* * *
Miriam leads Gloria, Andrea, Travis’s cousin Gabe, and his wife, Amy, into Lauren’s kitchen, setting an armload of drop cloths she was carrying onto the table. “All right!” Miriam says, clapping her hands together as if back at Glory’s Place and getting the attention of the children. “First things first. We need to move the furniture into the center of each room and then put drop cloths on the floor.”
“Miriam, we know how to paint,” Gloria says, wearing a Grandon Tigers Baseball cap backward on her head. “We’ve had lots of experience with it over the years at Glory’s Place.”
“I am the supervisor, Gloria, and I am merely requesting excellence from all of you. I know that means that you will have to dig deep into your reservoir to find some sort of excellence, Gloria, but I simply must insist that you give us your best. Whatever that looks like coming from you.”
Gloria looks at all the others around her. “Is it too late to appoint someone else as supervisor?”
The room erupts in laughter as Miriam waves her arms in the air. “Dalton, would you please cover that kitchen table? We can set the paint up there. Gabe and Travis? Would you bring in the paint and the ladders? Amy, if you could please do something with Gloria, taking her somewhere else in the house where I don’t have to see that ridiculous hat, that would be wonderful.”
“Me and my hat plan on working right next to you, Miriam,” Gloria says, making Amy grin.
Dalton spreads a drop cloth over the table as Travis and Gabe set down the cans of paint. Gabe opens a can marked “Gray Harbor” and Gloria peers into it. “Is that green?”
“It’s gray, Gloria,” Miriam hisses.
Gloria shakes her head. “Well, it has green in it!”
Miriam points to the color of the paint. “It’s called Gray Harbor, Gloria!”
“I think that says gray herb, because many herbs are green,” Gloria says, winking at Gabe and Travis. “Where’s the gray herb paint going?”
Miriam straightens her shoulders and takes a deep breath, but Lauren steps in next to her. “That one goes here in the kitchen, Gloria.”
“Where you’ll be using lots of herbs,” Gloria says. “Smart choice!” She looks into the next can of paint. “Oh, blue!”
Miriam sighs loudly enough for the neighbors to hear. “It’s gray, Gloria. Do you see the name? Gray Dawn.”
Gloria bends closer as Travis stirs the paint. “It’s a beautiful shade of blue. Where’s this one going?”
“Our bedroom and the baby’s room,” Lauren says.
“Baby blue!” Gloria says. “I love it.” She looks down at the third paint color that Gabe is opening. “Oh! Brown! Or do you call that taupe?”
Miriam shakes her head. “It’s gray, Gloria! Gray Dream. Gray.”
“I think I would have called it Brown Heaven.”
Miriam purses her lips, staring at Gloria. “Brown Heaven?” Gloria nods. “That is so stupid! Who wants to go to a brown heaven?”
“Who wants a gray dream?” Gloria asks, opening her arms to everyone in the room. “No one here, Miriam. No one wants a gray dream. Only you. And frankly, I’m surprised your dreams have that much color.”
Lauren picks up a paintbrush from the table and says, “And this color goes in the living room and downstairs bathroom! So, who’s painting which room?”
“I’m painting wherever Miriam is,” Gloria says, raising a paintbrush high into the air.
“Then I will certainly be in some sort of brown heaven today,” Miriam says.
“Amy and I can go upstairs,” Gabe says, pouring some paint into smaller cans with grip handles for each of them.
“I’ll take the bathrooms,” Travis says.
“And I’ll take the kitchen,” Andrea says.
“With me,” Lauren says, smiling.
“No ladders. No lifting. No moving things around,” Travis says, instructing her.
“You’re as bossy as Miriam,” Lauren says, reaching for the container of paint he’s poured for her.
“I heard that!” Miriam says from the living room, making Gloria cackle.
Andrea climbs onto the ladder in the kitchen and dips her paintbrush into the paint, placing it at an angle right next to the ceiling line of paint. Lauren watches her with interest. “Where’d you learn to do that?”
“We’ve moved five times in our marriage, and Bill and I have painted every room of each house! You just learn things.”
“Did you know how to cook when you got married?”
