From the Kitchen of Half Truth (10 page)

“I saw stars in your father's eyes the evening we met,” she says, “thousands of them, twinkling away. At first I wondered where they all came from, but when I looked up at the night sky—”

“—it was empty,” I interrupt. “I know, you've told me a hundred times.”

“I could hear his heart beating from three feet away, pounding like a kettle drum. And the moment he kissed me a bolt of lightning shot across the sky, leaving crackling electricity in its wake. A nightingale burst into song, and a glittering cloud of stardust engulfed us both. He tasted of cinnamon and strawberries, the most delicious taste you can imagine. And afterward, when I licked my lips, I found they were—”

“—covered in sugar, I know.”

“They call it falling in love because that's just what happens, you know; you fall slowly for a long, long way. I started falling the moment your father held me in his arms, and I carried on falling for days. I thought I'd never feel the ground beneath my feet again. You feel weightless and free, like you're sailing through the sky, but it's also frightening because you don't know when it will end.”

Her eyes are vacant, her voice dreamy. I have heard these stories so many times before, and every time my head fills with questions. In a bid to make the facts fit, I want to stop her and ask about dates, times, and places. I want to point out all the inconsistencies. And yet, for some reason, I never do. Instead, I hug my legs to my body and lay my head on my knees, listening to her talk. I see my parents' first evening together just as my mother describes it: the full moon shining overhead, a nightingale singing in the trees, the scent of apple blossom and ripe cherries lingering in the air.

“At night, I used to stand just there,” she says, pointing at the window, “and wait for him to appear on the lawn below. If the breeze was blowing in the right direction, his scent reached me long before he did: honey and cinnamon, sugar and vanilla, toasted almonds, and warm spiced wine. I would run downstairs and sneak out the back door as my parents slept. He would take my hand, leading me into the fields at the end of the garden, where we would lie among the wheat, feeding each other Turkish delight.”

She gazes at the narrow sliver of white moonlight that is piercing through the curtains.

“The day he returned to Paris, I cried tears as bitter as the juice of any lemon. I longed for his return, and yet I knew he had died before they even told me. Everything had already lost its taste, you see. I couldn't tell sweet from bitter, salty from sour. My taste buds never tingled, and my mouth never watered. That's when I knew he was gone.”

She turns to me. “That's what falling in love is like, and one day it will happen to you.”

I try to imagine this feeling of weightlessness, of being outside of yourself, of seeing stars where there shouldn't be any. But that's just not how I've found meeting the man of my dreams to be.

“When I first saw Mark,” I tell her, “he was giving a talk on developments in cryogenic technologies. I'd stumbled into the wrong lecture, of course, but by the time I realized it, I was already hooked. He spoke with such absolute confidence and conviction, such clarity and understanding. Here he was talking about something so complex and potentially confusing, and yet he made it sound like it was the simplest thing in the world. He has this ability to make everything sound manageable, reducing it down to categories and rules and facts. Above all, I thought, here is someone who understands the way the world works.”

I lean my head back against the wall and study the shadows on the ceiling. “With Mark, it's not like falling; it's the opposite, in fact, like being picked up and set firmly back down on the ground. Everything is suddenly clear. Every why has a reason, and every mystery has an answer. It's like being found when you're lost or given the solution to a puzzle that has baffled you for ages. The earth doesn't spin; it stops spinning.”

I look at my mother, who is watching me intently, slightly sadly.

“Maybe falling in love can be like that, too,” I say.

***

Later, while my mother sleeps upstairs, I call Mark to tell him about my mother's collapse.

“The doctor agreed it was probably just too much sun. Although I'm starting to think he'll agree with anything she says just to keep her quiet.”

“You don't think it was that?”

“Well, she's getting weaker. Maybe things like this are just part of the illness. I really don't know.”

I can hear the weariness in my voice. I feel absolutely drained. “And then there was the flier. I thought maybe it had upset her for some reason, but then I thought maybe that was just in my head.”

“The flier? The one from the suitcase?”

I rub my eyes and try to suppress a yawn. “Yes. I showed it to her and she went quite weird. But then, she is quite weird anyway, so it's hard to tell—”

“Weird how? What did she do? Do you mean she seemed defensive? Like she was disturbed by it?”

My feeling of exhaustion doubles. Why on earth did I mention the flier? In all the stress and commotion of my mother collapsing, I had actually forgotten all about it. I'm not sure I really want Mark setting an agenda for me right now on how to harangue my mother into a confession.

“I don't know, Mark. It was probably all just a coincidence.”

“You mean you showed it to her and about five minutes later she fainted?”

“Well, no, I showed it to her and she started to get dizzy. And very confused. And then she fainted.”

