The Summer Kitchen (9 page)

My motherly sixth sense came out of hibernation and perked up. “You left your sax in the repair shop? All semester? You hate playing the school instruments.” Nothing the school owned was even close to the quality of the saxophone we’d given Christopher his freshman year.

Stuffing his hands into his pockets, Chris looked at the floor. “I’ve been busy. You know, the online college class and all.” Oddly enough, Poppy’s death and Jake’s sudden departure seemed to have awakened in Christopher the need to push himself harder academically. In the past, he’d been satisfied to be the prankster, the easygoing athlete who was Jake’s second fiddle, and admittedly not the most stellar student.

“Oh,” I said, then tore out the check and extended it to him. “Chris, your music is important, too. There’s no rule that says you have to graduate from high school with twenty hours of college credit racked up.”

Chris grabbed the check and tucked it and his fingers back into his pocket, ready to exit the conversation now that he’d gotten what he came for. “It’ll get me through to med school applications quicker.”

It bothered me to hear him talking about premed. Six months ago, he’d been determined to study music, even though his father hated the idea.

The sudden change in Chris was a subject I hadn’t found the energy to take on. On the surface, he’d held it together remarkably well this semester, but I wondered what was happening underneath.

“Just make sure you’re taking time to enjoy being where you are right now,” I said. “Next year is your senior year, Chris. I don’t want you to miss out.” My mind filled with milestones of Jake’s graduation year—senior pictures, college visits, scholarships, awards, watching Jake step from the dressing room in his prom tuxedo, the class ring, the cap and gown, packing his things for college, buying new sheets, a towel, a laundry basket, which he ended up using to haul his laundry over to Poppy’s. Poppy taught him how to do wash. Poppy was suddenly the expert even though he’d never washed clothes until Aunt Ruth passed away.

My throat ached with unexpected yearning. I swallowed hard, pushing the emotion away.
Christopher’s milestones shouldn’t be overshadowed by what happened with Jake,
I reminded myself. Christopher deserved his own life. He deserved normalcy, yet no matter how much I tried, I couldn’t seem to will life, or myself, back to normal.

“Mom, I’m all right,” he insisted, as if he’d read the feelings I’d tried not to share. His voice was a mix of whiney teenager and tender concern. “I’ve got it handled.”

“I know,” I choked out, and realized I’d done it again. I’d shown him my brokenness. I’d let him know how far I was from
back to normal.
What was wrong with me? Why couldn’t I control the sudden emotional storms sweeping in and raining on everything? Maybe I was more like Mother than I wanted to admit. Maybe I’d end up lying in bed for days at a time, or padding through a dark house, searching the medicine cabinets for the right pill to make me functional again, telling myself that because they were prescriptions instead of bottles of scotch or vodka, it was all right.

Christopher felt the change in me and backed away, just like I had when I saw my mother’s moods swinging unpredictably. Mothers are supposed to be rock-solid, always.

“Mrs. Riley called,” Chris reported without looking at me. “She wanted to make sure you were all right. She tried to call your cell all day, but you didn’t answer.” He didn’t wait for me to explain why Holly hadn’t been able to contact me. “G’night, Mom. Thanks for the check.”

“Good night, Chris.” I didn’t say
I love you.
If I did, I’d start to cry, and Christopher would feel as if he’d caused it, just by being.

When he was gone, I sat staring into space, thinking about the day—the paint job at Poppy’s, the trip to the store, the woman asking for a ride, the girl with the long blond hair, the kids in the Dumpster. For an instant, I had the urge to go down the hall and tell Chris about it, to see how it would sound out loud. Perhaps his reaction would tell me if I’d lost my mind completely—hiding out in a house no one cared about.

I care, though
.
I care about that old place.
What else was I supposed to do? Sit all day in an empty house my family avoided coming home to? There was nothing wrong with wanting to spend time at Poppy’s, to do a good deed. It was preferable to trying the prescription antidepressants Rob had discreetly brought home and suggested I take.
I know how you feel about medication, Sandra,
he’d said.
But sometimes it’s necessary . . . on a short-term basis. It doesn’t make you anything like your mother or Maryanne. There’s a difference between using a medication and abusing one.
In some sense, I knew he was trying to help, but in another, I wanted him to help by being here, by talking about it, by checking the e-mail and the answering machine for news of Poppy’s case or Jake’s whereabouts. I didn’t want him to make letting go look so easy. For Rob, it seemed to be as simple as burying himself in work until he was so exhausted he fell asleep the minute he sat down.

