Wayward Home

Ch. 2 WH

"Margot I don't remember her hair being so," there was a long pause as Aunt Catherine inspected me from head to toe a second time.

"Red," Margot supplied.

"Wild," I suggested.

Aunt Catherine's eyes were huge in her face and slightly watery, all situated beneath a pile of greying reddish hair of her own. She was probably a good ten years younger than my parents, putting her in her early fifties and she clung like a limpet to a man who bore a striking resemblance to Walter Matthau. He was tall, stooped forward a bit at the shoulders, but he had a strong grip and introduced himself as my Uncle Joe.

Blinking her eyes at me in confusion, as though she was surprised I could speak, her lips trembled into a smile and she seemed to compose herself. Her death grip on Uncle Joe eased and she lifted a welcoming arm and gestured us further into the house. Ushered into a cluttered living room, I sat uncomfortably on the edge of the sofa and tried to ignore the loud whispering coming from the kitchen and like Joe, fix my attention on the sports game that was playing on the television.

"Ma, she doesn't remember anything from before she woke up in the hospital, she's not deaf or mute for Pete's sake," Margot hissed.

"I...I just didn't think," Catherine moaned, "George never, well I just assumed she was a little touched, you know?"

"You thought she was-." The garbage disposal flipped on suddenly and I finished Margot's statement silently in my head. I jumped, startled a moment later when Joe patted my knee.

"She's a little," he started, circling a finger around his temple, "but she means well."

My smile was fleeting before I dropped my gaze back to the television.

(20 Minutes Later)

"What did you call this again," I asked, picking at the pasta covered in a strange greyish sauce. Somehow I'd managed to avoid the golf ball sized meatball on my plate, slathered in the same grey sauce. The pasta was overcooked and sticking together in globs, but otherwise tasted alright, if a bit peppery.

"Swedish meatballs dear," Aunt Catherine supplied, with a sweet smile at Joe, "They're Joe's favourite. 

Placing another forkful in my mouth, I chewed and blinked, wondering how this could be anyone's favourite meal. I'd never heard of it before. Of course, my mother's cooking was dictated greatly by my father's meat and potatoes palate. And by meat, I mean steak, roast, chops and ribs. Hamburger had been only allowed in the form of meatloaf, never patties or meatballs. Tentatively I cut into the meatball and took a small sample. Chewing, I decided immediately that Swedish meatballs were not a favourite of mine. Coughing, I swallowed and chased the peppery, onion flavoured meat with half a glass of milk.

"So Kenzie-."

"Kenna," I corrected instantly out of habit.

Aunt Catherine's eyes rolled to Margot, before she continued, "Your mother was telling me that you're not involved with any one."