Cooking for Picasso by Camille Aubray

the kitchen, the twins and their kids were milling around, carelessly wolfing down Mom’s specially prepared desserts despite her mild protests that these were supposed to be served after dinner. We all kissed and hugged, and I admired how quickly the children were growing up, yet they were still touchingly eager to be approved of by their Aunt Céline who lived in Los Angeles and knew movie stars.
    Deirdre was in the parlor checking out the wrapped gifts under the tree, but now she came into the kitchen to look me over. Danny informed her, “Céline’s been home with Mom all afternoon.”
    I watched him exchange a significant look with his twin in the telegraphic way they’d done since childhood. “Oh? What have you been doing all this time, Céline?” Deirdre asked. The sharpness of her tone surprised me. Mom glanced up at me nervously, which made me think that perhaps the twins were trying to gauge if she’d blurted out the recent “updating of the wills” to me. Apparently she wasn’t supposed to tell me. If my father discovered she had, he’d be mightily displeased.
    “Mom’s been showing me some French recipes,” I said truthfully enough, nodding at the Christmas treats. Mom was busy settling Dad into his favorite chair in the parlor, fluttering solicitously around him, seeing that he was snappish and irritable. He hated being an invalid. I noticed with concern that Dad still looked pale. Then he glanced at me appraisingly, and out of habit I felt my guts freeze.
    “Still fooling around with powder puffs and lipstick out in Hollywood?” he asked.
    Mom smiled proudly. “Céline was nominated for an Oscar this year, for the best makeup category—I told you that, remember?” she said encouragingly, nudging my father.
    “My team and I,” I said. “I worked with a guy who’s been in the business for ages.”
    Danny said quickly, “But you didn’t actually
win
the Oscar. Right?”
    “Champagne, everyone!” my mother said brightly.
    —
    J UST BEFORE N EW Year’s, Dad had to go back into the hospital. I sat with him in his room while he was waiting to be wheeled into surgery again, and he was unexpectedly warm and friendly. He even allowed me to hold his hand awhile as we chatted about a safe topic of mutual interest—old Hollywood movies. In retrospect, I think he was scared, though he wouldn’t admit it. The surgery went well, and the doctors thought his outlook was good. But later that night, his body was ultimately unable to withstand the shock of another operation. He died before dawn, before we could get back in time to say goodbye.
    When I went to his hospital room to collect his things, I burst into tears at the sight of his empty bed, and his leather shaving kit that held his comb, toothbrush and razor. Despite everything, Dad had been such a brooding, dominant presence that permanent absence seemed impossible. Now all I could think was,
Where did he go?
I felt a sudden, deep sorrow for his lonely soul, which I pictured floating on a raft, drifting farther and farther away into a blackened sea, because he used to scare us on our summer vacations by swimming very far out, to show off, waving back at us and enjoying our consternation.
    My mother had, I think, been bracing herself for this for some time, because she seemed calm and resigned at the funeral. Deirdre went on one of her terrifying “organizing” binges, packing up Dad’s clothes and things so Mom wouldn’t have to face it. Friends and neighbors swarmed around my mother, clasping her hands in theirs, murmuring their condolences, so I didn’t have much time alone with her.
    I had to leave right after New Year’s for a movie assignment in Germany, but just before I left I told her I could stop back here in springtime to visit her again on my way home, and I asked if she’d be okay in the house alone until then, adding encouragingly, “Mom, I know it might be scary at first, but being on your own gives you a chance to think