An Imperfection in the Kitchen Floor

by Heather Greenleaf

  I reached over between the seats to engage the parking brake and found the handle already locked in the up position. Confused, I looked again. As the realization dawned on me—I had driven all the way home from the grocery store with the parking brake on—a dark, rubbery smell began to seep into the car. No. No, no, no! I didn’t know how much damage I had done to the car, but I knew it wasn’t good. A small wail that echoed Hayden’s escaped my lips, and the tears began to trickle down my cheeks. I picked at a hangnail, drawing a small bead of blood. I was acutely aware of how tired I was, how frustrated, how distracted. Soon I was full-on crying. Hayden continued his protest from the backseat.

  Guessing at the shapes before my tear-filled eyes, I climbed out of the car, unlatched Hayden’s seat, and carried him up to the porch, allowing Hayden a full vocal assault on the neighborhood. I heard my voice wavering as I continued my futile attempts at soothing him. Sobbing and snotting everywhere, I unloaded the grocery bags and carried them, two at a time, up the porch steps to the front door, calling out quaking reassurances to Hayden. I desperately wanted to get inside and hide my inadequacy from the world. My prison had become my sanctuary.

  I heard the front door of the house across the street open. A woman walked out, followed by her young daughter.

  “What’s that stinky smell, Mommy?” the child asked. I stole a furtive glance across the street and saw the little girl crinkling her nose and bringing her pudgy fingers up to pinch it shut.

  “I don’t know, Kayla, probably a car,” the woman with her said. She called out, “Can we give you a hand?”

  My neighbor was a few years older than I was, with full brown curly hair and a fuller figure. Without waiting for my answer, she took her child’s hand and led her across the street toward me. In one swift, practiced motion, she produced a tissue out of her pocket and held it in my direction.

  Pulling myself together with a deep, snotty inhale, I accepted the tissue. “Thank you,” I said. “I’m sorry we have to meet this way. I’m Molly. That is my baby, Hayden.” I gestured up toward the porch.

  “He’s noisy, Mommy,” the little girl chirped. “And her car is really stinky.”

  “Hush, Kayla. Kind words only, please.” The woman let go of the child’s hand, now that they were standing on my sidewalk, and extended her hand with manicured nails toward me. “I’m Liz,” she said. “Welcome to the neighborhood.”

  We shook and her hand felt so soft, comforting and friendly.

  “I am sure it is a much noisier place now that we have moved in,” I said. “No matter what I try, he cries most of the day,” I heard the self-deprecation in my voice and I hated it. Self-consciously, I covered the pulled-back portion of my greasy ponytail briefly with my hand and wiped at my eyes with her tissue.

  “Are you kidding me?” Liz joked. “Kayla, this overly honest one here, is my fourth, and they all cried like that when they were babies. Colic is the worst. It won’t last forever, though. Soon he’ll be using real words to sass you.” She winked and smiled. “My second one was a real pain in the… when he was a baby,” she continued, lowering her voice to a mere whisper and letting me fill in the blank. “If he had been my first, I wouldn’t have had any others! Kayla arrived on the scene after one too many glasses of wine on my birthday, if you know what I mean!” Liz looked down at Kayla and continued reassuringly, “Not planned, but not unwanted.” Kayla just nodded, as if she had heard that line many times.

  “Let me help you with these groceries,” Liz said, grabbing a heavy bag from my trunk and marching up my front steps, Kayla straggling behind her.

  I watched this confident woman stride into my house, very capably handling a heavy bag of groceries and her own child. I really was the only one who couldn’t do this. My eyes pricked with tears again but I resolutely pushed them back down and hustled to unlock the door for my neighbors.

  “Kayla, grab this and take it to the kitchen,” Liz instructed. I gaped as Kayla walked right toward the back of the house. By way of explanation, Liz said, “Oh, we were over here a few times when the previous owner was here. Nice old lady.”