Andrea smiles. “Like I said, you learn things. A good recipe makes all the difference, I think. Do you like to cook?”
Lauren uses her paintbrush to cut in a straight line against the window. “Not really. I’m hoping to learn, though. We have to feed our kids more than hamburgers, right?”
“My kids would have loved hamburgers every night! Miriam says you bought a really cute table.”
Lauren stops her work, looking up at her. “It probably sounds kind of stupid but I imagined me and Travis and our kids sitting around the table, eating together.”
“That doesn’t sound stupid,” Andrea says, peering at Lauren over her shoulder.
“I don’t remember doing that with my mom and dad, and I’d like to do it with my family.” Lauren doesn’t recall mealtimes with her own mom and dad. She has hazy memories of her dad before he went to prison, sitting on the sofa in their cramped apartment and eating a bowl of cereal now and then. Her mom never cooked, and when she began her jail stints, Lauren began the rounds of foster homes. She did have a couple of foster moms who were good cooks, especially Lori, from the last house she was in, but she remembers eating a lot of sandwiches and hot dogs growing up. To this day, if she never ate another hot dog again it would be fine with her.
“And you will enjoy lots of meals together around your table,” Andrea says. “In a beautiful green kitchen.”
“It’s gray!” Miriam yells from the next room. “What is wrong with you people?”
Andrea and Lauren laugh out loud as Gloria hoots from the living room.
EIGHT
June 2012
When she finishes her shift in the floral department at Clauson’s Supermarket, Lauren shops for ingredients she needs for some of the recipes she and Travis discovered inside the table drawer. “These are more groceries than you’ve ever bought,” Ben says, bagging them. He drops one of the handwritten notes that has made him famous in Grandon into one of the sacks and places it inside her cart. “Are you having a party?”
“If I was,” Lauren says, “you would be invited!” She leans closer to him, whispering. “I’m learning how to cook.”
“Is someone teaching you?” Ben asks, his face lit up with the childlike wonder she loves most about him.
Lauren thinks for a moment. “Actually, yeah. Someone is teaching me.” She gives him a quick hug before leaving. “Hopefully I’ll be having you over real soon for dinner!” She loads the groceries into her car, finds the sack that includes Ben’s note, and reads it: New things are ahead. Just be sure your eyes are open so you don’t miss them! Have a great day, Ben. She smiles, tucking the note inside the glove compartment, where she has kept every single note from Ben since she first met him.
She loves the way the kitchen now makes her feel with the fresh paint over the once-bland walls, and the cute table positioned right in front of the small bay window. The groceries are soon put away. Lauren pulls out the recipe for chicken enchiladas and sits down at the table, reading through the card once again.
Hello, my sweet girl! Your grandma and I worked together on these enchiladas and finally got the recipe to where it was a winner for all of you. Remember how many your dad ate each time I put these on the table?
Lauren looks at the handwriting with its perfect slant to the right and soft tails that trail the m and n and the curlicue atop the o and imagines a mother so unlike her own, a woman who obviously made dinner for her family each evening and then took the time to write dow
n favorite recipes for her own child. She envisions them sitting down at the dinner table that now sits inside her own kitchen and wonders where they lived and in what era. She glances at the card.
These are nice and plump and perfect for company! The key is making sure that the chicken is tender and not overbaked or overboiled. Follow these cooking instructions to a T and you’ll have moist, tender chicken every time. And whatever you do, don’t use milk, use whipping cream!
Lauren moves to the refrigerator and pulls out three chicken breasts, places them on a cutting board, and uses the bottom of her smallest pot to flatten them. She peeks at the recipe again:
Sprinkle each side with a little salt and pepper. Heat a skillet and when a sprinkle of water sizzles and hisses on top of it, add one tablespoon of butter. When the butter has melted, swirl it around in the skillet and place the chicken breasts into it. Cook for one minute only! Flip them over, turn down the heat to low, and put a lid on the skillet. Now this is important … do not lift that lid for ten minutes! When the ten minutes are up, you won’t find any pink inside the chicken, but you will find a moist and tender breast. But only if you leave that lid in place for ten minutes! While the chicken is cooking, move on to making the sauce.
