Mothered (63)

Grace stood there in a state of semishock. Though in many ways this was the preferable form of Jackie, it was also the more confusing. But Grace could roll with it for the moment, especially since she never spent money on real maple syrup.

“Thank you, syrup would be perfect.”

“And I started the coffee pot. It should be ready in a minute.”

“Thank you.” As Grace stood there somewhat stupefied, Jackie forked three pancakes onto a plate and then carried it—and the syrup bottle—into the dining room. Grace sheepishly followed her and sat at the table, disconcerted by her mother’s obsequious behavior. Jackie, performing like a waitress in a fine restaurant, uncapped the syrup for her.

“Thank you,” Grace mumbled again. As she drizzled the dark-amber goo over her pancakes, her mother spun back to the kitchen. “You aren’t eating?”

“I already had my fruit shake.” Jackie resumed unpacking the groceries.

Grace didn’t feel right about consuming her mother’s thoughtfully prepared breakfast while Jackie kept on working. Of course, it could still turn out that this show of rapprochement had hidden strings attached and the meal might come with a dessert of emotional whiplash. But it could also be a genuine olive branch, an actions-speak-louder-than-words attempt to heal their rift. It was Grace’s turn to make a move. She craned her head toward the kitchen.

“You can sit with me? Keep me company. I’ll put the rest of the groceries away after I eat.”

Jackie smiled. Closed the refrigerator. “I did wake up a bit manic. Okay, I’ll get my tea.”

She returned a moment later with a mug in each hand, coffee for Grace—which she set beside her plate—and her steaming concoction of slightly noxious herbs. As Jackie settled in across the table, there was an awkward hole in their conversation.

“These are really delicious.” While Grace had the impression they were playing a game, acting out versions of themselves that had no past, the pancakes were legit top notch.

“Glad you like them, hon.” Jackie held her mug between the fingertips of both hands and took tiny sips. She was very good in her role—a savvy opponent.

Grace heard the deep voices of her alter egos in her head, reminding her that the best strategy was to take the high road. It was rarely a difficult pathway to spot, even when she crossed it grudgingly. “I’m sorry about what I said yesterday. After finding Coco.”

“I’m sorry too. I really wasn’t trying to hurt the cat.”

“I know. I’m just extra sensitive right now. Because of Miguel.”

“I know.”

It got easier after that. It didn’t feel as much like a performance. A more natural conversation tiptoed in, and when Grace was done eating, she washed the dishes—and took out the garbage that had been sitting there since the previous day. She let Jackie boss her around as they put away the groceries, not really caring anymore that her mother had very specific ideas about where things should be.

“You know what might be fun?” The kitchen was immaculate now as Jackie leaned against the counter. Fortunately she didn’t wait for Grace to guess an answer, as she had no idea where her mother was going with the question. “I got all the ingredients to make a lasagna—ricotta cheese, mozzarella, spinach. Tomatoes, fresh basil. I even planned to make the pasta from scratch.”

“That sounds amazing.”

“Would you like to do it together? I know I wasn’t much of a cook when you were young, and I didn’t have anything worth teaching. But . . . I’ve learned some better tricks since then.”

Jackie’s smile seemed warm and genuine. The last few weeks had been so rough, and Grace desperately needed these moments to recuperate.

“I’d like that.”

They took their time, unencumbered by a schedule. Jackie got them started with the marinara sauce. Next they made the sheets of pasta. Grace enjoyed that step the most: it was like working with adult Play-Doh. She liked the challenge of rolling out the sheets, trying to make them even and thin.

“I’ll have to get a pasta maker,” Jackie said brightly. “Then we can make fettuccine and linguine.”

Grace wasn’t sure what the difference was, but starchy pasta dishes were a million times better than salads and shakes. “I could get you one for your birthday?”

“That’s a sweet offer . . . but now I’m not sure I want to wait that long.”

“How about an early birthday present?”

“Deal!” Jackie laughed.

They got their fillings ready, and soon it was time to layer everything in the big stoneware pan—something Grace wasn’t aware her mother had purchased.

The house filled with tantalizing aromas as the casserole slowly baked. There was a movie in Grace’s Netflix queue that she’d been wanting to see, and while she’d once hoped to watch it with Miguel, Jackie sounded eager to watch it too. Halfway through the movie, the lasagna was finally ready to eat.

“Dining room, or in front of the TV?” Grace asked, getting the forks and napkins.

“TV.” Jackie handed her a plate of steaming, gooey, cheesy-tomatoey pasta—and flashed a girlish grin.

They were having fun—genuine, effortless fun.

When they were back in their places on the couch, Grace hit play and took the first bite of their masterpiece.