  I unstrapped Hayden from his car seat, snuggling his struggling, angry body to mine. I started bouncing in the foyer, keeping an eye on Kayla in the kitchen. I was strangely uncomfortable with Liz and Kayla’s level of familiarity here. Even though it didn’t feel quite like it yet, this was my house now, and shouldn’t I be the one to show people where the kitchen was located? In an odd reversal of roles, I felt like the guest and Liz and Kayla the hostesses.

  “She was my husband’s aunt, actually,” I said. “I never met her. Did she take care of the house at all?” I asked. “It’s kind of falling apart.”

  “She was fairly meticulous. The inside was always clean and nice, and for the outside, I think she hired a landscaper or handyman when she needed it. Don’t worry. You can bring the house back to its former glory.”

  I sighed, overwhelmed with the idea. “Hopefully. I can’t seem to make much of a dent. She left everything behind—clearly—and it’s all still here.”

  Liz looked around. “Wow, you aren’t kidding,” she said, letting out a low whistle. “It’s like she never left. Are you going to haul most of her things out to make room for yours?”

  I shrugged, genuinely unsure that Corey would allow that.

  “Do you want help organizing the house? My older ones are still in camp for a few more weeks,” Liz offered.

  “No. Thanks, though.” I did want help, knew it in fact, but I held back unable to admit defeat. “I’ll get the hang of this motherhood thing and get some things done while Hayden is asleep. It is just really hard to put him down, and that makes it really hard to accomplish anything.” I decided to let her in a little, test the waters of our early friendship. “Taking care of him is much harder than I expected. I am going a little crazy, actually.”

  She looked at me sympathetically and said, “Of course you are. New babies are hard. Especially the first one. Plus, you are alone here all day.”

  I looked up at her sharply, surprised at how aware she was of our comings and goings.

  “It’s okay, honey, I know you are,” she continued, “I hear your husband’s SUV pull out pretty early and I don’t notice it back here until pretty late each night. Try to get out more. Even the littlest bit of fresh air would help you. Do you have any family in the area who could help you out?”

  I shook my head. Just Jocelyn. No thanks.

  I missed my mother. If she were alive, I knew that she and my father would be fawning over Hayden. Missing my mother was heightened by my exhaustion, her absence more acute now that I had a baby myself. Tears threatened, but I didn’t want to start crying again.

  “As you can see, I tried the grocery store today,” I said to Liz, trying to change the focus on our conversation. “What a nightmare. All I want to do is cook something, but I don’t have any groceries, and my kitchen stuff is all still in boxes. Aunt Tish left some kitchen items behind I could use, but it is so hard to do anything when I can’t put Hayden down.”

  “The grocery store cannot be considered getting out,” Liz insisted. “The grocery store is always a nightmare. Be prepared for years and years of that being true, even when the kids get older. Especially when the kids get older. The screams get louder and the other customers get less sympathetic. Okay, so new plan. You need to find something just for yourself. What is it that you like to do? What did you do before you had Hayden? Did you work?”

  “I was a chef in a restaurant,” I said, feeling like that was a very long time ago.

  “Well, there you go. That’s what you will do. The first thing you need to do is unpack your kitchen. And then start cooking. Get a seat, put Hayden in it in the kitchen with you, maybe even up on the counter. If he cries, he cries. But I bet he’ll get used to it. I’ll come over and hold him if you want. Trust me, doing something for you is really important. Even if it is just an hour each day.”

  She had four kids to b
ack up her advice, but I still wasn’t sure. Part of me would feel guilty if I didn’t focus all my attention on Hayden. Isn’t that what a mother is supposed to do? How could I just let him cry while I did something else?

  “Well, we will get out of your hair. It was very nice to meet you, Molly. C’mon, Kayla, let’s go. We have to pick up your brothers in a bit.” She stood to go, and I made a motion to stand too. “Trust me: Find those kitchen boxes,” Liz instructed. “Get back into something that makes you remember who you are.”

  “Thank you for your help with the groceries,” I called as she and Kayla closed the door and headed back across the street. I thought about the black book with the menus and recipes. Maybe I would surprise Corey by making one or two from there.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Tish, 1916

  The weekend of Ivy’s wedding, Papa closed the shop with a merry sign in the window, “Closed to celebrate the nuptials of Ivy Hess and William Wonderling. We will re-open Tuesday morning!”