“And you think that's a coincidence? Meg, that's not a coincidence. That's evidence!”

I really,
really
wish I hadn't mentioned the flier.

“That address clearly means something to her. It's a clue, Meg. You need to find out what's behind this. You need to get to the bottom of it.”

“But it's not that easy. I've told you before—”

“Nothing in life that's worth having is easy, Meg. DNA wasn't discovered by people just waiting for it to fall into their laps, was it? You have a clue here. It's a starting point. You need to think methodically about how you're going to pursue it. You're meant to be a scientist.”

“I
am
a scientist.”

“Then think like one. Think about how you're going to use this—”

“But, Mark,” I interrupt, wondering why I brought this up, “she's ill right now. If her fainting had something to do with the piece of paper I showed her, then the last thing I want to do right now is—”

“What do you mean, if it had something to do with it? It clearly
did
. In fact, she was probably just faking. She probably pretended to feel dizzy just so she wouldn't have to discuss it any further with you.”

“Oh no, I don't think—”

“This is a woman who is capable of lying to her daughter day in, day out, and you don't think she's capable of feigning a fainting fit?”

“But she was unconscious. And the ambulance came. And even Dr. Bloomberg said—”

Mark sighs as if I am completely missing the point.

“She caused a commotion, in other words. And what happens when there's a commotion? People get distracted. I bet you forgot all about the flier, didn't you?”

I don't answer him, but my silence clearly says it all.

“Exactly. She's the greatest liar who ever lived. There are trained spies who have given more secrets away than your mother. She's cunning, Meg. Very cunning.”

Cunning? My mother's not cunning. She's strange and confusing and exasperating, but she's not cunning. And she couldn't have feigned being ill. Could she? No. Absolutely not. But I suppose Mark's right, I did forget about the flier. I rub my tired eyes, feeling confused, and do what I often seem to do these days when my head is in a muddle.

“What should I do, then?” I ask Mark.

“Cut to the chase, Meg. If she's not going to talk, then go to that address. Find out who lives there. Who lived there at the time. Find out whatever you can.”

“Do you think so? But it feels so deceitful. I'd rather she just told me—”

“Deceitful! You think you're the one being deceitful?”

I can see his point. “Maybe I should try talking to her again. Maybe this time…”

I leave my own sentence unfinished, knowing I am only fooling myself. I lay my head down on the kitchen table, exhausted by the effort of thinking, and watch as a tiny spider scurries past me toward the fruit bowl.
Of
course
spiders
would
be
good
at
pottery
, I find myself thinking sleepily.
All
those
arms
to
smooth
the
clay. And such lightness of touch.

“You need to do something, anything,” Marks tells me, “to bring this ridiculous situation to an end, Meg. And you need to do it now. Because soon—”

“I know,” I interrupt him.

I can't stand for him to say the words. But Mark doesn't avoid the truth. He doesn't allow for excuses, or evasion, or shying away from the facts.

“Because soon it's going to be too late.”

 

There are carrots as pallbearers and zucchinis as choirboys. The vicar is an eggplant, complete with dog collar and an ill-fitting toupee. I watch from the pews as the carrots, their green hair neatly slicked back, carry the coffin down the aisle of the church and lay it gently on the altar. In front of me, a piece of asparagus reaches beneath her black veil and wipes her eyes with an embroidered handkerchief. The little zucchinis stop singing and stand solemnly, heads respectfully lowered, in a huddle at the front of the church. They look beautifully neat in their pressed white gowns, and I can't help thinking their parents would be proud.

The vicar begins to speak, but I can't understand what he is saying. All the other members of the congregation are listening intently, nodding in agreement, wiping at their eyes. I strain to understand the vicar, but the words all blur into one long, monotone sound. I turn to the figure next to me, a fat potato in a black jacket, and ask him, “What is he saying?”

The potato whispers something to me, but I can't understand him. Before I can ask him to repeat himself, he pulls a handkerchief out of his pocket and blows his nose loudly.

Then there is a mass movement toward the front of the church. The coffin lid is open, and everyone moves forward to pay their last respects.

“I should be first,” I say out loud, but nobody listens.

I try to work my way toward the front, becoming increasingly desperate to have a glimpse inside the coffin, to lay down the flowers that I now seem to be carrying, but suddenly I am engulfed by a wave of vegetables. They are all clamoring to reach the front, shoving me out of the way. A turnip elbows me in the ribs, and a stick of celery wearing high heels steps on my foot. Neither of them even bothers to apologize. I am almost crushed between an inconsolable cauliflower and a sobbing cucumber before being tossed around among a group of hysterical mushrooms. Suddenly the noise is unbearable. There are hundreds of them, all wailing and crying, pulling at each other's stems in an attempt to reach the coffin while I seem to be getting pushed farther and farther back.

