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“I guess that means I’ll be cooking dinner. How does spaghetti and meatballs sound?” my grandmother asks.
“Sounds good to me.” I don’t know how much cooking she’s been doing herself and how much Kate has done, but spaghetti sounds easy enough.
“Alright, let me pull some meatballs out of the freezer to thaw.” She hobbles off into the kitchen with the help of her walker. I keep an eye on her from a distance and browse the shelves of the large bookcase that cover one entire wall of the living room. I spot a stack of board games and remember reading an article about the importance of keeping the mind active in old age.
“Are you up for a game of Scrabble?” I ask, holding up the box.
“Oh, my. I haven’t played that in ages. But you know what? Let’s give it a try. I used to be able to beat your father and your grandfather.”
“And me. I remember it got so bad, none of us wanted to play anymore.” Grandma had always been an avid reader. The large bookshelf, overflowing with books, was a testament to that. I don’t know how much she’s still able to read, but a novel sits on the small table beside her chair.
“Good. Where do you want to do this?” I ask, looking around. When I was little, we’d all crouch around the coffee table in the living room. I doubt that’s an option today.
“Why don’t we play in the kitchen? That way I can get some tomato gravy simmering while those meatballs thaw.” She rushes off, and I follow close behind.
She has a large pot out and is busy adding enough sauce to feed Fiona’s entire family. I know better than to say something. Instead, I call my mom to check in and let her know I won’t make it back for dinner.
“That’s kind of you to stay with her. Call me if you need anything,” my mother says.
By the time I have the board game set up, Grandma has added several handfuls of spices and enough salt that I’m worried about my blood pressure and hers.
“Let’s play,” she says and proceeds to beat me three rounds to two, stopping only to plop two dozen meatballs into the bubbling sauce.
“That smells amazing.” My stomach growls as the scent of heating meatballs and savory tomato gravy fills the small kitchen.
“Why don’t you go get us some greens and a bit of parsley while I boil the spaghetti?” Grandma asks, handing me a colander and a small kitchen knife.
“You’ve got it.” I walk out the side door and around the house to the kitchen garden. It’s a fraction of what it used to be, but there are a few heads of butter lettuce in a raised bed and the herb garden looks as pretty as ever.
“Grandma!” I know something’s wrong the moment I pull the door open to walk back inside. A cloud of smoke greets me, and I dash inside, snatching the scorched kitchen towel and slinging it into the sink.
“Oh my, what happened?” my grandmother asks, eyes wide, hands clutching a stack of napkins.
“The towel caught on fire,” I say, my heart beating in my throat. I try not to think about how easily this could have gone sideways.
“Good thing you are here, my boy.” My grandmother puts the napkins on the table, stirs the pasta, and sets the table, acting like she didn’t just almost burn the house down.
“Grandma, what happened?” I ask.
“What do you mean? Drain the pasta, won’t you?” She is busy cleaning the lettuce and assembling a small side salad on our plates.
“Why did you walk away from the stove?” I ask.
She ignores me, and I sigh, taking my seat at the table as she bustles in the kitchen, putting oil and vinegar on the table before dishing us each out a generous portion of spaghetti topped with plenty of meatballs and sauce.
“Why didn’t you bring Fiona with you?” Grandma asks out of the blue.
“Why would I?” I don’t think she knows that we’re working together.
“Why wouldn’t you?” she asks, returning her attention to her food.
I shake my head and drop it.
We’re sitting on the front porch, talking and enjoying the cool evening air. When Crystal arrives, I take off.
In a daze and processing everything that’s happened today, I find myself on the road that leads to Fiona’s house. I pull off to the side and look up at the illuminated square on the second floor. She’s in her room. There’s movement behind the sheer curtains. The woman I thought I would marry is up there. Despite being closer to her than I have in years, she feels miles away. I stay there and wonder what my life would look like if I’d stayed in North Carolina.
9
