From the Kitchen of Half Truth (22 page)

“I don't know,” I say. “That's a silly beginning. What could come after that?”

“Oh, come on!” exclaims Ewan. “It's the opening of
Star
Wars
!”

“I've never seen
Star
Wars
.”

“You've never…you are kidding me, right?”

“In case you hadn't realized, I'm not really into films about flying saucers or aliens or whatever it's about.”

“Okay, forget
Star
Wars
. Let's try again. A long time ago, in a far and distant land, there was a…”

I try to think, looking around me for inspiration. This really shouldn't be so hard.

“An oven,” I say, blurting out the first thing I see.

Ewan raises an eyebrow. “An oven? Well, that's different. Okay, and what did this oven do?”

“What do you mean ‘what did it do'?”

“Well, an oven just sitting there in a faraway land isn't much of a story. Something has to happen.”

“I don't know. Come to think of it, a long time ago in a distant land, they might not have even had ovens. Is this set in Europe? How long ago are we talking?”

Ewan shakes his head, looking perplexed. “I don't know. I think we're getting sidetracked. The exact date isn't really that important.”

“It is if the story is going to have an oven in it.”

“It doesn't have to be realistic,” he says, looking at me as if I'm from another planet. “That's not the point of a story.”

“Well, I don't know!” I snap, feeling foolish. “I told you I'm no good at these kinds of things!”

“But you're not trying.”

“I am trying!”

“Then perhaps you're trying too hard. If you just let yourself go—”

“I can't!” I snap at him, feeling useless.

Ewan holds his hands up in the air. “Okay,” he says in a pacifying tone, “okay.”

We sip our coffee in silence for a few minutes. I tell myself it doesn't matter, that stories are for daydreamers and fools, that my inability to fantasize is a strength, not something I should feel bad about. But I feel frustrated that Ewan can lift my mother's spirits in a way I can't. How does he do it? How does he just let his mind go off on some crazy path to who knows where?

“I don't know how you ended up with such a wild imagination anyway,” I say grumpily, struggling to keep the resentment out of my voice. “Your father's a scientist. I would have thought he might have steered you away from such nonsense.”

Ewan cups his grimy hands around his mug and shrugs.

“Well, my dad is a scientist. But he's also a philosopher. And a poet. And a historian. He's an avid reader, and he got me interested in mythology. And he loves crosswords. He's also a rally driver—”

I frown.

“You said your father was a geologist. That night at dinner.”

“No, you said that. And you were right, he is. It's not how he earns his living, though.”

“So what
does
he do for a living?”

Ewan stuffs another cookie in his mouth.

“He has a job as an administrator for the council,” he mumbles.

I feel irritated and confused. I don't understand why people can't just talk in plain facts these days.

“He's never really liked it,” Ewan adds. “It just pays the bills. But it's not who he is, it's just what he does. He doesn't let it get to him, but he always wanted us kids to follow our hearts, do something we enjoyed.”

“And what does your mother do, then?
Is
she an actress?”

“Yeah. She's been in loads of plays. She lives for her acting. She doesn't earn anything from it, though.”

“So what does she do? I mean, what's her
job
?”

“Well, she doesn't have a paid job, if that's what you mean. She raised five kids, and now she looks after my sister, who has learning difficulties and some physical problems.”

I raise an eyebrow, surprised, and realize I never imagined Ewan having any real issues in his life. He always seems so positive, so upbeat. But then I have never really imagined Ewan having a life outside our garden.

“I'm sorry to hear that about your sister,” I offer.

“Oh, Belle's the happiest person I know!” Ewan says, laughing. “But it's a lot of work for my mum. We all pitch in as much as we can, but my mum's life is pretty much dedicated to Belle. So in terms of a job, I guess you could say she's a nurse-slash-actress-slash-cook-slash-cleaner…”

He smiles at me.

“Does that help you categorize my parents? And me?”

