The Kitchen Daughter (32 page)

“I don’t think so,” I say.

“And do you think—I mean, it sounds like it was, but the way you’re talking about how he was feeling before it—do you think it was an accident?”

“Yes,” I say, because that’s how he wanted it. And if I couldn’t give him what he was looking for while he was alive, I can at least give him that.

She says, “Do you really need me? For this?”

“I’ll feel better with you there.”

“Okay.”

“Besides, you want to learn to cook, don’t you?”

“This isn’t what I had in mind,” says Amanda.

“Not what I had in mind either,” I say, “but we have to make do with what we’ve got.”

We walk into the temple and I guide her through to the kitchen.

Miriam says, “I’m glad you’re here.”

I say, “Us too,” and we start to work.

First I have Amanda pick through the lentils, making sure there are no stones, and she is diligent. When she has finished with the lentils I show her how to make hard-boiled eggs, the twelve-minute technique, the same one Gert taught me.

She says, “You’re good at this.”

“Thank you.”

“No, really. I’m impressed. I hadn’t realized, you have this teaching quality, that’s something you should, like, work with.”

“Thank you,” I say, which is the same thing I always say, but this time I mean it.

After the meal is prepared, we go with Miriam to Gert’s apartment. It is very neat, neither small nor large, with brown carpet and pale yellow walls. I wonder if they are Chardonnay. I’ve never been
here but Miriam knows the way to the kitchen. We set things out. Eggs. Lentils. Bread. After this I think I may never eat a hard-boiled egg again. Their smell is the smell of grief to me.

Gert is the mourner now. She sits, in black, low to the ground. She wears no shoes. The mirrors in the house are covered. There are other relatives, uncles and cousins, I think, who have attached the ripped black ribbons to the lapels of their shirts. I wish someone would give me a ribbon. I miss David. He was a friend. The first one I’d had in a long time. I’d been dividing my world into family and not family, but the truth is so much more complex.

Gert isn’t wearing a black ribbon. Gert’s fine dress itself is ripped on the left side. Everyone else has a neat, separate grief that they can unpin afterward. Her rip looks hasty and rough, jagged as a serrated blade.

A little boy, maybe a cousin, knocks over the pitcher of water near the door. I right it, mop it up, refill the pitcher. Whatever needs to be done.

I know from previous shivas that it isn’t allowed to engage the mourners in conversation. If they want to speak, they will. And at last, after a while, they do.

Gert says, “He was a good son. Always so much energy.”

“Yes.”

She says, “When he was little, he used to wear me out. Just running all over the place, all the time. Back and forth. I said, hummingbird, you drive me crazy! And he would hum. Because I had called him hummingbird. A bird that hums.”

I say, “He was a good person.”

She nods, and looks down, fingering the hem of her shirt.

“We’ll all miss him,” I say. My cheeks are wet again.

Gert says, “I thought I would be angry. I am not angry. I am just sad. Later I will get angry, I think.”

I nod. Everything I want to say sounds stupid.

“Thank you for knowing him,” she adds. “This last year, he struggled. These last few weeks—he needed, I am glad he had, someone who was on his side.”

I put my hand toward Gert and she lowers her forehead. I press my palm against it. She pushes forward and lowers her forehead against my shoulder. I touch the back of her head, gently, and say, “Rest.”

She clings to me. I wish I could do more.

In front of the candle the mourners come together. Gert joins them, huddled over, looking small. Men’s voices mutter a prayer. I find Amanda in the kitchen and squeeze her hand. We’re strangers here, but we have each other.

The evening is long. People come in and out of the front door, silently, because ringing the bell would make the mourners feel like hosts, which they’re not. So many relatives, more than I thought people could have. And friends, so many friends. So many people, but they move quietly, respectfully. I let them flow around me like water.

And gradually the crowd gets smaller. Eventually it’s only the mourners, and Miriam, and myself, and my sister. She gives us a ride home. Her car is small and clean. It smells, unfortunately, like hardboiled eggs. This will fade.