Lauren preheats the oven to 350°F and pulls the blender that she and Travis found at a garage sale to the front of the counter. She opens a four-ounce can of green chilies and dumps it into the blender, along with a fifteen-ounce can of diced tomatoes, an eighth of a cup of fresh cilantro leaves, an egg, three-quarters of a cup of whipping cream, and a dash of salt. She blends it together. With time remaining before she needs to check the chicken, she opens the packages of cheese and shreds two cups of the Monterey Jack and a half cup of the sharp cheddar. When the timer goes off on her phone, she lifts the lid of the skillet and stabs one of the chicken breasts with a fork, using a knife with the other hand to cut into it. “No pink,” she says, impressed with herself. She places the chicken breasts onto a plate and lets them cool for a few minutes. When they are cool enough to touch, Lauren shreds each chicken breast with a fork and puts it into a bowl. She dices half an onion into small bits and scrapes it off of the cutting board and into the bowl, along with one cup of the Monterey Jack, and stirs it all together. Opening a package of small flour tortillas, she pulls one out and holds it in one hand while using the other to fill it with half a cup of the chicken mixture. She wraps the tortilla around the chicken mixture, and places it seam-side down in a nine-by-thirteen-inch pan, filling the pan with enchiladas and then pouring the sauce over all. She sprinkles a cup and a half of the Monterey Jack and cheddar cheese mixture over the top and places it inside the preheated oven. She reaches for the recipe.
I always serve these with sour cream, guacamole, Mexican rice, and salsa. I’m including the recipes for the Mexican rice, guacamole, and salsa, but you’ll need to make the salsa way ahead of time. Remember how much time that always took? But remember how fresh it tasted and how much we’d laugh at Dad’s impersonations? His Johnny Carson would leave us in tears! Now that you kids are grown, I haven’t made this in ages. With just your dad and me here at home, meals are much smaller and quieter, but he still makes me laugh with his horrible impersonations. My sweet girl, I hope you have a noisy kitchen like I did! I loved those days. They went so fast. Enjoy these with your family!
Lauren feels a pang of sadness as she reads the words and can’t imagine how the owner of these cards feels, no longer having these recipes. She reasons that maybe these cards are much older than she thinks and perhaps “sweet girl” has passed away. While the enchiladas bake, she moves on to making the Mexican rice and guacamole. Homemade salsa will have to wait until another day, along with any impersonations that Travis might try.
July 1972
Joan walks to the front desk at the doctor’s office, holding Christopher in her arms. Gigi stayed with John to “help Daddy with the table.” Joan can only imagine how happy John will be to see her pull into the driveway after her appointment. The doctor’s office called her this morning, leaving a message with John, saying she needed to return to the office. She had her yearly checkup just last week and realized she had not given the office their newest insurance information. “I’m Joan Creighton,” she says to the receptionist. “I was here last week but forgot to give you my new insurance information. Someone called my husband this morning.”
“Mrs. Creighton,” the receptionist says, holding a finger in the air. “One moment.”
Joan is surprised to see Dr. Burns walk to the front of the office; she normally stays busy going from one room to the next, visiting with her patients. Dr. Burns has delivered both of her children and has short dark hair peppered with gray and has always had a kind, gentle way about her. “Hi, Joan,” Dr. Burns says, squeezing Christopher’s chubby thigh. “Come on back.” She leads Joan into her office, a small space filled with pictures of Dr. Burns’s family and pictures drawn by her granddaughter.
“I forgot to leave my new insurance information,” Joan says.
Dr. Burns indicates the sofa and Joan sits down, holding Christopher on her lap. Dr. Burns walks to her desk, lifts a manila file folder off it, and sits next to Joan on the couch. “I’m sorry there was confusion with the phone call this morning, Joan. This isn’t about insurance. We got the results back from your mammogram. You have breast cancer.”
Christopher turns to pat Joan’s face and she realizes she isn’t breathing. “What does that mean … exactly?”
“It means we’re going to get you in to see the best cancer doctor in the area. I’ve already called Dr. Kim and have made an appointment for you to see her on Friday. Is that okay?”
