The Summer Kitchen by Lisa Wingate

throat ached with unexpected yearning. I swallowed hard, pushing the emotion away. Christopher’s milestones shouldn’t be overshadowed by what happened with Jake, I reminded myself. Christopher deserved his own life. He deserved normalcy, yet no matter how much I tried, I couldn’t seem to will life, or myself, back to normal.
    “Mom, I’m all right,” he insisted, as if he’d read the feelings I’d tried not to share. His voice was a mix of whiney teenager and tender concern. “I’ve got it handled.”
    “I know,” I choked out, and realized I’d done it again. I’d shown him my brokenness. I’d let him know how far I was from back to normal. What was wrong with me? Why couldn’t I control the sudden emotional storms sweeping in and raining on everything? Maybe I was more like Mother than I wanted to admit. Maybe I’d end up lying in bed for days at a time, or padding through a dark house, searching the medicine cabinets for the right pill to make me functional again, telling myself that because they were prescriptions instead of bottles of scotch or vodka, it was all right.
    Christopher felt the change in me and backed away, just like I had when I saw my mother’s moods swinging unpredictably. Mothers are supposed to be rock-solid, always.
    “Mrs. Riley called,” Chris reported without looking at me. “She wanted to make sure you were all right. She tried to call your cell all day, but you didn’t answer.” He didn’t wait for me to explain why Holly hadn’t been able to contact me. “G’night, Mom. Thanks for the check.”
    “Good night, Chris.” I didn’t say I love you. If I did, I’d start to cry, and Christopher would feel as if he’d caused it, just by being.
    When he was gone, I sat staring into space, thinking about the day—the paint job at Poppy’s, the trip to the store, the woman asking for a ride, the girl with the long blond hair, the kids in the Dumpster. For an instant, I had the urge to go down the hall and tell Chris about it, to see how it would sound out loud. Perhaps his reaction would tell me if I’d lost my mind completely—hiding out in a house no one cared about.
    I care, though . I care about that old place. What else was I supposed to do? Sit all day in an empty house my family avoided coming home to? There was nothing wrong with wanting to spend time at Poppy’s, to do a good deed. It was preferable to trying the prescription antidepressants Rob had discreetly brought home and suggested I take. I know how you feel about medication, Sandra, he’d said. But sometimes it’s necessary . . . on a short-term basis. It doesn’t make you anything like your mother or Maryanne. There’s a difference between using a medication and abusing one. In some sense, I knew he was trying to help, but in another, I wanted him to help by being here, by talking about it, by checking the e-mail and the answering machine for news of Poppy’s case or Jake’s whereabouts. I didn’t want him to make letting go look so easy. For Rob, it seemed to be as simple as burying himself in work until he was so exhausted he fell asleep the minute he sat down.
    Crawling into bed, I listened for the chime on the burglar alarm and wondered if he would come home tonight. My body was stiff and leaden, and for once I didn’t feel the need for the herbal sleep aid. I turned on the TV, but before Late Night was halfway over, I sank into the most peaceful sleep I’d experienced in months. I dreamed of Jake and Poppy. They were on a lakeshore fishing. Jake was just a little boy, and I knew it was a memory, not a dream.
    In the morning, the house was quiet, as usual. Christopher had left early. Warm coffee in the coffeemaker testified to the fact that Rob had been home, as well. No one had awakened me to ask about clean clothes or lunch money. In the past, I couldn’t have slept through their morning routines if I’d wanted to, but now everyone tiptoed past. Rob must have come and gone on cotton