“I should be first!” I cry.

Suddenly my feet slip from under me, and I find myself lying on the cold, hard church floor surrounded by pulp. I look up and see that the vegetables are going soft, turning to mush, their squishy insides leaking out from their split skins, mixing with their tears and running through the metal grates in the aisle.

I can only watch in horror as they wail and lament, gradually turning to soup.

***

“Cut the celery into slices,” orders my mother, handing me a knife.

I examine the celery stick closely and then viciously chop it in half, the knife slamming against the chopping board.

“That's for treading on my foot,” I snarl.

“Sorry, darling?”

“Nothing,” I mutter, “just a strange dream I had last night.”

“And when you've done that, you can dice the lamb.”

She slides a dish along the worktop to me, a cold, red, bloody shoulder of lamb inside it. I turn away and cover my mouth, almost retching.

“You know I can't stand raw meat,” I tell her. “I'm not touching it.”

“Don't be such a baby! How are you ever going to cook meat if you can't even touch it? It's no different from when it's cooked. It's the same meat.”

“It's the smell; you know that. It makes me nauseous.”

I've never told my mother about my nightmares and how they smell of raw meat. She would only worry.

My mother rolls her eyes impatiently and lifts the lamb out of the dish to dice it herself.

“When you've chopped the celery,” she continues, “add it to the pan with the potato and mushrooms, then you can pour on the stock. You bring that to a boil, add the
bouquet
garni
and some seasoning…Meg, are you listening to me?”

I rub my eyes sleepily. We have been at this for four hours now. Under my mother's watchful eye and clear instruction, I have made spinach-and-nutmeg soup, chocolate-and-blueberry flapjacks, Gruyère cheese straws, and now we are on to lamb stew. She apparently decided, during her short period of bed rest, that the time has come for me to learn her recipes, and she's on a military-style mission to teach me.

“I could put off teaching you for another year, and then another year, but what's the point?” she said yesterday. “I don't want to wait until I'm an old lady to teach you.”

I came down this morning to find the work surfaces packed with ingredients and a schedule of what we will be cooking over the coming week stuck to the refrigerator. She has literally crammed the next seven days full of cooking lessons. I'm not sure I understand the schedule correctly, but she doesn't seem to have left us any time to eat or sleep.

“I'm really tired. Can we have a rest?”

“We can rest once we've made the maple-syrup-and-pecan muffins.”

“But I don't need to know all this stuff,” I say wearily.

“Cooking is not a matter of need, Meg. It's a matter of desire, of passion. You don't just cook because you have to; you cook for the pure joy of it. Now, have you sliced the potatoes?”

“But maybe we could just cook one thing a day.”

“That's not going to teach you anything. There are so many lovely recipes I want you to learn. We have so many to cover.”

“Couldn't you just write them down?”

“That's not the same! I need to show you personally. You need to know how to make the perfect passion fruit cheesecake and the sweetest grape-and-white-wine jelly. It's all in the mixing; it's all in the blending. How can I write that down? I can't. I need to pass it on properly. I need to show you myself!”

My mother is scaring me. She seems frantic, crazed, grabbing the celery and the knife from me and chopping at a hundred miles an hour, sending pieces of celery flying through the air and scattering across the worktop.

“You need to listen to me, Meg. You need to watch and learn.”

“But why?”

“Because you need to, that's why! You need to know how to do these things. You need to know all the things I have learned. You need to remember!”

She bangs the knife down on the chopping board, frustrated, suddenly looking close to tears.

“Remember what?” I ask.

She is breathing fast, her face flushed and full of distress. She stares at the tiny pieces of celery scattered across the chopping board as if she is trying to decipher some sort of pattern.

I gently touch her shoulder. “I will remember,” I say softly.

She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath, the tension slowly leaving her body. Then she turns to me, searching my face as if she doesn't understand what I have just said, as if she can't remember what just happened.

I carefully pick up the knife. “Tell me what to do next.”

***

If I could capture time, I would put it in a bottle, and I would keep this summer trapped forever inside. The flavor of our cooking lessons, the color of the roses that bloom around our front door, the breeze that blows gently through the open kitchen window, the scent of the Columbian coffee my mother drinks in the mornings…I would keep it always bottled inside a glass prison, mine to keep for the rest of my life. Every now and then I would carefully lift the cork, just enough to hear my mother's laughter as she listens to Jonathan Ross on the radio, or to breathe in the heady scent of her perfume, or to taste the strawberries we pick from the garden and eat with French toast on the sun-drenched patio in the mornings.

