by Maria Goodin
I am everything you ever taught me, even when you thought I wasn’t listening.
***
Working in the garden keeps me busy and makes me feel closer to you. In the past two weeks, I have helped to dig over the empty vegetable plots, built a hibernation box for hedgehogs, strung up bird feeders, pruned the apple trees, and planted tulip bulbs ready to flower next spring. I never knew there was so much to learn. It turns out that gardening really is quite a science.
My back aches constantly, my hands are cracked and sore, but despite the cold and the wet and the pain, I find I am at peace in the garden, working quietly under Ewan’s guidance, surrounded by the sound of his humming, the gentle snip of shears, the squeak of the wheelbarrow, and the muffled thuds of a spade against hard soil. I look forward to the days when he comes and I can work alongside him.
In fact, they are my favorite days.
***
Oh, and you would be pleased to know that we have found a good use for our abundant autumn harvest. After I have taken what I need and distributed some gifts among the neighbors—onions for the major, leeks for Beryl Lampard, rutabagas for Dave Brown—Ewan takes the surplus in his van and drops it off at an unmarked house in town, the address and location of which are kept secret for a very good reason, but which was disclosed to me in confidence by Dr. Bloomberg. It is a shelter for women and their children who are trying to escape domestic abuse. It provides them with somewhere to stay where they can feel physically safe, as well as providing counseling so that they do not have to feel ashamed or isolated, but instead can start to find the strength and confidence to deal with what has happened to them. You always said that a tasty, nutritious dinner was good for the heart as well as the body, so perhaps in our own little way we are helping to heal some broken souls. I like to think so, anyway.
***
“Isn’t it sad?” I say to Ewan one afternoon as we sit on the upturned wooden crate at the far side of the garden. We have just finished dismantling the frames that supported the climbing beans and have packed them away in the shed for winter. Although it can only be about four o’clock, it is starting to grow dark already.
“Isn’t what sad?” he asks, gazing distractedly up at the gray sky, reading the clouds for signs of rain.
“The way the summer has to end,” I tell him. “The trees lose their leaves, the flowers wither away…”
We both stare out at the brown turned-over earth.
“I don’t think it’s sad,” says Ewan. “It’s just part of the cycle of life. Everything going around, keeping moving. That’s what it’s all about.”
I examine the mud underneath my fingernails thoughtfully. Digger comes trotting toward me for attention, wagging his tail, and I lean over to place my cheek against his soft head. My hair has grown long and unruly and hangs over his face as he licks my ear.
“Do you know how the ancient Greeks explained the changing of the seasons?” Ewan asks.
“No,” I say with a smile, “but Digger and I both have a feeling that you’re going to tell us, don’t we, boy?”
Digger barks in amusement.
“Fine, I won’t tell you, then,” says Ewan, pretending to be offended. “I wouldn’t want to bore you.”
“Oh, go on!”
“No. Not if you’re not interested,” he says stubbornly.
“Pleeeease.”
“No.”
“Go on!” I say, shoving him so that he loses his balance and almost falls off the crate.
“Crikey, woman!” he says, laughing and gathering himself up. “No more digging for you. Any more muscles and you’ll be dangerous.”
“Tell me the story,” I say, elbowing him gently. “You know you want to.”
“Okay, but only because you’re insisting. It started when Demeter found out that her daughter, Persephone, had been kidnapped. Demeter was distraught and vowed to never rest until Persephone was back home again. She searched the entire world, covering mountains and deserts, seas and forests, and when she discovered that Hades had kidnapped Persephone and taken her to the underworld to make her his bride, her despair turned to anger. In her rage, Demeter decreed that no fruit would grow on Earth until Hades returned Persephone to her, which he agreed to do, but on one condition. Because Persephone had eaten a handful of pomegranate seeds belonging to him, he declared that she would forever have to spend part of the year with him in the underworld. So, once a year, Persephone is allowed to return to Earth, and when she returns, spring arrives: green shoots appear, trees blossom, fruit grows, and new life flourishes. But when the time comes for her to go back to the underworld, winter arrives: leaves drop, fruit falls, and new growth is suspended until she returns to Earth again.”
Digger wags his tail appreciatively and nuzzles his head against his master’s leg.
“And that’s why we have spring and autumn, isn’t it, pal?” Ewan says, giving Digger’s head a vigorous rub.
I think about Persephone coming and going, the seasons changing, life and death, love and loss.
“I guess nothing ever stays the same for very long,” I say, pulling the sleeves of my sweater down over my cold hands.
“The world has to keep turning,” he says. “Six months from now, this garden will be full of birds singing in the trees and flowers blossoming once again.”
I shiver in the chill air, wrapping my arms around my body and burying my chin inside my scarf. I know he’s right, that in six months’ time the garden will be full of life again, but I wonder whether it will ever really feel the same now that my mother is gone.
