The Comeback(100)

“Why didn’t you guys ever make friends here?” I ask.

My dad breaks the baguette into smaller sections and then puts it back into the oven, burning his hand on the way out. I hear his skin fizzle, but he doesn’t even make a noise. He just walks over to the sink and runs his hand under the cold water.

“We were at a different stage when we moved here; it gets harder to meet people as you get older. Neither of you were at school in the area, and we couldn’t work at first because of the visas, then your mother just never started up again.” He shrugs. “You know she doesn’t like many people anyway.”

“How’s she doing?” I ask. “Current drama aside.”

“Good, actually. She’s started Pilates classes with one of the neighbors. Joined the local theater company against all the odds.”

“Is she eating more?” I ask my dad.

“A little more,” he says, shrugging.

“We’re all going to be okay,” I say, even though we both know that I have no idea.

“She was upset when you didn’t call,” my dad says, moving his hand from under the tap to open a can of tomatoes. “We both were.”

“It was only six weeks,” I say, but of course I’m aware that I’m in the wrong. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. We never asked you and your sister to be perfect, but we do need to figure out how we can rub along together as a family. Keep talking, keep moving forward,” he says, emptying the can into a saucepan. “I know it’s not easy coming home.”

He starts to messily chop an onion. It’s the opposite of watching Emilia cook with her measured movements, each piece of onion precisely the same size and shape as the one next to it. I try not to pull a face when he squeezes a generous portion of tomato ketchup on top of the chopped tomatoes.

“You know I sometimes catch your mother in here sneaking chocolate and cakes, so maybe it’s just my cooking she doesn’t like,” he says, smiling, and then he puts the knife down and stares at the pile of different-sized onion pieces in front of him.

“I hate cooking,” he says after a moment, more to himself than to me, and, as I watch him pick the knife back up to start chopping again, I feel a surge of love for him that nearly knocks me over with its force.





CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT





After lunch, I tell my parents that I’m going out for a couple of hours. I hobble to the Ralphs at the end of their street in the rain, my face slick with sweat by the time I reach it. I collect the ingredients I need as quickly and economically as I can, scanning the signs in between the aisles carefully before I commit to anything. Once I’ve paid, I slowly make my way back to my parents’ house. When I get there I sit on the porch for five minutes, until all signs of pain are erased from my face, and then I let myself in and join my mom and Esme on the sofa.

We all watch a made-for-TV movie together, and I try to focus on the awful storyline without thinking about Emilia’s fictional vets falling in love with cowboys in Montana. If I stop to think about it, I might have to admit how hurt I am that she hasn’t been in touch. I should have known she wouldn’t believe me for long.

When I see my dad stand up to head into the kitchen, I stop him.

“I can make dinner tonight . . . if you want.”

My parents and sister stare at me as if I’ve just offered to raise, kill and roast a suckling pig for them for dinner with my bare hands.

“Nothing spectacular, just scrambled eggs,” I say, rolling my eyes. My dad smiles and sinks back into his armchair, relieved.

“That would be wonderful.”

Once I’m in the kitchen, I get to work making eggs the way Emilia taught me. I remember how she cracked them softly because it takes less force than you think, and that way you’re less likely to get the gritty fragments of shell in your mixture. I can see the way she spun across the tiled floor of her kitchen to drop the shells in the food disposal and then back to whisk, season and pour the eggs, practically in one seamless movement. She could maintain a conversation with me while she was looking after the girls and cooking, and I still always felt as if I had her undivided attention.

I toast the bread until it is golden on both sides, then I spread the wafer-thin pieces of butter I’ve already prepared onto each slice. I dish the eggs onto the toast before garnishing each plate with a sprig of parsley and some pine nuts.

I walk into the living room holding the tray with the poppies and a plate of eggs, but my family isn’t in their usual spot by the TV. I turn around and they’re all sitting at the table tucked around the corner of the living room, the one we never use. The gingham tablecloth is out, as are four straw mats I recognize from when we lived in England. I put the beanbag tray down on the sofa and place the plate of food on the mat in front of Esme, then I bring the other three plates out.

“Please don’t make a big deal out of this,” I warn them as my parents start to make appreciative, over-the-top noises when they take a bite. “It’s scrambled eggs. Don’t make this weird.”

“This is delicious,” my dad mumbles, wiping some egg from the corner of his mouth.

“Very, very tasty,” my mom says.

“Good job, Grace!” Esme says overenthusiastically.

“Shut up, all of you,” I say, rolling my eyes.