I rummaged around and happily found that I was already armed with all the ingredients. Quickly, knowing my time was limited, I plunked the bird into the pot and covered it with water. I sliced some bacon and dropped it in, looking on as it floated and bobbed. I sprinkled the nutmeg into the water and let it fan out across the surface. Pepper floated for a moment and then sunk to the bottom. I turned on the burner, covered the pot for its one-and-a-half-hour boil and began to prep the sauce as the recipe described. I juiced a lemon and mixed it with two tablespoons of currant jelly, and left it while I went to check on Hayden.
The swing made its rhythmic click clack, and I collapsed on the couch next to it. My eyes fought to stay open, but then snatched sleep like a starving wolf.
It felt like only a moment later when Hayden’s cries pulled me up from a dream. I awoke furious, still voraciously hungry for rest. I felt worse for having napped, more tired than I had been before I fell asleep. My eyes were dry and my eyelids were sticky. I could smell the chicken in the pot and wondered what time it was. How long had we slept? As I stretched, the anger dissipated a bit, morphing into a deep disappointment that I couldn’t rest longer. I stood and picked Hayden out of the swing, nestling him to my chest, bouncing and cooing to soothe him. We walked together into the kitchen to check on my meal.
A lift of the lid revealed a yellow foam on the surface and bacon bits rising and falling as if they were in a lava lamp. It needed more time, so I spent the next hour or so bouncing, cooing, and making stuffed animals dance to entertain Hayden. Then I rechecked the bird. It was tender, so I put Hayden back into the swing and hoisted the chicken out of the pot. The skin had fallen off and the meat was pulling away from the bone. I laid it dripping in a bowl, sneaking a taste. It was soft and supple.
I sliced some Brussels sprouts in half and tossed them in a roasting pan with olive oil, salt and pepper. I started a second pot of water to boil and pulled a package of farro from the cabinet. Once cooked, I would toss the farro with the Brussels sprouts. The sprouts’ charred and nutty flavor would go well with the farro, and be a simple side dish to serve with the chicken. I hummed to myself and sang songs to Hayden while I worked. I was practically dancing, feeling like myself again, creating something wonderful for the people I loved.
Too soon, though, Hayden’s back began to arch and he called out to be let out of the swing. Begging silently for more time, I quickened my pace. The lemon juice and currant jelly that I had mixed earlier still needed to boil and reduce. Then Aunt Tish’s book said to combine that mixture with a cup of stock from the cooking pot and thicken it. With Hayden’s swelling protests banging in my ears, I made a quick roux of butter and flour and mixed it in. The sauce became lumpy; in my rush, I didn’t take time to temper it. Cursing and sweating, my hands whisked furiously at the lumps, and I called out to Hayden in tones that became less and less soothing. He was wailing at full force, his face red and arms in the air. I continued to work, sick to my stomach with the guilt of ignoring him, but also angry that I couldn’t easily finish this one task.
I dropped the dirty whisk in the sink and took a deep breath to ensure that I hoisted Hayden out of the chair with a gentler touch than I felt inside. In my arms, he reeled his head back fiercely, nearly throwing himself to the ground in his anger. I started bouncing him and my tears fell to the kitchen floor. I looked around the room. It was a complete mess. I tasted the sauce. It was sharp with the tang of nutmeg and lemon and tart currants, simply awful. A few fixes popped into my head, but I couldn’t do any of them now. Corey would be home soon and Hayden needed to be fed. I left the mess behind and went up to Hayden’s nursery in search of distraction.
I had failed at dinner. I hadn’t worked fast enough. Hayden hadn’t given me enough time. The food I made was terrible. I was so tired. Why couldn’t I do anything anymore? Where had I gone? Quiet tears of failure began falling as though they would never stop. I sat to nurse him, my nipples raw but my nerves more raw still, and as he ate, I chewed at my thumbnail until I could see the nail bed below.
“Hello, I’m home,” I heard Corey call a little while later from downstairs. Then, “Molly? Are you here? Is something burning?”