Crawling into bed, I listened for the chime on the burglar alarm and wondered if he would come home tonight. My body was stiff and leaden, and for once I didn’t feel the need for the herbal sleep aid. I turned on the TV, but before
Late Night
was halfway over, I sank into the most peaceful sleep I’d experienced in months. I dreamed of Jake and Poppy. They were on a lakeshore fishing. Jake was just a little boy, and I knew it was a memory, not a dream.

In the morning, the house was quiet, as usual. Christopher had left early. Warm coffee in the coffeemaker testified to the fact that Rob had been home, as well. No one had awakened me to ask about clean clothes or lunch money. In the past, I couldn’t have slept through their morning routines if I’d wanted to, but now everyone tiptoed past. Rob must have come and gone on cotton feet, getting a change of clothes. His side of the bed was still made, which meant he’d crashed on the sofa again to avoid having to dutifully tune in to the latest rundown on Poppy’s case, the sale of the house, the absence of news from Jake. More than once, Holly had pointed out that men process grief differently. I should give it time, she said, allow him space to work through it in his own way. But it didn’t feel as though we were going through a
process.
It felt as if we were separating into two different planes of existence.

In spite of the empty house, I began the day with the energizing feeling of having something to do. Sunlight was pressing against the window as I slipped into my paint suit and called Holly. Her twins were bickering at the breakfast table, and she refereed while inviting me to go to decorating day for a cheerleading fund-raiser dance at school. “I know how much you
love
all the craftsy stuff,” she said, and I looked down at my paint-spattered clothes with a strange sense of irony. Good thing Holly hadn’t come to the door to collect me. I would have looked like a mind reader. “Anyway, there are signs to make, and big glittery figurines to put together, and a giant tunnel with about a million lights that need to be poked through the cardboard.”

“No
way,
” I said, and a chuckle tickled my throat. “I did my bit with all parent projects Jake’s senior year. I get a free pass this time, thank you.”

Holly groaned. “Come on, Sandra. You know what those women are like. They’re all so into it. I need moral support. This is my third time to be a cheer mom. I can’t take it anymore!”

“That’s what you get for having so many kids,” I quipped, and laughed again as I put another can of off-white latex in the back of the SUV and peeked out to see if Holly had left her house yet.

“I should get an exemption on all the crappy parent-volunteer jobs this time around,” Holly defended. “These last two were an accident.”

I scanned the storage shelves for masking tape. “You and Richard ought to know what causes that by now. But you could try pleading your case at the next PTA meeting.”

Holly coughed indignantly. “Well, aren’t we the little smart aleck so early this morning? You sound like you’re in a good mood.” Her surprise was evident. More than once she’d come over in the morning to bring me coffee, and drag me out of bed to take me somewhere—anywhere—because getting out would be
good for me.

“I slept well last night.”

“Great. I guess the melatonin supplement worked.” Holly read every alternative health magazine known to man. “Want to ride over to the school with me? We could stop at Comera’s for a latte and a pastry.”

“Can’t.” I realized I’d just created a situation in which I’d have to lie outright. “I’m volunteering this morning.”

“At the organ donor network?”

“Mmm-hmm.” Guilt slipped over me. Lying to Holly was so incredibly wrong. And if you’re doing something you have to hide from your best friend, it probably isn’t healthy. “Anyway, we’re swearing off Comera’s, remember?” My stomach rumbled at the idea of sharing a pastry with Holly. Afterward, we’d vow to go to Curves tomorrow to make use of those memberships we’d bought a year ago. I needed to get in better shape, and Holly still wanted to take off the extra thirty pounds she’d been carrying since the twins were born.

Holly sighed. “You sound like my doctor.” The sentence ended on a down note that wasn’t Holly’s usual.

“Everything okay? You’re not pregnant again, are you?” After six kids, accidental pregnancy was a running joke. This time, she didn’t laugh.

“No.”

