Culinaria L'amore

Culinaria L'amore Chapter Three*

Chapter Three

By the time I got home, which was around midnight, my mom's room's light was still on, shining through her closed floral drapes. I slowly got out of my car, gingerly clutching my bag since my finger was starting to scab over, as I entered the silent house. Dropping my bag onto the hardwood floor quietly, my apron rustling, I made my way up the stairs to my mother's room, slightly startled when I heard sniffling on the other end.

Opening up her door quietly, I whispered, "Mom?"

I obviously frightened her because she whirled around, dropping a piece of paper onto the ground, the picture fluttering as it landed onto the cream colored carpet. As I advanced, I saw that it was a photo of my father, smiling as he posed next to the Statue of Liberty. He was wearing his favorite Mickey Mouse t-shirt from the sixties and was making a funny face as he stared at the camera, unaware of the doom to come in a year.

"Hello, Kirsten, how are you? You left early for work and I didn't get to say bye. Don't leave without saying bye next time." My mother said, bending over slowly to retrieve the photo.

"Mom, I wanted to talk to you about the offer to the Bianchi Culinary Institute." I muttered, immediately cutting to the chase.

"Ah, yes. It will be a great experience for you, honey, I suggest that you go." My mom's wrinkled face lit up at the prospect, though her crow feet looking deeper and deeper. Her face was showing signs of getting old and her hands loked knobbier and thinner than just a few weeks ago. For some reason this only angered me. How could my father leave? How?  

 My mother continued, "And that nice handsome boy, Garrett is simply just the perfect gentleman. You could learn a lot from him." she peered at me owlishly, a small knowing smile in her eyes.

I bit my lip, twisting my purity ring around my finger, trying to control my frustration and anger especially at the horrible, juvenile acting man. If only my mother knew about his bad attitude and cockiness behind all of his sweet words and faux mask. "What about you and the restaurant? That's all that we have. And what if you get sick? There will be no one that can help you."

My mom gave a small laugh, embracing me in a hug, her wet cheek pressing against mine. "Oh, darling you are like your father. Always worrying about the smallest things."

'Right, small.' I thought as she continued.

"Of course I will be fine. We do have neighbors, no? It has always been your father's dream to attend a culinary institute as famous as the Bianchi's but he never got the chance. He would have been so proud of you if he knew that you were accepted, whether or not it was because I'm friends with Yivanni. I've already talked to Yivanni, and she'll pull up a document for you. Go to bed now. I think we will be meeting with them again tomorrow for dinner or something and I want you to look pretty and well rested."

Before I could say anything or protest, she led me to the door, her thin hand on my back, and waved as she closed it behind me. I took the hint to let her have some privacy with the memory of her husband.

My mother and father had always been in love. Many couples, after having a kid or two resigned to a relationship that was almost like a partnership with friendly feelings, not love. But every small peck on the cheek or ruffle of hair was the endearments that I wanted with a spouse like my parents had. My mother's pain was unexplainable, uncomprehensible, even to me.

Walking into my room, cautiously tiptoeing so that I wouldn't stub my toes on some object that I probably had hurriedly discarded earlier, my mind shifted to the prospect of going to the institute. Even my mother was encouraging me to leave her and her husband's business to travel 70 miles and learn a trade that had always been my dream.