Oh no! I never turned the burner under the farro off! I stood quickly, unlatching Hayden. His wail immediately gained siren strength. I raced downstairs to the kitchen, the baby still sideways and my breast flapping as I ran. The pot smoked on the stove. All I could do was look at it. I stood there, breast exposed and dripping, a screaming baby in my arms.
Corey met me in there and shut off the burner. “Molly! You could have burned the house down. You need to be more careful. You’re a chef, for crying out loud.”
He was right that I could have set fire to the house, wrong about my being a chef. My bottom lip quivered, but there was nothing left. The tears did indeed stop. I had dried up. I was nothing. I was a feed bag, an endless slave to a tiny, relentless master. I turned my back on Corey and took up residency in my worn divot in the couch. I tucked in my one breast, only to pull out the other and offer it to Hayden, my eyes unfocused, too tired to feel anything but the furious pull of his little mouth as he sucked everything out of me. I listened to Corey clank things around in the kitchen. He entered the family room and I just stared at him.
“What were you making for dinner?” His voice was soft, approaching me like he would a frightened child.
I said nothing. He waited and then asked again.
“Chicken,” I answered, “but the sauce is terrible. Brussels sprouts are in the oven. And that mess I burned was farro.”
“I could cook more farro. Not in the pot that you killed, but in different one.” He tried a smile.
“I just want to go to bed,” I said, hearing the quake in my voice. “I can’t do this. I’m so tired.” I handed the baby to Corey and without another word, I climbed the steps and into bed.
●●●
I woke when Corey came eventually to bed, and before I could roll over and get comfortable again, Hayden was awake and crying.
There was no end. Hayden was up for hours that night, restless, wailing, wanting neither food nor a diaper change. He wasn’t feverish, he had burped, he was dry, he didn’t have a hair wrapped around his fingers or toes. I had tried everything to soothe him, but all that worked was holding him. Despite my exhaustion, I danced around the room, patting his back. Eventually, Hayden fell asleep. I tried to put him in his crib, my gummy legs begging for a break. Without my arms encasing him, though, he instantly woke up enraged, his back arching and his face beet red, needing to be soothed all over again.
And so, we continued to dance. After countless attempts, Corey stumbled into the nursery and took over, but Hayden just screamed louder.
“Don’t worry, Mommy. Hayden and I are going to go work this out downstairs, dance around down there, maybe watch a few highlights from tonight’s game…” Corey used the calm, cooing timbre that he used to talk to Hayden, and his voice trailed off as he padded down the steps.
I tried to settle into bed. Tossing and turning to get comfortable, I tried to drown out the hiccupping wails from downstairs. Even with my eyes closed, I could feel Hayden’s need vibrating through my body, the blood in my temples thrumming with each scream. The longer I laid there and listened, the more keyed up I became. After a few moments, I gave up my attempt to sleep. It was impossible while he was crying. Like a prizefighter knocked so hard that he doesn’t know he should stay down, I raged with adrenaline, swung my legs out of bed, and stormed downstairs.
“Just give him to me,” I demanded. It was dark, but in the illumination of the television, I could see the startled look on Corey’s face. I held my arms out in insistence. I glared at Corey and spat, “I can’t sleep when he is screaming anyway, so I might as well just be up with him.”
“I’ll sit with you, Molly. We can do this together,” Corey tried.
“No, just go upstairs. Get some sleep. There is no reason for both of us be awake. I’ll t
ry and feed him again.” I sighed, loud and angry. Hayden belted in full fury, his bare gums visible in his open-mouthed rage while I flopped on the couch, grabbing the remote and deftly changing the channel.
Corey went back upstairs. I hiked up the hem of my shirt, unhooked my nursing bra, and positioned Hayden. He latched and quieted. The low canned laughter from the television was punctuated by Hayden’s tender gulps and sighs. He fell asleep and fell off my breast. I adjusted him to my shoulder, flipped off the television, and walked up stairs, burping him along the way.
Ever so slowly, I lowered him into his crib and tip-toed away. Once out the door, exhaustion took over and I crept to our room where I found Corey fast asleep.
Bed. Finally. Its pillows and warm comforter welcomed me, the sheets rumpled and soft. I nestled in, closed my eyes, and took a deep breath, promising myself I’d be a better Mommy tomorrow.