“She’ll always be with you, you know,” says Ewan. “All you have to do is close your eyes.”
I let my eyelids drift shut, listening to the sound of the breeze playing with the crisp autumn leaves. Wisps of my hair blow gently around my ears, tickling at my cheeks. I can feel the warmth of Ewan’s thigh pressed next to mine, the solidness of his body against me.
“She’s wherever you want her to be,” I hear Ewan say, his voice deep and soothing. “You just have to imagine.”
In my mind’s eye, an image slowly comes into focus. I can see her there, standing by the apple orchard, her long auburn hair shining in the bright autumn sunshine, thick and luscious as it used to be, her crowning glory. She is strong and healthy, her cheeks glowing and her eyes sparkling with glee. She is smiling at me. In the air I can smell spiced apples, cinnamon, warm chocolate cake, hot vanilla custard, mulled wine, nutmeg…all the scents that ever filled our kitchen on a brisk autumn day. She looks vibrant and happy, full of energy once again. I smile back at her, and she waves. She is wearing the purple cashmere gloves I bought her for Christmas last year, the ones she said she would save for a special occasion and then tucked carefully away in a drawer. I smile and raise my hand slightly, waving back. Slowly, her colorful figure blends with the red and yellow autumn leaves and the sparkling golden sunshine, and the image starts to fade away.
I open my eyes. The clouds are gray and the sky is growing dim. I look toward the apple orchard, where the trees stand huddled in the fading light, their remaining leaves rustling gently in the breeze, their branches already looking sparse. It doesn’t matter to me that the orchard will soon be bare, like a huddle of gnarled skeletons against a winter sky. I know that whenever I close my eyes my mother will be there, waving to me, and that it will always be a sunny day.
When I look down into my lap, I find Ewan’s hand, rough and warm, enveloping mine.
And it seems like the most natural thing in the world.
***
It’s not like you said it would be. No bolt of lightning shoots across the sky, and no nightingales spontaneously burst into song. I do not find myself engulfed in a dreamy, magical cloud or swept away in a whirlwind of glittering stardust. Instead, I suddenly feel real, as if all the splintered parts of myself have simultaneously come to
gether. I am the child I once was and the adult I am today. I am all of my good points and each of my bad. I am brave but afraid, healed but damaged, strong but helpless. I am everything I have admitted and all that I have denied. The person I am right now in this moment is the product of everything I have ever been—the truth, the lies, and everything in between.
When his lips touch mine, I don’t feel myself falling, weightlessly, like you promised.
Instead, for the first time ever, I feel myself become me.
reading group guide
1. The original title of this book was “Nutmeg.” Do you think From the Kitchen of Half Truth is more appropriate? Why or why not?
2. Do you agree with Meg’s following statement to Mark: “I’d rather have fictional memories than no memories at all.”
3. What do you think of Valerie’s stories about Meg’s childhood?
4. Was there any foreshadowing that the fanciful stories hid a darker reality? If yes, what was it, and when did you see it?
5. Meg mentions that embarrassment, anger, and guilt are emotions all teenagers feel. Even though the stories from her childhood are outrageous, do you think Meg’s growing pains are relatable? Why or why not? Do you think that, in some respects, she’s still an adolescent?
6. Meg joins the science department at her university and studies to become a geneticist. Do you believe that this choice is significant?
7. Ewan: “There’s a very fine line between the truth and a lie, isn’t there?” Meg: “No, there isn’t. One is real, the other is not. It’s extremely simple if you think about it.” What do you think about this exchange between Ewan and Meg?
8. Meg is baffled that Ewan indulges her mother’s fantasies at the beginning of the book. What changes her mind?
9. Each time Meg begins to force her mother to tell the truth about her childhood, her mother’s condition worsens. Why? And how does this affect Meg’s decision to pursue the truth?
10. Meg’s nightmare about the White Giant is recurring and seems to intensify as she gets closer to the truth. Did you have any theories about this nightmare? Did they turn out to be true?
11. What do you think of Gwennie?
12. The second time Meg meets Ewan’s niece, she plays make-believe with her. What does this say about Meg’s personal growth?
13. After discovering the truth about Meg’s father, do you think Valerie’s decision to make up stories was justified? Or do you think they did more harm than good?
14. Meg and her mother are very different, but they do have several similarities. What are they, and when do they emerge?
15. When Valerie dies, Meg discovers all of the lives she touched through her cooking and baking. How does this change Meg?
about the author
Maria Goodin graduated from the University of Kent with degrees in French and English. After spending time working in France, she trained as an English teacher and a counselor. From the Kitchen of Half Truth is based on the short story “Nutmeg,” which won the 2007 Derby Short Story Competition. Maria lives in Hertfordshire with her husband, son, and cat.