When she drops me off, she says, “Thank you both.”

I say, “Thank you for asking me to come. It means a lot.”

Amanda echoes, “Thank you.”

“There are meals after the meal of consolation,” says Miriam. “The family will need more care. I hope you will help.”

“Of course,” I say, and mean it.

Inside the house Amanda sets down her purse and sighs heavily. I look at her posture. Her shoulders are slumped downward. She looks exhausted.

I say, “Why don’t you stay here tonight?”

“I think that’s best,” she says, “I’ll just call Brennan and let him know.”

When she’s done with the call, I make peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and pour two tall glasses of milk. Amanda stares at her milk and says, “This looks great. Do you have anything stronger?”

I bring her Dad’s bottle of scotch. I pour us both a shot.

She drinks hers down and starts coughing. I clap her on the back. The coughing slows down and then stops.

When she speaks her voice is husky. She clinks her glass against the bottle and says, “Like he’s right here.”

I say, “We have to remember them and let them go.”

“It’s hard,” she says. “It’s so hard. But you’re right. They’re gone. I just—thought we’d have them for longer.”

“Me too,” I say, and sip at my scotch. It burns, but after the burn, I like the warm feeling.

“Listen,” says Amanda. “All this aside. Today aside. I understand why you’re mad at me.”

I remember Dr. Stewart, and how betrayed I felt, knowing my sister sent me there unaware.

She says, “But you have to see where I’m coming from.”

“Don’t
have
to,” I remind her, wondering if I sound impatient.

“Yeah, okay. Sorry. Maybe I should have said that differently.”

“Maybe.”

“I just want what’s best for you,” says Amanda.

“You say that,” I tell her, “but what’s best for me is not being tricked by my own sister. What’s best is being able to trust you.”

“I hear you.”

“So can you be patient with me?”

“Yes.”

“And trust me?”

“I’ll try.”

One of my professors in college used to say
As the wise man said, Do or do not, there is no try
, but the advice columns generally say the opposite. If someone promises to try, and you’re happy with that, don’t push. It can backfire. You can get yourself in a lot of trouble asking for too much.

Amanda says, “I just worry about you.”

“Please, could you stop? Don’t worry about me.”

“So you’re doing all right?”

“Yes,” I say, because that’s easiest. Once I started telling her the ins and outs and ups and downs I’d never be able to stop.

“I just hope you understand, Ginny, I have your best interests at heart.”

“I guess I do.”

She says, “And I think you have my best interests at heart as well. What you were trying to say about Shannon—I know you weren’t trying to hurt me.”

“I don’t know what she’s like all the time,” I say. “You do. I wasn’t saying I know something you don’t. It’s just, if she’s like me, she’s going to need to be helped along some.”

“I just don’t know, if she does have a problem of some kind, I just don’t know how I can be sure that everything would be okay. And that’s all I want for her. That’s all a parent wants for her kids.”

I realize I meant to tell her about Dad, but maybe now isn’t the time. I ask her, “Did you ever think Dad was odd?”

“No,” she says. “I mean, yes, but, he was just Dad. He wasn’t around much, and when he was, he didn’t want to see me. You were always his favorite.”

“Well, you were always Ma’s favorite.”

She says, “The grass is always greener.”

“Grass?”

“I just mean, since Dad liked you better …” She pauses and starts again. “I always felt like there was something wrong with me, right? Since I wasn’t his favorite?”

She’s crying.

“He loved you,” I say.

“I know.”

“He loved both of us, and so did Ma.”

She says, “I miss them so much.”

All I can say is, “Me too.”

She puts her face down in her hands. There isn’t anything I can say, but there’s something I can do. I wrap my arms around my sister, and hold her.

We’re not going to settle everything, heal everything, in one day. But at least we can get started.

After Amanda goes to sleep in her own room down the hall, I fill Midnight’s dish, and walk through the darkened house. I have one more thing to do before I go to bed.

They’re not coming back. I know it. I accept it.