  The sun was bright and climbing. Thin clouds wrote calligraphy across the blue summer sky and the heady scent of lilies drifted up into our bedroom. I dressed quickly and silently so as not to wake Ivy who continued to snooze as I descended the spiral staircase. Mama was at the front door directing deliveries, motioning the men, arms laden with goods, to the correct place in the house or backyard.

  The caterer had delivered the chafing dishes and Mama and I went to work on the Welsh rarebit. I added cheese to the eggs and cream and slowly stirred it with the golden butter until it was melted and molten. I was under strict instructions from Mama not to let it boil so I stirred and stirred, and as it thickened, I gazed out the kitchen window.

  In the backyard, the men were setting up chairs. They wafted a crisp white cloth over a table. As the fabric settled atop, a corner caught the breeze and it inflated underneath like a marshmallow. Men scuttled to tamp it down, smoothing it with broad sweeps of their hands. They placed a heavy vase on top and moved on to the next task.

  I heard a popping sound and looked down at the pot. Fat, heavy bubbles were rising to the surface. I had let it boil! The eggs had scrambled and what was meant to be smooth was now chunky.

  “No!” I hollered and pulled the pot from the heat.

  Mama appeared at my side and shook her head. “Start again, Tish. Pay attention. In fact, never mind. Just go see if Ivy is awake.”

  I removed my apron, rinsed my hands, grabbed some toast points from the rarebit tray for Ivy, and trudged up the stairs to our room. She was awake now, her face flushed with a full night’s sleep. Still in her dressing gown and seated at the vanity, she held her hairbrush aloft.

  “Today’s the day, Tish,” she said breathlessly. She smoothed her hair for what may have been the hundredth time, taming flyaway strands that seemed to only exist in her mind. Her hair looked perfect, swept softly back from her face in waves, parted in the middle and gathered at the back. I nodded, already sick of this wedding, and placed the plate of toast in front of her on the vanity. Ignoring it, she gazed intently at herself, pinching her cheeks and puckering her lips in a kiss that would soon be delivered in front of our closest family and friends.

  “Today I marry William and we begin our lives together. Oh, everything has to be just perfect,” she mooned, maybe to me, maybe to the lovely girl in the mirror. “He’s wonderful, isn’t he? I am so happy. So very happy.”

  Ivy was getting everything she wanted: a charming, handsome, well-off man who adored her and wanted to make her his wife. And what’s more, in a few hours, relatives and friends would arrive by train and touring car to witness his public declaration of her worthiness. The Chestnut Hill contingent of William’s family would descend upon Willow Grove in their finery, and after the ceremony, they would claim Ivy as one of their own. I had no doubt that she would fit in perfectly. Beautiful and well-mannered, Ivy would gracefully slip into her life as William’s bride. Their house would be ready for them upon their return from their three-week honeymoon in Maine. It was a quaint bungalow just off Germantown Avenue, already full of fine furniture cast off by William’s mother.

  And this room would be mine. I considered filling it with books and creating a cozy nook where I could paint, perhaps placing a chair close to the window so the morning sun could ignite my imagination. But, no, why bother? I would not be here much longer either. I, too, would be off soon, on my own adventures.

  Though I knew full well Papa wanted me to follow in Ivy’s footsteps—nice husband, new house, eventual family—somehow I needed to make him understand what I wanted. How could I impress on him that my vision of life didn’t stay stagnant, it was always moving, flowing in new directions, bright with new experiences. I thought of that tablecloth, yearning to blow away, and felt as though it was Papa’s hands forcing me down, letting the air out from under me, straightening me into a life that was orderly and smooth.

  But why would he even want me to stay? Thinking of the curdled rarebit that I had dumped into the bin this morning, I knew I was truly terrible at food preparation. My heart wasn’t in it, never would be. Mama would fix the rarebit, make a new one easily. She would make it right.

  Though Ivy was meant to be packing for her honeymoon, she sat at her mirror, lost in her own reflection. With a sigh, I began picking up the clothing strewn all around, wishing it were my suitcase that was being loaded in anticipation of departure. I folded dresses and stockings, rounded up matching stray shoes and hats. Ivy began talking at some point, idle chatter, and I assented at the pauses as necessary.

