16

16

T he next morning, Jodi somehow wrangles enough ingredients from the cupboards to make a batch of pancakes. Flora sits at the kitchen table, Iris wrapped up tightly against her chest, and watches as her mother whisks cream-colored slop in a bowl. Jodi never enjoyed cooking when Flora was growing up ( You'll see—once hobbies become chores, they're ruined forever ), but she was always a natural. Now she pulls three different spices from the cabinet and folds them into the mixture with a spatula.

"We should get groceries," Jodi says. "I started a list." She nods toward the countertop, where a small notepad rests.

"We can have them delivered," Flora replies.

"What about produce? You really trust those people to pick out the freshest berries? They'd just pick whatever's on top, even if it's all mushed and moldy."

Flora shrugs. "It's for the convenience, Mom. And I really don't think they'd deliver moldy berries."

Jodi raises her eyebrows and shakes her head. "Whatever you want." She scoops some batter into a measuring cup and pours it onto the hot pan.

Flora remembers a time when she was very little—perhaps one of her earliest memories—when her mom was making homemade barbecue sauce. A curious toddler, Flora had pushed one of the dining chairs over to the stove and climbed on top to see what her mother was doing. Jodi showed her each step of the process and even let her stir. Flora was enamored with her mother's swift and confident movements. As the liquid bubbled in the pot, Flora giggled, entranced by the bright red circles of the stove's burners. Then, curious, she touched one with her right hand.

Over the next few days, the burn blistered and peeled away, and it was her father who tended to it, dressed it, applied the necessary creams. He'd shouted at Jodi when he'd learned what had happened.

"She's two years old, Jodi! Of course she was enticed by shiny, bright circles on the stove—"

"I only stepped away for a second to grab the brown sugar—"

"—she cannot be trusted near a boiling pot, especially not by herself ! You have to watch her!"

Jodi shook her head and touched Michael's facial hair with her fingers.

"I know, I know. You're right," she cooed.

Flora had tried for days to reconcile her mother's version of events with what had really happened. Because as far as she remembered, her mother never stepped away. She didn't take her eyes off of Flora. So why was she apologizing? She didn't do the bad thing her father thought she did. She'd never left Flora's side.

It was only when Flora was older that she realized the truth was far worse than Jodi's account. Her mother had actually seen everything: she'd watched as Flora had gotten the idea and reached her hand toward the burner. It wasn't that she didn't see it happen; it was that she did and simply didn't stop it.

"Syrup?" Jodi asks as she carries a plate of pancakes to the table.

"Mmm… not sure we have any…"

"Honey works, too," Jodi says, already searching the higher cabinets for a jar.

The pancakes are, of course, delicious. They have a hint of nutmeg and taste like fluffy pumpkin pie. Flora easily eats three before her mother has even touched one.

"Oh," Jodi says, as if she has just gotten an idea, but Flora knows that whatever is coming is something Jodi has been thinking about for a while. "Do me a favor and don't tell your father I'm here, okay?"

Flora's mouth flattens and her eyebrows scrunch together. "Huh? Why?"

"It's just none of his business," Jodi says casually.

"Mom, that's so weird."

Jodi slowly chews. "Is it?"

Flora licks honey from her fork. "What if he calls? I'm supposed to pretend like you're not here?"

"I just don't see why you need to tell him," she says calmly, rising to refill her coffee cup. Flora knows there's no sense in pushing; this is not destined to turn into a productive conversation. And while she doesn't understand her mother's request, she doesn't have the energy to fight it.

she'll only be here a few days anyway

"I hope so," Zephie whispers. Flora almost jumps at the girl's sudden appearance. "We hate her."

no "we" don't it's more complicated than that

Zephie huffs in defiance and slinks into a kitchen chair, dejected.

Jodi asks, "How is your father? Is he happy?"

This is a land mine of a question, so Flora takes a giant bite of her remaining pancake to buy time.

"Uh, yeah," she says after finally swallowing. "Yeah, I really think he is."

Jodi nods with an imperceptible expression.

Iris continues to sleep against Flora's chest in the wrap as Flora clears the table and Jodi washes dishes. They work silently in tandem, assuming a familiar rhythm, even though her mother has never been in this house. There's something about their dynamic that feels like muscle memory. Flora and Jodi have slipped into a well-choreographed dance.

Flora is drying the skillet when the monitor crackles from the living room.

didn't I turn that off

Her hearing sharpens. Iris is safe against her chest, breathing in and out steadily and cozily in the warmth of Flora's body. But still, an unease creeps in as she again hears the whispering voice of a man. She closes her eyes and tries to calm herself.

those were bugs last time there's no man

From the table, Zephie clicks her tongue in disagreement. "There weren't actually any bugs, remember?"

Flora freezes, skillet in midair.

Jodi looks at her sideways. "What is it?"

Flora comes to and shakes her head. "Huh? Oh, no, nothing. Just got distracted."

They return to their work in silence until the kitchen is cleaner than it has been in weeks. Maybe even months. And all the while, Flora tries desperately to ignore the man's whisper coming from the monitor that she is confident she turned off. The whisper that has become clearer the longer she ignores it. The whisper that has been asking, in an increasingly irritated voice, "Where's my good girl?"