The Kitchen Daughter (7 page)

I
begin pulling cookbooks out of the cabinets one at a time. Flipping through the pages. I collect a pile of the things that fall out. Recipes cut from magazines, torn from newspapers. Train tickets with no dates. A boarding pass with Dad’s name on it. Once, a popsicle stick, stained orange.

I stack up all the handwritten cards, and at first, the options seem vast. So many cards. So many possibilities. Sweet or savory, quick or complicated, luscious or sharp. Some are written in cursive, with large loops, and some in a tighter block print. But the more I go through, the more I realize there aren’t as many options as I thought. Nearly every recipe
is classic Tuscan. Polenta, bistecca fiorentina, a beef ragu. Three different recipes for osso buco. But though her handwriting changed over the years, these are all Nonna’s. I wonder who she wrote them for. Her daughter-in-law? Her only granddaughters, Amanda and me? Herself?

The last card in the stack is pale blue. Different from the others. This handwriting is unfamiliar. I’ve never made the recipe before.

Midnight Cry Brownies
, it says. Written in a tilted, light, feminine hand. The ink is a little hard to read. Maybe she wasn’t pressing hard enough. If I work at it, I can make out every word. I could follow the recipe.

Who wrote it? The name makes me think it was someone sad, crying at night, in the darkness. What did she have to be sad about? As much as I do?

My choices are limited. I can try to bring Nonna again, I can try to bring Ma, or I can make these brownies. Brownies it is.

I analyze the recipe, comparing it to more familiar versions. I pull down
The Joy of Cooking
from Ma’s side of the cabinet, and it falls open with little prodding to Brownies Cockaigne. Amanda’s favorite. I cross-reference. A smaller pan, smaller amounts of ingredients. Espresso powder, interesting. Twice as much sugar as flour, a reasonable ratio. Raw sugar, which I do have, although the taste should be about the same as half white sugar and half brown, if I needed a substitution. No chocolate, only cocoa. Probably a slightly cakey brownie, instead of dense and fudgy. The salt is an obvious difference. Counterpoint. I’m not sure whether it will remain atop the brownies or sink under the surface as they bake.

The only way to find out is to try.

Even though these steps are fraught with import and complexity and the potential for invoking strangers’ ghosts, the process is still calming. I let myself relax into the pattern of the recipe. I line an eight-by-eight-inch pan with foil and spread oil into it with my fingers, careful
to follow each step, in order. The calm is in the rhythm. Start the oven preheating, with a click and a faint whoosh of blue flame. Melt the butter, stir the cocoa and espresso powder in. The chocolate slurry cools briefly while I get the rest of my ingredients together. Crack the eggs into a large bowl. Whisk them by hand, cramming air into the spaces between the molecules. Golden sugar raining down into the froth, then more beating, the new mixture dragging against the whisk like quicksand. Just a few more steps. Add the slurry, then flour and vanilla, stirring as little as I possibly can. The light touch is essential. Overmixing would flatten the whole batter right out.

The thick brown batter pours in a glistening ribbon into the foil-lined pan. Rich and heavy, collapsing under its own weight. I scatter coarse salt over the top, then slide it into the oven immediately so the batter doesn’t lose any more air. The wooden spoon doesn’t clean the bowl well, but I have at least thirty minutes while the brownies cook. The rich, dark batter coats the inside of my mouth. The dark bitterness of the espresso cuts the sweetness. I scrape a metal spoon against the wooden spoon to get all the batter off. I can’t lick wooden spoons. I hate how they feel on my tongue. Too much texture. I lick the metal spoon instead. I am thorough.

In the allotted time, they swell, crust, settle, just like brownies should. I test at thirty minutes, then wait three more. On the second test a toothpick comes out clean, barely tinted with chocolate. They’re done.

“Well there,” says a voice.

It’s an ugly voice, even just two words in. A wracked low howl of a voice. Unfamiliar. “What’s all this?”

I’m afraid to look at her, but I do. No hair at all. Not even eyebrows. Slender, frighteningly so, her arms like toothpicks. Her cheeks gaunt. Her eyes look too big for her head. A hospital gown hangs loose on her skeletal frame. She reeks of cigarette smoke, years of it, a stale, deep, overwhelming smell. Who is she?

She’s standing right next to me. It isn’t right. I don’t know what to do. I can’t think. I introduce myself. “I’m Ginny.”

