It’s a Victorian house, built just after the turn of the century when the kitchen, not the room that housed the television, was the heartbeat of the home.Cream-coloured cabinets line the walls on three sides, with a large maple prep table in the centre, the same wood used for the countertops.Burnished copper pots hang from a rack on the ceiling and glint in the light of the sunset framed in the large windows at the back of the house, overlooking the lake.
As she drops her purse on the kitchen prep table, her eyes fall on yesterday’s pile of mail.She flips through the bank statements, bills, and flyers, and finally, a letter with a familiar return address.Without opening it, she scoops it up with the flyers and dumps the lot in the recycling bin by the back door.
The Gawkers—and now the letter—haven’t helped Rachel’s anxiety, and she knows she’ll need something to calm her nerves tonight, or she’ll have no hope of a decent sleep before what’s sure to be another marathon shift tomorrow.She pauses for a moment, then makes her way toward a pocket door to the right of the stove, which opens onto the small, narrow scullery.She flicks on the light, illuminating the rows of pantry staples: bags of flour, canned beans, crackers, and two dozen large Mason jars full of dried herbs.The deep, floor-to-ceiling shelves along one side combined with Dora’s small stature had required the installation of a library ladder to allow her to reach the top.Rachel pushes it gently aside with a light rumble and pulls out the herbs she needs: valerian, chamomile, passionflower, and spearmint.She turns around and sets them down with aclinkon the small counter beside the sink, reaching for Dora’s mortar and pestle.Her mind wanders, as it sometimes does when she’s in the scullery, back to one of her mother’s visits years ago.Her grandmother had ground up other herbs for Mary that time.For her nerves, she’d told Rachel.But the pennyroyal and black cohosh she’d crushed on that occasion weren’t meant for anxious thoughts and racing hearts, Rachel knows now.
The herbs had always been Dora’s specialty.Tea, specifically.She believed there wasn’t much the right tisane couldn’t cure.
OCTOBER, 1977
Mary had arrived on the doorstep just after midnight, the favoured hour of anyone wishing to move about unnoticed.When Rachel woke up on Saturday morning, she stumbled downstairs to find her mother seated atthe kitchen table, thin fingers curled around a mug.Her hair was different than the last time she’d dropped in, at least a year ago.It was longer now, falling nearly past her armpits in dark, loose waves that looked in need of a brush.Her eyelids were heavy, lined in some kind of kohl the colour of trouble.
“Hey,” she said to Rachel, who had stopped short at the sight of her.Rachel’s eyes flicked to Dora, who had just turned around from the sink and was bringing a plate of waffles to the table.She always made them when Mary showed up, because Rachel had once loved them.Dora thought it helped comfort her for the upcoming inevitable stress of Mary’s visit, but the gesture had long ago coiled back in on itself like a foolish snake.Rachel couldn’t stand them now.
Her grandmother nodded at her, nudging a response.
“Hi,” Rachel said.
“You’ve gotten bigger.”
“Yeah.”
Rachel took the empty seat beside her mother and forked a couple of waffles onto her plate, drowning them in maple syrup.She ate as quickly as she could, sparing curious glances at Mary as she and Dora made conversation that went mostly over Rachel’s head.
“Can I be excused?”she asked Dora when she’d finished.
“Yes.Go rinse your plate and then you can watch cartoons in the living room if you like.There’s a good girl.”
Rachel did as she was told, then made a beeline for the television set to turn onLooney Tunes.She watched it for a while, but at the sound of raised voices, crept around the corner and stood in the shadows.
“Are you pregnant again?”Dora asked.
Mary was silent but for the sound of her foot tapping against the metal stool on which she was seated.Rachel’s breath caught.She knew that word, “pregnant.”Her grandmother used it when she talked about the rabbits that liked to nest beneath the rhubarb bushes.Her mother was having a baby.She might have a brother or sister.
“How far along are you?”
“About a month, I think.”
“You think?”Dora asked darkly.
“Yeah.Maybe two,” Mary said.
“Who is the father this time?Do you know?”
“Ron Lister.”
“And he is…?”
Mary paused.“A friend of a friend.”
Silence again.
“What’s the postal code for your most recent address, Mary?”Dora asked.
Mary scoffed.“What—?”
“You cannot raise a child hopping from couch to couch and bed to bed.Children need stability, and—”
“So because I can’t remember my fucking postal code, that makes me an unfit mother?”
