?"
"All we can do is try our best to help him get better."
Gohan looked to the man that saved the world. Goku didn't say a word; he couldn't. For Gohan, there were no warm arms to embrace him. Gohan's eyes wandered around the little house he knew so well. Pictures littered the wall. He and Goten always gave their biggest smiles, whether it was their first day at public school, or eating home churned ice cream on the back porch. Even Christmas parties at Bulma's house were documented on the walls. It wasn't the awkward memories or the trauma that made his heart race, it was the dark spaces in the photograph. The absence was ominous, but the reality was painful. Gohan jittered in his seat to disguise the shudder; it was all because a simple man- a good man- wanted to literally play God.
"Papa."
The soft word made Goku's brain snap back to reality. A curious smile lifted his cheeks. A sharpness appeared in Gohan's voice. Goku hadn't heard it since Summer cell was killed; it was the Summer Goku left them—the year Goten was born.
"Yeah, son," Goku muttered.
"Would you keep Pan-chan—"
"Sure!"