“I don’t care,” she says. “What in the hell is going on?”

I didn’t expect her and I don’t know who she is but I force myself to ask a question. “Do you have a message for me?”

Long pause.

“How could I—”

A longer pause.

She says, “Well, even if I did, damn if I’d tell you. You’re the one with the answers.”

“What answers?”

“Tell me where Doc is!” she shouts. Her voice, louder, is even more unpleasant. “Tell me what’s going on!”

“I don’t know, I don’t know. Tell me who you are first.”

“Evangeline Matamoros.” The name means nothing. She’s uncrossing her toothpick arms, reaching out to touch the walls. I can’t see whether she succeeds. I’m too busy shrinking back from her.

She cries, “Who the fuck are you?”

“Ginny,” I say. “I told you.”

“You haven’t told me a fucking thing. Where am I? That’s what I want to know.”

“You’re in my kitchen,” I say.

“I’m supposed to be in the hospital. I ate dinner. They poked me with needles. I fell asleep. Then this! What the hell did you do to me? Am I kidnapped?”

Her voice gets louder and louder. “Answer me. Answer me! Come on!” The strain of yelling sends her into a fit of choking, loud coughs. I wish she would cough until I thought of something clever to say. Something to make her go away. If she weren’t standing in front of the door I’d be gone already.

She looks so real, with skin and eyes and fingers just like a person,
as real as I am, or more. In a blank moment between coughs I shout, “Ghost! You’re a ghost!”

“That’s stupid,” she croaks. “I’m not dead.”

“Well, you’re not in the hospital either, are you?”

She coughs more, and laces her fingers over her naked head. Her shoulders and elbows look outsized because there is so little meat between them. She sniffs the air so loud I can hear it.

“Brownies. Fucking brownies?”

“Midnight Cry Brownies,” I say.

She says, “How did you get that?”

“What?”

“My recipe,” she hisses.

I’m stunned. “It’s yours?”

“Brownies and ghosts. This is insane. Let me out of here.”

“I’m not stopping you,” I say.

Instead of heading out the doorway, she stands in its frame, crossing those fragile, pencil-thin arms again. I can’t get around her. How can I get her to go away?

“This is some kind of fucking mind game, isn’t it?” says the ghost. “Doc’s idea, I bet? You never know, I was so in love with him, but he turned out to be a real vengeful motherfucker.”

Dad was a doctor. But no. That couldn’t be who she means when she says Doc. I can’t ask her if he is because I don’t want her to say yes. Right now I don’t want to learn anything or know any secrets or settle any questions. I just want her to leave me alone. I back up some more.

“No. Please just go away.”

“Mind game, mind game, that’s what this is. Kidnap me and tell me I’m free. I don’t think so.”

“Please just go away,” I repeat, shaking.

“Oh. Oh! Look at you. You’re scared of me! That’s … interesting.”

Her tobacco stink is nearly choking me.

The ghost of Evangeline says, “It’s like you really do think I’m a ghost.”

She’s close, too close. I can see the frayed edges of the ribbon sewn against the gown at the neck. I don’t want to find out what happens if a ghost touches me. Before, I assumed it wasn’t possible. Now, I’m terrified it might be. Evangeline is quiet. I assume she’s looking at me. I won’t look at her. I can’t.

“BOO!” she shouts.

No choice. I dive through her out the doorway to the next room. Tripping on the door ledge, flying, falling, slamming into the ground before I know I’ve fallen, smacking the side of my head, hard. The world swims.

Evangeline howls with laughter.

“That’ll give you something to cry about!” she shouts.

I twist. Look back. Hope in vain.

She crosses the threshold of the kitchen and follows me. Stands over me.

“A ghost. Huh. Maybe I am. Maybe I’m spooooooky. Maybe I can do things ghosts can do,” she taunts.

I think,
No.

In that ruined voice, she says, “Yes.”

There are more words but I don’t hear them, pressing my hands over my ears to seal her out. She is still talking, still laughing. The sound is wretched but at least I can’t hear the words.

To get up I need to get my hands under me. So I don’t get up.