Joan is still processing the words. “Yes. Of course.” Her eyes are full when she looks at Dr. Burns. “I’m awfully young for breast cancer, right?”
“Cancer has no respect for any of us,” she says. She squeezes Christopher’s foot. “But this little guy makes you brave.” Joan pulls the baby to her and kisses his head. “I’m here anytime you need me, Joan.”
After setting Christopher on his little car seat and buckling it, she sits next to him in the backseat of the car and feels the tears forming. He pounds on the padding in front of him and Joan wipes her eyes before the tears fall. “That’s right!” she says, smacking the padding. “Let’s go home!” She kisses his hand and exhales loudly. It’s time to make dinner for her family.
NINE
July 1972
John pulls into the garage and turns off the car before jumping out and running around to the passenger side, where he helps Joan out, wrapping his arm around her waist. Dr. Kim wasted no time in beginning chemotherapy, explaining that she wanted to reduce the tumor inside of Joan’s breast before performing surgery. This is Joan’s third week in a row, and each time she’s left nauseous and depleted of energy the day following treatment, but on this Saturday, she woke up feeling more energy than usual, and while her mom took care of Gigi and Christopher for a couple of hours, Joan thought that she and John could enjoy lunch at their favorite restaurant. Their time together was cut short; Joan got sick halfway through, too nauseous to eat. She holds on to John as he leads her up the garage stairs and into the house, where he helps her to their bedroom and into the bed. He unties her sneakers and slips them off her feet. She lies back on her pillow and covers her face with her hand, moving it through her hair. Wisps, fine and long, entwine between her fingers, and she holds her hand in front of her. John removes the hair, setting it on the nightstand for now, and clasps his hand in Joan’s. Her eyes fill with tears as she reaches for her hair again with the other hand. John stops her hand and holds on to that one as well. A tear sneaks down her cheek and he kisses one of her hands. “It doesn’t matter. It’ll grow back.”
“I’m going bald,” she says, her voice squeaking.
“Big deal. My dad’s bald. You don’t see him crying about it.” She laughs out loud and more tears fall over her cheeks. He wipes them away with his hand and smile
s at her. “You could be bald and wear a burlap sack and still be beautiful.”
She shakes her head. “I don’t want the kids to watch me go bald.”
His eyes brighten. “Then have them do it for you.” She looks up at him as he nods. “Today. They’ve seen you buzz my hair. They can use the clippers and do it for you.”
“Gigi would love that,” Joan says, squeezing his hand.
“And she can tie her favorite scarf around your head.”
Joan begins to laugh. “She’ll pick that awful bandanna we use to play pirates.”
“And you will be the prettiest pirate I’ve ever seen.” Another tear makes its way down Joan’s cheek and John wipes it away.
July 2012
Gloria walks into her office and discovers a cheeseball surrounded by gingersnap cookies on her desk. A typewritten note on top says: A chocolate chip cheeseball for the hardworking staff and volunteers at Glory’s Place. “Too bad Miriam can’t have some,” Gloria says beneath her breath as she uses the plastic knife left with the cheeseball to put some on a gingersnap and takes a bite. “Mmm! Oh my!” Andrea and Amy hear her as they pass and stick their heads in her door. “Mmm!” Gloria says, raising the plate into the air. “Come try this. Someone left these for us.”
“Who left them?” Amy asks, taking a bite of a cookie.
“The note doesn’t say,” Gloria answers, shoving the rest of the cookie in her mouth. “Has to be Betty trying something new for her catering side.”
“Then why didn’t she put this in a Betty’s Bakery box?” Amy asks, making yummy noises in the back of her throat.
Andrea puts some on a cookie and takes a bite, her eyes widening. “This is yummy!”
“My mother used to make cheeseballs,” Gloria says, reaching for another cookie. “But not like this one.”
Dalton and Miriam peek inside the office to check on the afternoon schedule and to see which station they’ll be manning first. “Dalton!” Gloria yells. “Come get a cookie with this on it.” He and Miriam step toward her and Gloria holds her hand in the air, stopping Miriam. “No Miriam. I’ve seen you eat cookies. Stay back.”
The Christmas Table Page 4