I take the rain boots and Dad’s dress shoes and Ma’s bedroom slippers and I place them neatly in the box labeled
SHOES
, and I close the top.

T
he garlic on the bottom of the shallow pot is turning golden. I need to act before it’s brown. The broth goes in, covering the garlic and shallots and oregano, hissing with the heat. Just as it should. Everything in order. Pepper. Two kinds of beans, soft to the tooth. Tomatoes, torn by hand. Greens sliced in ribbons, stirred in after everything else has collapsed together. Clap the lid on, to keep the moisture from evaporating, and let it stew until the flavors meld.

In a separate pan I carefully toast the focaccia croutons in olive oil, turning them so each side gets its turn, then set them on paper towels to cool. Just before serving I’ll add the cheese, and scatter the croutons on top. I have read and tried a dozen different recipes for ribollita since last December and this is my favorite way. I take the bits and pieces I like. The end result doesn’t belong to just one person. There’s
some of Nonna. Some of other cooks I don’t know at all. And some of Ginny, in the end.

Out of habit, when I complete the last step of the ribollita, I glance toward the corner where the stool used to be. I’ve taken it out of the kitchen, moved it over to the front window. There isn’t a need for it. I didn’t move it to discourage the ghosts from appearing. It seems they’ve already left on their own.

On one level this is sad. No more espresso voice of Nonna’s, calling me
uccellina
. No chance to tell Ma that I understand and appreciate her, and nothing more to be learned from Dad. No more satisfaction or disappointment from David and Elena. But in a way, it’s better. I couldn’t just hide out in this kitchen with the ghosts forever. I would have had to neglect the living to do it.

And the living, all of us, are more important than the dead.

Ribollita isn’t traditional at Thanksgiving, but I want to have it on the table anyway. It will mean a lot to me, and to those who aren’t with us, if they’re watching. I don’t know if they are or not. But I figure it couldn’t hurt.

Amanda and Brennan and the girls will be here at three o’clock for dinner. At first Amanda insisted I come to their house, but in the end, they let the girls decide. The girls said they wanted to go to Aunt Ginny’s. It makes me smile. Midnight is spoiled, with the scraps I’ve been dropping down to her all afternoon, her belly already full underneath the fluff. Shannon will probably slip her more treats when she arrives. Midnight is a very lucky cat, just like I’m a very lucky human. I’ve been thinking about bringing another companion home for both of us. I’m sure the shelter would have a black kitten I could name Snowball.

Should I make something more? The counter disappears under bowls and Pyrex already. Spoons I used for tasting have piled up in the sink. Strong, good smells clash with each other, garlic against
cinnamon, savory against sweet. Two dressings, Ma’s traditional corn bread version as well as the stuffing she made last year for a change of pace, a buttery version with cherries and sausage and hazelnuts. The herb-brined turkey, probably larger than we need, and a challenge to manhandle into and out of the refrigerator. A deep dish of creamy, smooth mashed potatoes, riced and dried to make them thirsty, then plumped back up with warmed cream and butter. For dessert, a mocha cake I came up with one day. In the batter is barely sweetened chocolate and dark, strong coffee. The layers are sealed together with more chocolate, warmed up with a hint of ancho powder. It’s mine, no doubt about it, but I was thinking of David when I made it.

I look around the kitchen, count off the courses. Maybe I’ll make just a little something more. Cranberry relish, maybe. Too much will be just enough. There are a lot of people to feed.

Gert is joining our family for Thanksgiving. I still see her every week. Sometimes she cleans the house, and sometimes she lets one of the women who works for her do it, and spends the time talking to me instead. I help her come up with recipes and strategies for the women who cook at the temple. She helps me plan for the community garden. Before the winter was over, I found Ma’s list of who worked what plots, so I was ready when spring came. And I worked with the rest of the planners to make sure the garden ran smoothly, all through the summer when things were flowering and growing, and into the fall, when we harvested and turned the exhausted vines and stems back into the soil again.