I do what I can, which is crawl. Crawl to the other side of the room, shoving myself forward with elbows and knees, like a lizard, like a soldier. Think of other foods, other meals. The most complicated menu planning I can think of, my truly desperate resort. The imaginary dinner party I’ve always wanted to throw, the seven-course “Continental Cuisine” menu, with a dish for each continent. One,
the amuse-bouche, ceviche of scallops and shrimp, with the leche de tigre served alongside in a tall shot glass, to wake the appetite. Two, a Moroccan soup, lentils, rich with cardamom and cumin and pepper. Three, the fish course, miso-glazed cod. Four, a white, barely lemon-tinted sorbet, representing Antarctica, because who cooks penguin? Five, Australian lamb, from Paula Wolfert’s seven-hour-lamb recipe, so tender it melts in the mouth like butter instead of meat. Six, a small triangle of classically American apple pie, the crust enriched with white cheddar from Vermont. Seven, three European cheeses: tangy Manchego with membrillo, creamy ashed Morbier with red pepper honey, sweet Gorgonzola Dolce on—

Right next to my ear, Evangeline hisses, “Sounds delicious.”

Lightning flash, inspiration: If it were possible for her to kill me she would have done it already.

The cigarette stink hovers in my nose. Sorbets and cheeses and cod drain away. She’s not gone. I can’t just hide. I have to do something. The smell of brownies, the smell of cigarettes, the smell of my own cold sweat. I wonder.

When I pull my hands away from my ears she says, “Why don’t you just die? Death is fantastic. So far I’m just
loving
it.”

Crawl toward the wall, press myself against it, rise up to my knees, with effort. I heave the window open. And as the scent of Midnight Cry Brownies starts to swirl away in the air currents, Evangeline croaks out, “God, you’re no fun,” and finally, finally, she begins to fade away.

Alone again. I take stock. My neck aches from twisting. I feel bruised, all over, and on the inside.

I open more windows and wave a newspaper madly to fan the breeze, even though it’s got to be close to freezing outside. It’s the only way to make sure all the smells are gone. Even if they’re mostly in my head anyway. My head is a dangerous place.

I smack the upside-down Pyrex dish against the lip of the garbage
can until the brownies fall in. It’s going to be a long time before I can stand this smell again.

Garbage day is three days off so I twist the neck of the bag and haul it outside. I go around the corner onto Ninth and into the block-long alley separating our block of houses from the ones on Cypress. Five houses down, I heave the bag into someone else’s Dumpster. On the way there my body heats itself with adrenaline but on the way back the chill sets in. I forgot to put a jacket on. I was in a hurry. Whatever black shirt I’m wearing doesn’t warm me. The cold bites into my bare arms like teeth.

Still, I stare at the front door instead of going back in. All the houses on my side of the street are nearly identical. Each with a marble portico, a flat brick front, three stories up. We are all Portico Row, built together as one block. Only the doors and the house numbers are different. Our house has soaring wooden doors that go all the way up, without a glass window above it, like some of the houses have. I stand on the marble porch and lay my hand on the cold iron scrollwork of the stair railing.

This is home, it’s the only place I want to be, but at the same time everything familiar feels strange. It’s the same as it ever was except without the people who most belong here, my parents, which makes all the difference. I’m the only one here, and I’m alone. Lonely. I’ve never been alone like this, against my will. The more I think about it the worse it gets. I get colder and colder and I still don’t go inside. Stepping across the threshold again seems somehow impossible.

I don’t know how long I stand at the top of the stairs. I’m only aware of the cold and nothing else. Unlike yogurt, yeast can live through being frozen. Maybe, today, for the first time, I know what it’s like to be yeast.

Behind me a low voice says, “Forget your keys?”

Startled, I begin to fall off the stairs, and grab wildly at the railing. I catch it and for a moment I’m back in balance but then gravity is too much and I tear free again. I grab and miss the top rail and my right hand gets caught in the lower scrollwork and the flat rusted edge of the iron scrapes clear across my palm.

Behind me there is a solid slab to rest on, and I think I’ve fallen all the way down the steps onto the sidewalk until I realize that I’m still vertical and the slab is breathing. I wrench myself so far forward I hit my chest on the rail, but at least that part of the rail isn’t sharp. Still, it strikes hard on my sternum, and it takes all my breath.

“Whoa!” yells the voice. “I am so sorry. You okay?”

I pull myself forward and sit down hard on the stairs sideways and press my forehead against the cold marble post between the iron rails. First Evangeline and now this and I’m a drop of water on a griddle. I’m completely out of control, and I can hear the beginnings of the chant,
get/out/
, but now that I’m not being touched maybe I can master it and I shut the world out: separating an orange into skinless sections.