  When the room was tidier and Ivy was nearly packed, I flopped down on my bed. Staring at the ceiling, I listened as Ivy prattled on about the guests, the honeymoon, and all things wedding.

  Mama came upstairs, now dressed in her finery, and helped Ivy put on her lace wedding gown. When dressed and veiled, Ivy’s loveliness caught in my throat. She was just as striking as the Lady Lilith painted by Dante Gabriel Rossetti, but more delicate, with a fragile grace.

  Feeling clunky, I dressed in the white dress and baby blue sash Ivy had chosen for me. Though I could never match Ivy’s beauty, I saw approval in Mama’s eyes as she reached for a barrette and fiddled it into my dark brunette bun.

  “Let’s leave the bride, shall we? I need some help with a few last-minute things,” Mama said and bent to gently kiss the top of my head. Turning toward Ivy, she said, “Tish and I will go down now and greet the guests. Papa will come get you when it is time. Oh, Ivy, you are so lovely today. I hope you have a wonderful marriage.” With a peck on Ivy’s cheek and a squeeze of both her hands, Mama let go of her oldest daughter, and cast her off into adulthood and matrimony.

  ●●●

  William, looking dapper in his dark suit, hair slick and shining in the afternoon sun, stood in our backyard near the minister, awaiting his bride.

  The musicians began to play and the lilt of the notes danced through the guests as we all stood and turned to watch Ivy. Her arm slung through Papa’s, they stepped down off the back steps and began a slow procession down the aisle. Ivy glowed from within and her happiness burst through in a smile she could not contain. Papa looked serious but happy in his brown suit. Mama, Oliver, and I stood at our seats in the front row, our bodies turned to face Ivy and Papa, welcoming them to the altar, to a new beginning.

  With all eyes on my sister, I began to daydream and glance through the crowd. There were many faces I didn’t recognize, wizened grand dames surely from Chestnut Hill, distant cousins in fine suits and flowered hats. Along with them, our Philadelphia family and new Willow Grove friends were here. Mr. Ferguson, the man from whom Papa bought the house, and his handsome wife stood together, tall and proud. Mr. Malcolm was in the row behind them, as reedy as Ichabod Crane, fussing over his handkerchief, attempting to make it behave in his breast pocket.

  Beyond the guests, the waiters moved silently, readying the tables for the luncheon. One in particular caught my eye. There was something familiar about him. It was Ell
is. He looked up and gave me a slow smile. Embarrassed, I darted my eyes back to Ivy and Papa. What was he doing here? Heat climbed up my neck.

  The minister spoke of wine and Canaan, but I had trouble concentrating on the sermon. I was still annoyed at him because of our last encounter but I could feel Ellis’ presence balloon and consume the backyard. I was conscious of my every movement, a tuck of my hair behind my ear, a kind gaze down at Oliver, a smile in Ivy’s direction, knowing he was watching me. Eventually, I could no longer fight the urge to look in his direction. Like holding my breath, there was only so long I could struggle, and my head turned in sharp exhale to seek him through the crowd. When I found him, his eyes were shifted sideways and on me, silently awaiting my glance. I swiveled my head around, a grin sneaking its way up my cheeks, and vowed not to look again.

  ●●●

  Ivy and William were wed and the band exchanged their string instruments for lively brass horns. Celebratory blasts peppered the party as the guests helped themselves to food and wine. The ceremony chairs were whisked away, leaving the backyard open for mingling. People collected in small groups, plate or drink in hand, hearty laughter and raucous regaling in their conversation. Though I was meant to be helping Mama socialize with the guests, after the ceremony, I was overwhelmingly tired and embarrassed by my own bold stares at Ellis. I stayed in the house, briefly greeting the guests that freely moved about, and trying to look busy. The back door squeaked its opening and I knew it was him. I felt Ellis walk across the kitchen toward me more than actually seeing him, my eyes locked on the floor and heart racing.

  “Hello, Tish,” he said.