Page 29 of Still Yours
My voice draws Ma’s attention. “Oh, hi, honey. How’s your contract reading coming along?”
“Fine.” I drawl, my gaze sliding from her to Noa. “How’s it coming along in here?”
“Noa and I are simply going over my schedule for the next month,” Ma says.
Noa slits her eyes at Ma, then whirls and says brightly, “I’ll start dinner.”
“You don’t have to cook,” I say at the same time Ma pipes in, “Do you remember Noa’s dream to go to culinary school?”
I walk deeper into the kitchen, conscious of Noa banging pots onto the counter. “I was often the lucky recipient of her food experiments.”
“What’s everyone feeling like tonight?” Noa asks loudly while facing the stove. “Pasta? Chicken Milanese?”
“Either sounds lovely, dear.” Ma folds her arms on the counter.
“Great!”
Noa’s exclamation comes out high-pitched and frantic. Conscious of the plot thickening between these two, I lower myself onto the stool next to Ma.
Ma continues as if Noa hasn’t spoken. “Now I, for one, think it’s high time for Noa to expand her skills, or at the very least exercise the ones she’s gained.”
She leaves a gap of silence, of which I have a son’s obligatory urge to fill with a supportive, “Yes. Skills shouldn’t be put to waste.”
“I knew you’d understand.” Ma claps her hands together with a burst of energy I haven’t seen since arriving home. “Then you won’t mind accompanying her to theC’est Troiscooking classes I bought her.”
I straighten. Frown. “What?”
Noa spins, her oil-coated wooden spoon coming with her and splattering across my shirt. Again. “Mrs. Stalinski, I’ve told you, I don’t need?—”
“Judy, dear.”
“—to go to these classes. Not if you can’t go.”
Ma looks at me, choosing to ignore how I have to reach around her to get a napkin and dab at my shirt. “The classes were my gift to her, meant to be for the two of us to enjoy together. A small token of gratitude for all she’s done.”
Noa audibly sighs. “I’m anurse. Your insurance pays me to do this and I’m happy to do it. Please, you don’t have to give me anything to help you.”
“You arenota nurse.” Ma sticks her nose up. “You are a cook. A chef. Saucier. Chef departie.”
“Now you’re just showing off your fancy words,” I say wryly.
“Mrs. Stalinski, I’ve chosen to be a nurse.”
“If bychosen, you mean you were pushed into the role.”
“I truly wasn’t!” Noa throws her hands up, splattering more oil.Hotoil, I might add. “I enjoy what I do..”
I jerk back, but not in time to receive a second coating. Neither of them hears me curse under my breath. Or acknowledge another reach-around for a paper towel.
“You do not belong at my bedside, dear, or in the bathroom with me, or seeing to my needs all night.”
“That’s for me to decide.” Noa huffs, folding her arms and thankfully tucking the spoon behind her.
During their spat, Noa’s come closer, her arm a scant inch from mine. If I leaned sideways enough, I could kindly return the favor and stain her shirt, too.
“We can put a pin in it for now,” Ma allows.
Noa visibly relaxes, the tension around her eyes disappearing. “Thank you.”
