Unhealthy Coping Mechanism

Chapter 8

With Sam still snoozing off his stress back home, Harriet nudged Carol's doorbell with her elbow. The aroma of nutmeg and cinnamon filled the air around the pie topped with a dollop of whipped cream as she held the Halloween-themed plate in both hands. She hoped the Jack-o'-lantern flashing a gap-toothed grin at a black cat would bring an extra smile to the family's faces once they polished off the pie.

Nobody came to the door. Harriet shifted from foot to foot as the pie grew heavier in her hands. She rang the doorbell again.

"Coming!" Carol threw open the door, her eyes as wild as the tangled hairs peeking out of her messy bun. "Close the door behind you," she snapped as she bolted to the kitchen.

Harriet set the pie on top of a half-decorated table. A disheveled stack of paper napkins bore dark brown stains, and a rubber zombie lay sprawled in the center of the table as if it had passed out from gorging on the other half of the chocolate bar lying beside it. She rescued the forgotten snack from the ants crawling across it and tossed it in the trash.

"Is everything okay?" Harriet asked. She flicked the last of the insects off her hand with an annoyed huff.

Carol didn't respond. She pulled a pan of bread pudding filled with cinnamon, raisins, and maple syrup out of the oven before returning her attention to the lump of dough in front of her.

The soft shuffle of slippers on the carpet announced Peter's arrival. His messy blond bangs hung partially over his red-rimmed eyes as he snuck toward the fridge, only to do a double-take at the sight of Harriet. His eyes darted to the pie she'd brought, only to return to the fridge as he stood on his tiptoes.

"Whatcha doing, buddy?" Harriet said.

"Making dinner." He rummaged around in the freezer before pulling out a box of frozen chicken nuggets.

"That's really sweet of you, honey, but shouldn't your mom be taking care of that?" Harriet gave Carol a pointed nudge.

She received an eye roll in response. "He knows what to do."

"It's okay," Peter said. "I can do it myself."

She'd never heard anyone so little sound so defeated. "Hang on a sec," Harriet said.

A blast of cold air hit her as she opened the fridge. Where on earth were the vegetables? Butter, milk, and eggs crowded the fridge, with packets of ready-to-bake cookie dough sitting in the back. Carol never used that stuff, yet there it was as if it belonged in the kitchen just as much as the oven mitts embroidered with daisies or the éclair-shaped magnet pinning Peter's latest self-portrait to the fridge.

The freezer presented her with ingredients she could actually work with. Her fingers brushed against frosty boxes of microwaveable meals as she took out a bag of potstickers and a medley of frozen vegetables. "Does stir-fry sound good?"

Peter's stomach growled.

Harriet took that as a yes. She grabbed one of the many bottles of vegetable oil cluttering the countertops and soon had a spoonful sizzling atop the stove. Frozen potstickers and veggies clattered into the pan, momentarily drowning out Carol's grumbling about her ex-husband.

As expected from a kid his age, Peter avoided one uncomfortable topic by dragging Harriet into another. "Is Sam okay?"

"He will be." Harriet prodded the potstickers with a wooden spoon to separate them. "He just needs to rest for a bit." And to not think about his dad not being around. She risked a glance at the boy beside her. He stared at the pan with rapt attention, licking his lips. "I heard you had a rough day yourself. Feeling better?"