Hayden started to cry again.
I sat straight up and let out a scream, guttural and beyond anger. “Why won’t that kid sleep?” I was reaching full volume now and this—not Hayden’s cries—woke Corey.
“I’ll go get him,” he murmured, his elbow propped up on the pillow, eyes half closed.
“No, it won’t do any good. He just cries and cries. No matter what. I can’t stand it anymore. I just can’t stand it!” The tears were streaming down my cheeks and all my muscles were tight. I pounded the bed beside me in staccato to my words. “I can’t do this. I have no idea what to do. I can’t get him to sleep and I am so tired.” I continued to rage, raunchy language from my days in the Aubergine kitchen burbling out of me. I was a beast, furious and helplessly cornered, nearly unhinged. Corey’s eyes were fully open now, frozen on me, just watching without saying a word.
I gave him an exaggerated aggravated sigh and I went into Hayden’s room and picked him up, shame and regret at my outburst following me there. Scared of myself and wondering if Corey was scared of me too, I took Hayden downstairs and latched him on. Again.
By then, a dim orange light was peeking in through the windows and nothing was on television but infomercials. I settled on the one where three pulses on a bullet-shaped machine got you salsa and some overly impressed friends. As slow as the dawn, tears continued rolling down my cheeks, droplets falling on Hayden’s pajamas and neck. Eventually, at long last, Hayden and I both slept.
The early morning sunshine blazed through the windows and I woke on the couch with a quiet baby, his belly and cheek nuzzled to my chest and under my chin.
As the night filtered through my memory, I felt my guilt sour my stomach. I stroked Hayden’s back, savoring his sleep. With my nose up against his head, I inhaled forcefully, taking in his baby scent. With each breath, I hoped his smell would kick-start any motherly instincts buried deep within me, providing inspiration on how to handle motherhood with grace. If anything changed, it was imperceptible. My self-loathing stuck in my throat and the day still loomed ahead of me, with nothing but Hayden’s cries and my own inadequacies to keep me company.
Mired in self-pity and shame, I looked around at our new home and its walls that now confined me. The house was still full of boxes, pushed up against the edges of the room, half full and splayed open like surgical patients. Our framed art and wedding portraits still sat in layers on the floor, just leaning on the walls. In the morning light, I noticed that Corey had left last night’s dinner dishes on the coffee table. Chicken bones sat dry on a plate with withered Brussels sprout leaves.
I could hear Corey bumping around upstairs, and I remembered with a sickness that he had another golf outing. It could have been a Sunday together, full of promise and sunshine, but dark edges began to cloud my vision. I was facing it alone. Corey seemed to still be going, even after the night we’d had, and the betrayal burned inside me. I closed my eyes and took deep breaths, trying to tamp down the scream that threatened and would surely wake the baby. Early birdsongs came from outside the window. A robin, perhaps with a full nest of hungry chicks, found reason to sing. The cheerful song mocked me.
I carried Hayden upstairs and settled him in the middle of our bed. Corey puttered around, looking for his gloves, his spikes, his tees, rummaging in his closet with his back turned to me.
“I’m going to grab a quick shower before you leave, while Hayden is asleep,” I whispered.
He turned, looking put out. “Molly, I have to go. Right now. I’m going to be late. You slept in too late.”
“I’ll be really quick,” I promised. “I haven’t showered since Friday and my hair is so greasy it hurts. Please, Corey, it’ll just take five minutes.” I made my move toward the bathroom.
He caught my arm, tenderly, but with a firmness. “Seriously, Molly. The guys are waiting for me. Just take a shower during Hayden’s next nap.”
I took a deep breath, nervous that the fire forming at the pit of my stomach was going to blaze out of my mouth. Slowly, very slowly, I turned and looked at Corey. “Please, Corey. Five minutes of this whole day to myself before you spend the entire day out playing golf.”
“I have to go,” he said, brushing my cheek with the briefest of obligatory kisses and running out the bedroom door. The air in my lungs was sucked out of the room behind him. “Bye, buddy,” he called to the baby when he was halfway down the stairs. And then he was gone.
