Chapter 2 - The Uninvited Feast
I walked into the kitchen with the heavy aluminum pan of baked ziti balanced precariously in one hand, while my fourteen-day-old son remained strapped against my chest in his cloth carrier. The aluminum warmed through the towel I had placed beneath it, sending the scent of dried oregano and lukewarm tomato sauce into the air.
Denise followed me, her designer sneakers squeaking softly on the hardwood floor. She didn't look at me; her eyes swept across my kitchen with the practiced, critical efficiency of a health inspector evaluating a failing restaurant.
"Oh, Natalie," she murmured, sighing as she picked up a dirty coffee mug I had left beside the sink three hours ago. "You really shouldn't let things pile up like this. It attracts fruit flies. You know how quickly they multiply in October."
"I was nursing Jonah until four in the morning, Denise," I said, my voice flatter than I intended.
"Of course you were, sweetie. But a clean space makes a clean mind." She set the mug down in the sink with a loud, sharp clack that made Jonah twitch against my sternum. "Now, set that oven to three hundred and fifty degrees. It needs at least forty-five minutes to get bubbly. And where do you keep your extra serving spoons? Kelly’s casserole needs a big metal spoon, not those flimsy plastic ones you used at Thanksgiving."
I stood motionless beside the island. The kitchen—my quiet, safe kitchen—was rapidly losing its air.
Through the arched doorway leading to the dining room, Howard was setting his heavy coat across the back of my velvet dining chairs. Kelly’s two kids, eight-year-old Mason and six-year-old Lily, were already racing down the hallway toward the master bedroom.
"Mason! Lily!" I called out, my voice cracking slightly. "Please don't go back there. The dog is sleeping and—"
"Oh, let them play, Natalie!" Kelly called out from the living room, where she was flipping through channels on my television with my remote. "They've been in the car for forty minutes. They need to burn off some energy."
"There's a freshly painted crib in the nursery," I said, trying to step past Denise to intercept the kids. "The paint cured three days ago, but—"
"They won't touch the paint," Kelly dismissed without looking up from the screen. "Do you have any apple juice? Lily only drinks the organic kind without added sugar."
I looked down at my phone resting on the counter. I tapped the screen.
Where are you? I texted Luke again. They are everywhere. Denise wants me to cook.
The three green dots appeared for a second, then vanished. No reply. Luke was likely standing in the pharmacy line at CVS, his phone tucked inside his jacket pocket while the pharmacist filled my prescription pain medication.
"Natalie," Denise’s voice cut through my thoughts like a dull knife. "The oven?"
I inhaled slowly, feeling the stretch of my tender abdominal muscles. My body was still recovering from a difficult delivery that had ended in three internal tears and a staggering loss of blood. Walking across the room felt like moving through wet concrete; carrying a seven-pound baby while holding an eight-pound casserole felt like an act of absurd physical endurance.
I leaned over carefully, avoiding squeezing Jonah against my ribcage, and turned the dial on the stove to three hundred and fifty degrees. The gas burner ignited with a quiet whoosh.
"Great," Denise said cheerfully, dropping her purse onto my immaculate white quartz island—the same island Luke and I had wiped down with disinfectant every morning since bringing Jonah home. "Now, where are the paper plates? We didn't bring any because we assumed you’d have plenty left over from the baby shower."
"We used them all," I whispered.
Denise let out a dramatic, exaggerated gasp. "You mean we have to use real china? On a Sunday?" She shook her head, pulling open my glass cabinets without asking. "Well, I suppose we’ll just have to make do. Where are the dinner forks, sweetie? I only see twelve in this drawer."
"Because there are only twelve," I said, leaning against the counter as a dull, throb of pain began behind my hipbone. "We are a household of two."
"Well, there are eleven of us," Denise replied brightly, pulling down my stoneware dinner plates six at a time. "We’ll just have to share, won't we? Or someone can use the small dessert plates. Howard doesn't mind eating off a small plate, do you, Howard?"
Howard didn't answer. He had found Luke’s bottle of aged bourbon on the sideboard and was currently pouring three fingers into a crystal glass without offering a word of greeting to me.
"Is there any Coke?" Uncle Greg asked, strolling into the kitchen with his hands shoved deep into his denim jeans. He didn't take off his mud-caked work boots. "I can't eat pasta without a dark soda. Cuts the grease."
"We don't drink soda, Greg," I said softly, my hand instinctively coming up to protect Jonah’s head as Greg brushed past me to open my refrigerator.
"No soda?" Greg groaned, staring into my organized shelves of oat milk, fresh vegetables, and prepped lactation smoothies. "What kind of house doesn't have soda? Denise, didn't you bring any pop?"
"I forgot it in the trunk of the Buick!" Denise chirped, setting the heavy stack of stoneware plates down on the marble counter with a force that rattled the glass cabinet doors above. "Natalie, honey, why don't you check the garage pantry? Maybe Luke keeps a stash out there."
"He doesn't," I said.
"Well, check anyway," she insisted, thrusting an empty glass into my hand. "Greg’s thirsty from the drive."
May you like
I stared at the glass in my palm. The blue sleeper against my chest was beginning to feel damp. Jonah was stirring, his tiny nose twitching as the smell of foreign perfume, stale bourbon, and heating garlic filled the room.
I didn't go to the garage. I stood frozen in the center of my own kitchen while eleven people who were not my family rearranged my furniture, opened my cupboards, and converted my postpartum sanctuary into an uninvited buffet.