“No, I wasn't…I just…if someone asks what your parents do—”

“They didn't.”

“Well, no, maybe not, but if someone asks about your parents, they generally want to know what they do…as in, do for a living.”

Ewan frowns.

“Really? You think what matters about someone is what they do from nine to five to earn a few quid rather than what their passions are, what gets them up in the morning, what makes them smile?”

“I'm not saying that.”

Although I'm not entirely sure what I
am
trying to say.

“So who are you, then, Meg May?” he asks, his eyes twinkling with interest. “A scientist? Is that what defines you?”

“Yes,” I say proudly. “Absolutely.”

“But you don't get paid for what you do.”

“Well, no,” I mumble, “but…but one day soon. Hopefully.”

“Hopefully?”

“Well, funding is always a problem.”

“And if you don't get paid work as a scientist? Will that mean you're no longer a scientist?”

“No, I'll be…I…I'll be…”

Nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

I feel a surge of fear rise in my chest at this sudden realization. Have I spent so long trying to become a series of labels—Scientist. Rational. Sensible. Logical—that labels are all I am now? Is there anything else left? Because if there is, I can't see it.

“And what about me?” asks Ewan. “Am I a gardener? Is that who I am?”

I feel my face flush as I remember what I used to call Ewan. The Gardener. I never knew Ewan had siblings. For some reason, even after finding out he had a niece, it never occurred to me that he must have brothers or sisters. He knows my home, my family (what little there is)…and what do I know about him? Nothing. Because he's a gardener. And I thought that was all I needed to know.

“I don't think that's all I am,” says Ewan in response to his own question. He leans forward slightly, trying to meet my eye. “And I know that ‘scientist' is not all you are.”

I fumble with the cookies, trying to stuff them back into the box. I swallow down the lump that has inexplicably risen in my throat. I want to scream at him,
Well, who am I, then? If you know, then tell me, because I sure as hell don't!
Instead, I stand up and start to clear the mugs away.

“I have to go and check on my mother,” I say quietly.

***

“What's the weather like?” asks my mother, her voice no more than a whisper.

“It's a little chilly,” I tell her, “and rather gray.”

“It was gray the day you were born, but as soon as I held you in my arms the sun came out, as if from nowhere.”

I smile, wondering if this could be true. At what point might the sun have suddenly emerged from behind the clouds on the day I was born? At the point when she tucked me in between the bag of compost and the watering can in the old, rickety shed? At the point when Gwennie handed me to her and she, in her state of delirium, tried to put me in the oven? At the point when she grabbed me from my grandfather's arms, declaring she would never give me up for adoption?

“It was at that moment when the gasman scooped you out of the frying pan and handed you to me,” smiles my mother. “All of a sudden, the sun shone in through the window and lit up the room.”

Sitting on the little wooden chair next to her bed, I gaze around me, trying to imagine the scene twenty-one years ago when I came into the world and supposedly lit up this room in a blaze of sunshine. My mother always said I was born at two in the afternoon, three hours after the gasman coughed out that fateful morsel of cake that hit the timer off the fridge and triggered her labor, but I realize now that the sunlight never hits this room in the afternoon, even on a midsummer's day.

“I think it was the happiest moment of my life,” muses my mother.

“Shhh,” I tell her. “You must rest.”

As she drifts asleep, I listen to the rattle deep inside her chest and watch her eyes flitting slowly back and forth beneath their white, papery lids, wondering how much longer it will be now.

***

When she wakes sometime later, I am still by her side. She turns her head toward me, opening her eyes ever so slightly, and whispers something I cannot hear. I lean in closer.

“I can smell date-and-almond cake,” she says.

I shake my head sadly. “No,” I tell her. “There's no date-and-almond cake.”

She smiles faintly and nods. “Yes. And cherry pastries.”

I reach underneath the covers and take her hand.

“Is he waiting?” she asks quietly. “He waits in the evenings, you know, outside the window.”

I shake my head, confused. “Who does?”

