The Kitchen Daughter Read Online Free PDF Page A

backs—Brennan’s, Amanda’s, Parker’s, Shannon’s—it comes in a flash. The smell of ribollita. Nonna’s espresso voice. Do no let her.
    I say, “Don’t—”
    Amanda says, “Don’t what?”
    But I don’t know the answer.
    So I just say, “Don’t drive too fast,” and she says, “Of course not,” and Brennan says, “Take care, Ginny,” and Parker says, “Bye, Aunt Ginny!” and Shannon says something, but too softly for me to hear.
    When they are gone, Gert says, “I have another half hour to clean, that is okay?”
    “Of course. Take whatever time you need. Oh, and don’t be scaredwhen you go in the downstairs bathroom and see all that hair on the floor. Amanda cut my bangs.”
    “I can see. You look nice.”
    “Thank you,” I say.
    She says, “I only have to take out garbage from kitchen, and I will be done there.”
    I remember Amanda up on the step stool, throwing soup and cereal and rice down into a plastic bag. “No, don’t worry, I’ll take care of that. Would you start on the bathroom instead?”
    “Yes, of course. And do not forget the grocery list, okay?”
    “Thank you.” This is the rhythm we set up for the trip. Once a week, Gert comes to clean. She takes the grocery list with her. The next day the groceries are delivered. Someone from the store brings them, I think, but I don’t lie in wait to see who, I just pick up the bags from the entryway and shelve everything. So much has changed, but we are still sticking to this part of the rhythm. I, for one, need it.
    I go into the kitchen. The bag is still there, open, on the floor. The cupboards, nursery rhyme–style, are bare.
    It doesn’t make sense to throw out perfectly good food. If Amanda can’t stand the thought of touching anything that belongs to our parents, how can she even stand to be in this house? It’s theirs, it’s all theirs.
    I go through the bag. A container of oatmeal has burst and spilled out, but other than that, everything’s intact. If I put things back in the cabinets right away, she won’t be fooled. But if I wait until the new groceries are delivered, I can sneak things back in, and she won’t even know. Luckily she didn’t get as far as the refrigerator, with its orange juice and mustard and countless jars of jam.
    Is this what I was supposed to stop Amanda from doing? Throwing out our parents’ food? I don’t know why Nonna would come from beyond just to tell me so, but I do a lot of things without reallyunderstanding why. Ma taught me a lot of rules and I follow them. In that context, there isn’t that much difference between saying “Thank you” to a compliment you don’t agree with, and obeying a dead person’s warning. You assume there are reasons.
    Since I don’t have long before Gert leaves, I prioritize. Make the shopping list first, then hide the trash bag. I start with the usual basics, milk and eggs. Then I always get some fruits and vegetables, but this week I’m not sure what to do. Maybe I need to order more, or less. I don’t like all this uncertainty. I scribble a few notes, adding oatmeal and butter to the list, and some other things I’m in the mood for: cider, oranges, breakfast sausage.
    Gert comes to say good-bye and I hand her the list.
    “Thank you, he will come tomorrow, probably in morning. There is—I wanted to say one other thing. Your parents,” she says. “We will all miss them.”
    “Thank you.”
    “It is hard at first. I know yesterday, it was very difficult. I will not tell you it gets easier. But it changes.”
    I realize she must have been here, at the house, after the funeral. I didn’t really see faces, only bodies, mostly arms and backs and feet. She would have known not to say anything then. She would have known I couldn’t stand it.
    Gert says now, “Do not let the grief drown you.”
    I think Do no let her.
    I say, “I’ll try.”
    When she leaves, I’m still remembering this house packed full of strangers yesterday, and it reminds