His SUV engine roared in the driveway and made its signature ticking sound as he backed out into the street. The day promised so much, but denied me everything. I sat on the edge of the bed, unwilling to look at my child, so sweet in his sleep, so helpless, and so unfortunate to be stuck with me as his mother. I wanted to be patient and gracious about his incessant crying, knew I should be, knew losing my temper only made things worse. I expected more of myself and felt deep shame at my inadequacy. How could I yell like that about a baby crying? I was a terrible mother. A terrible human being. Even my husband couldn’t wait to get away from me. Hayden didn’t deserve this. He deserved a mother who was understanding and kind. I had screamed at the top of my lungs. Because of my baby. I was a monster.
As slowly as possible, without jiggling the mattress and waking Hayden, I laid down next to him. My limbs felt like rocks, immovable, heavy with exhaustion. I watched him sleep. His smooth cheeks and nose held the perfection of all babies as gazed upon by their mothers. I yearned to touch him, stroke his cheek, but held back for fear of waking him. He was beautiful in sleep. He was quiet and easy to love.
His eyelids fluttered and my stomach plummeted. I wasn’t ready for him to wake up yet and froze like a deer startled in the woods. Just a few more minutes of silence, I pleaded over and over in my head. He grimaced, and then his face smoothed again. I let my eyes close and rested, hoping some sleep would be enough to fizzle the fire that raced through all my nerve endings, hoping that I would be enough for Hayden as a mother.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Tish, 1917
My courtship with Ellis continued, and we spent most of our time together. We talked about our future and where we would travel, but I was still only seventeen. So, for the summer, Ellis continued his work at the park and then found odd jobs when the season ended. He took a small room at the boarding house in Willow Grove, and we fell into a happy routine of life together. On his days off, I would leave the shop early and we would spend our time roaming the park or huddled as close as we dared in my parlor under the watchful eyes of Mama and Papa. He made me feel noticed and important and I loved how he listened intensely to my every word. Interruptions were frequent, though, as Oliver traipsed in and out, pretending to be a war plane or a chugging steam engine, with no shortage of little boy energy or chatter.
Outside of Willow Grove, frightening events continued to occur in Europe, brought to our doorstep daily in foreboding newspaper headlines. I read over Papa’s shoulder about the Germans conquering Romania, hoping that Mr. Wilson would indeed continue to keep us out of the conflict. By March, the headlines broiled with the tragic sinking of the Lusitania and United States merchant
ships by German submarines.
By now, it was well-known around town that Papa was a German. Even if Mr. Howerth hadn’t been doing his nasty part to spread word, Papa’s accent and formality glinted like the reflection off a U-boat periscope. In the shop, he did all he could to ensure everyone would know he was now an American and a peaceful man, despite his warring ancestral countrymen. He stopped making sausages and stressed American isolationism to everyone in town who would listen.
At the dinner table, Papa and Ellis debated back and forth, Ellis insisting that the United States step in to stop German aggression and Papa repeating his economic ideas behind our neutrality. The war consumed Ellis, and these discussions frequently went on for hours. Often I waited, coat on, hat in hand, to be escorted out for the evening, while the two of them stayed deep in discussion. Leaning in toward each other, their arguments rose in vehemence while I sighed loudly in a vain attempt to remind Ellis of his reason for being at our house.
Mama would eventually come in, having been the only one to notice my aggravation, and gently shake the men out of their exchange. With her hand on Papa’s shoulder, she waited for a pause and then casually asked what time the movie began or when we were meant to be at dinner. Ellis would blink, look up, startled by his surroundings as if awakened on a train at a stop past his destination, and then see me standing and waiting. Reluctantly it seemed, Ellis left Papa at home. Ellis would fume all the way into town. And I knew Papa was surely continuing his diatribe at Mama’s back as she worked at the sink.
When the newspaper published the telegram written by a German foreign secretary suggesting that Mexico attack and conquer the southwestern United States, Papa threw his hands up and marched down to the draft office. He was fed up with the way Germany was behaving, and disappointed when he was turned away for being too old to serve.
An Imperfection in the Kitchen Floor Page 13