She licks her dry lips and closes her eyes. “Do you remember the time…?” she whispers.

I wait, leaning in, listening carefully, but there is nothing more, just the rasping sound her breath makes as she inhales and Digger's soft snoring coming from where he lies curled up at the foot of her bed.

***

“Wait!”

I run out into the garden just as Ewan is closing the back gate behind him. On seeing me coming he stops, watching me curiously as I stand in front of him, speechless, catching my breath.

I have no idea what I'm doing or what I want to say. All I know is the sound of him throwing equipment into the back of his van, preparing to leave, filled me with panic, sending me flying from my mother's room and down the stairs.

Don't leave me! I think it's time! Don't leave me to do this alone! I don't know what I'm doing! But then what if it's not time? What if it's not today, but the day after, or the day after that, or even a week from now? I can't expect him to stay with me. I have to pull myself together. I have to get a grip.

“I just wanted to see if you needed any help,” I say, thinking on my feet.

Ewan frowns. “With what?”

I make a vague gesture toward the van, wishing I had come up with something better. “With packing your stuff away.”

Ewan looks at his van, which is parked in the lane on the other side of the garden fence. “No, I'm okay, thanks.”

“Great,” I say with a smile, already backing away. “Well, just thought I'd check. See you later, then.”

“Meg, is everything okay?” he asks just as I am about to turn and run back inside. “I mean, do you need me for anything? Because I can hang around if you want me to.”

For a moment, I think how easy it would be just to say yes, please don't go, please wait with me. Please help me decide whether to call the doctor, whether to phone for an ambulance, or whether to just wait and see what happens, because it's a lot of responsibility and I don't want to do it all alone and I'm scared.

“No, I'm fine,” I say.

Ewan lowers his head, trying to look me in the eye, but I turn and start striding back toward the house.

“Thanks,” I call back to him. “I can manage.”

***

My mother drifts in and out of sleep for the rest of the day, occasionally opening her eyes to gaze blankly at the TV, where her favorite cooking programs repeat on loop, her only reason for ever investing in cable. She mumbles something about Gordon's foul language or Jamie's new restaurant, which, in her confusion, she insists is being run by fifteen Chinese immigrants, but it is hard to understand exactly what she is saying. I place a straw between her lips, encouraging her to take a bit of the herbal tea I have prepared, but a couple of feeble sips are all she can manage. As it grows dark outside, I switch on the small lamp, which casts a soft orange glow over the room, and I settle down on the wooden chair to watch Marco Pierre White preparing a cheese-and-caramelized-onion tart. The next thing I know, I am being woken by Digger whining gently at the foot of my mother's bed.

“What is it?” I ask him, rubbing my eyes.

He lays his head on my mother's feet and looks unhappy. The clock on the wall reads nine o'clock, and I check my watch, wondering if that can be right. The TV plays quietly, Marco Pierre White having been replaced by Delia, who is showing viewers the splendid Tuscan casserole dish that she bought on holiday last year.

My mother's breathing is shallow and difficult. I ease my aching body from the hard wooden chair, which I am convinced has crippled me for life, and kneel on the rug by the side of her bed.

“Mother?” I whisper, brushing a strand of hair away from her face.

Slowly, she opens her eyes, just a little bit, and looks at me. “Hello, you,” she whispers.

I force a smile, trying to ignore the butterflies that have risen from nowhere in my stomach and the way my heart has suddenly started thumping in my chest. “Hello,” I say back.

Her brow furrows as she takes a sharp breath.

“Are you all right?” I ask. “Should I call the doctor?”

My mother shakes her head almost imperceptibly and mouths “no,” but I am starting to get scared. Maybe I should call the doctor anyway; after all, she's never known what's best for her. I need to make a decision. Perhaps she should go to the hospital. Perhaps I should call Dr. Bloomberg. I rub my forehead, trying to think straight.

“What will it be like,” whispers my mother, “where I'm going?”