“What’s wrong?”

She paused long enough to raise a note of alarm. “The doctor said I’m halfway through menopause. Can you believe that? At forty-five. How is that fair? And he picked on me about my weight again. Someone needs to teach that guy a little bedside manner. The last thing you want to hear is you’re never going to have any more babies,
and
you’re fat,
and
it’s probably not going to get any easier to lose the weight.”

“Well, Holl, you two don’t want any more babies.” I meant that to seem like a positive statement, but it came out sounding insensitive. No woman likes to face the fact that she’s turning a corner in life.

Holly’s breath trembled in and out. “I don’t know. Lately I’ve been thinking about it . . .” She left the sentence open-ended.

“About a
baby
?”

Holly’s response was a forced laugh, strangely ragged and sad. “Yeah, I know it’s silly. We’d practically be on social security by the time we got it raised. It’s just hard to think about no kids in the house, you know?”

Something painful prickled in my nose. I knew what an empty house felt like. I rattled off the stock response. “But, Holl, remember all the fun you and Richard were going to have? All those plans to go along with him when he travels for work? Think of how great it’ll be to do that without having to worry about the whole high school showing up at your house for a party while you’re gone.”

Holly’s giggle was genuine this time. We both remembered the one screwup of Jake’s teenage life—the time Rob and I went away overnight and left him in charge. Jake was naïve enough to mention our trip during football practice, and the next thing he knew he was hosting a teenage luau. Fortunately, Holly ratted on him from across the street before it could go too far, and Rob ended the party with a phone call.

Rob came down hard on Jake for breaking the rules. In hindsight, I guess I did, too. We couldn’t believe our perfect son had let himself get caught in an imperfect situation. If I’d had it to do over again, I would have lightened up a little, let him know that everyone stumbles—it’s only how you get up that matters. . . .

I realized Holly was talking again. “. . . and with all the other ones in college, we probably wouldn’t be able to afford to feed another kid anyway. We’d be like those freegans on the morning show. They hunt for food in Dumpsters behind stores and restaurants. Did you see that? They’re regular people with college degrees, and nice houses and stuff. They go Dumpster diving to see what they can discover that’s still consumable for . . . I don’t know . . . the challenge, or to cut down on world waste, or something. They’re having a seminar on freegan-ing someplace downtown. I have to admit, they come up with pretty good finds—still in the packages and everything—but, yuck!”

“Yuck,” I repeated absently, grabbing a package of paper towels the cleaning lady had left on the workbench. A partial roll of masking tape lay underneath, so I tossed it into the car as well. “Hey, Holl. I’d better sign off now and head to work.”

“How come you’re on two days in a row at the donor network, anyway?” Her cautious tone said I shouldn’t push myself. With the next breath, she’d be telling me I should keep busy, so as not to get depressed.

“They’re redoing a few offices. I’m helping with some painting.” How easily the lie rolled off my tongue.

“
You’re
painting offices?”

“It needs to be done.”

“Ohhh-kay.” Holly stretched out the word as if she smelled a rat, but couldn’t figure out where it was hiding. “So, have you heard anything from the real estate agent? About your uncle’s house, I mean?” It was a loaded question, as if some sixth sense had her picking up my vibes from across the street.

She couldn’t possibly know,
I told myself, peeking out the garage window as I closed the hatch on the SUV. I was relieved when the argument over a missing T-shirt escalated in Holly’s kitchen, and she had to sign off to get the girls straightened out and off to school.

Tossing the cell phone in my purse, I headed into the house. All the talk about Comera’s had made me realize I should take along some food, so I wouldn’t have to leave Poppy’s for lunch. In the kitchen, I ferreted out lunch meat, bread, soda, chips, and some peanut butter and jelly, just for emergencies. In the bathroom, while grabbing a towel, washcloth, and soap, I had the vague realization that I was making plans that extended beyond today—setting up Poppy’s house like a hideaway I intended to return to repeatedly. There was probably something bizarre in that, but I felt more anticipation about the day than I’d felt about anything in months. Even Bobo seemed to notice the change in me as I took a scoop of food out to his dish. Instead of whining and regarding me with his sad mismatch of one blue eye and one brown, he barked and wagged his tail.