But time is not a willing captive. The days pass too soon, slipping through my fingers like sand. I grab for a moment, only to find it is no longer there. I take a photo with my mind, only to find it is already fading. I try to slow the hands of time by doing less during the day, insisting that my mother and I bake for only two hours at the most. The rest of the time I make sure we sit in the garden, read, talk, eat, anything that might stretch out the hours. My mother snoozes on her sun lounger, listens to the radio, reads a novel, pots plants, picks berries, and flicks through recipes. I try to keep as still as possible, knowing that the moment my attention is diverted another hour will pass me by.

It's no good, though. The sun continues to rise and set, the world continues turning, and in this battle against Old Father Time, I know I am destined to lose.

***

One day, out of the blue, my mother asks me, “When are you going back to university, darling? Surely you're missing too many lectures.”

We are munching on our lunch of Brie-and-grape baguette, sitting in front of the television watching Nigella prepare a three-course dinner party for thirty guests. Apparently it can be done in twenty minutes with no more than a packet of frozen prawns, some flat-leaf parsley, and a seductive pout.

“I'm not going back,” I say as casually as possible, despairing that she should even ask me such a question.

My mother looks genuinely shocked.

“Not going back? Why ever not?”

For a moment it goes through my mind that I could lie to her. I could tell her I'm not enjoying the course, that the university burned down, that I've decided to quit scientific research and join the circus. It would be easier for both of us, but it wouldn't be right. Carefully, I put my plate down on the coffee table.

“Because you're sick, Mother, and I'm staying here to look after you,” I tell her calmly.

“Oh, don't be silly. I'm fine!”

I dig my fingernails into my thigh.

“No,” I say clearly, as if talking to a child, “you're not fine. You're very unwell.”

“I've just been a little under the weather! You must go back to university. You've worked so hard. I won't hear—”

“I'm staying here!” I snap, losing my patience.

“Meggy,” she says with a laugh, “I really don't think that's necessary.”

“Mother, look at yourself!” I cry, unable to hold back my emotion. “You're sick! How in God's name can you go on pretending like this? Like nothing's wrong? How do you do this? How do you make up these incredible lies and convince yourself they're the truth?”

She frowns and shakes her head slowly. “Lies? I have no idea—”

“You're always lying! You never tell me the truth about anything! You've been doing it since I was tiny, telling me all these ridiculous stories. How my first tooth was so sharp you used me as a can opener. How I drank so much milk you bought a cow and kept it by my cot. We lived in a flat, Mother! As if the council would have allowed us a cow! You turned my whole infancy into a lie, just like you're turning your illness into a lie!”

My mother's cheeks have turned pink, and her eyes are wide, full of hurt. She looks so fragile and childlike curled up on the big red sofa that I immediately regret my outburst, but I just can't handle this anymore. I just can't.

“I…I don't know what to say,” she says meekly.

“The truth,” I plead. “Just say the truth.”

She runs her fingers through her brittle hair and looks contemplative. I swallow the lump in my throat and sit on my hands, afraid that I will either burst into tears or throttle her.

“You're right,” she says sadly. “I haven't been very honest with you.”

When she draws her hand away, six or seven dull auburn hairs are caught between her fingers. She examines them closely.

“There was no cow,” she sighs. “Keeping a cow next to your cot would have been ludicrous. I don't know why I told you that. I suppose I thought it sounded more interesting than the truth.”

I shift to the edge of the sofa, leaning closer, longing to hear her tell me something, anything, about my infancy that's real.

“You were lactose intolerant, so drinking cow's milk was never an option,” she explains.

I nod encouragingly, wondering if finally, after all this time, her lies are about to give way to the truth.

“So I bought a goat and kept her next to your cot. You were just so thirsty all the time that I couldn't keep up. You would guzzle goat milk like there was no tomorrow, and it seemed the perfect solution until you began bleating and growing tiny horns out of your head.”

I stand up, walk out, and slam the door behind me.

***

Upstairs in my room, I take the flier out from where I have hidden it between two books on the shelf. I am so angry right now that my hands are trembling, but I'm not sure whether I'm more angry with my mother or myself. I'm meant to be sensible and rational and pragmatic, so why do I keep kidding myself that my mother is ever going to tell me the truth?

15 Gray's Inn Road. I shouldn't have to rely on a dubious clue to find out about my own life! I shouldn't have to go off behind my mother's back in search of an address to which my mother may or may not have had some vague connection! But then again, I shouldn't have to lead the farcical life that I do. Maybe I'm just being stubborn, refusing to let go of the dream that one day my mother will give up her charade and finally be honest. Maybe a stubborn baby grows into a stubborn adult. But was I a stubborn baby? Who knows. And that's just the point.

I've tried to make her talk to me. I have tried and tried and tried. And I'm sick of trying.

I pull my
London
A–Z
down from the shelf.

Mark was right.

I'm running out of time.