Home Is Where the Bodies Are

by Jeneva Rose

I pull a loaf of white bread from the cupboard and slather a heavy helping of mayo on two slices. A bowl of round and supple beefsteak tomatoes, plucked from the garden, sits beside the sink. I place the ripest one on the worn cutting board. Tomato water seeps from the flesh as my knife slides through it. I’m not sure why I’m even making Mom a tomato-mayo sandwich. She hasn’t eaten anything in days but it’s her favorite, she says. She grew up dirt-poor, so her favorites are her favorites because she hasn’t experienced anything better.

“Eliza . . . beth,” my mother calls softly from the living room. She says my name the same way she consumes her Werther’s candies: slowly, deliberately. It’s like she’s savoring it.

I sip at a four-finger pour of Seagram’s 7 whiskey. The apricot sweetness dissipates as soon as it touches my taste buds and is quickly overpowered by a flavor best described as weak rubbing alcohol. Another thing my mother enjoyed on the rarest of occasions. This swill was a treat for her. It’s cheap, and it doesn’t taste good. But sometimes it’s the bad things in life that make us feel the most alive.

Michael clears his throat. “I picked up some scotch. Do you want some?” “Is Seagram’s not good enough for you?” I tilt my head, half teasing but mostly serious.

He cracks a smile and sips his drink. The scotch is equally smoky and sweet with flavors of honey, vanilla, and citrus. “You have good taste, Michael,” I say with a nod.

I pour a cup of coffee and inhale the nutty smell before taking it out to the back deck to enjoy.

If Mom were alive, I’d be making peanut butter toast and sitting down to watch The Price Is Right with her. But she’s not. How do the living just keep living? I sip the hot coffee and clear my throat. It’s much stronger than how I make it, almost like a thick bitter oil.

“Da bomb! We had an ice cream party and our class played dodgeball against the eighth graders. Totally beat them too. Bunch of weaklings.”

“Since it’s the last day of school, your father and I are going to order in pizza tonight to celebrate.” I smile. Michael cheers, declaring he wants pepperoni. “I don’t eat meat,” Nicole says. “Since when?” Beth asks. I have the same question because she ate the beef goulash I made yesterday, and she brought a ham and cheese sandwich to school today. “It’s a recent decision,” Nicole says. Another phase for my all-or-nothing girl. “I’ll order a cheese pizza too,” I say to appease her. “I want sausage,” Beth says. “All right, one cheese, one sausage, one pepperoni, and one supreme for your dad.”

There were games, vendors, food fried and double fried, farm animals, even a few janky carnival rides.

How could Mom take this secret to her grave? How could she bring Emma’s family casseroles, invite them over for dinners, go on daily walks with Susan to search for her daughter, all the while knowing she was dead?

He extends his hand and in it is a loaf of homemade banana bread packaged in Saran wrap.

Finally, I nod several times and retrieve the loaf of bread from him. “It’s my mom’s recipe.” He shoves his hands into the front pockets of his jeans. It’s like he doesn’t know what to do with them. “I made it, so if it doesn’t taste good, that’s on me,” Lucas adds, rocking back on his heels.

I flop the slice of cheese pizza onto my plate. It doesn’t taste the way pizza should. It’s bland with crust that has the consistency of cardboard. Although the cheese is gooey and greasy, it brings me no joy. My taste buds are barely registering it as food, and I know it has nothing to do with the quality of the pizza.

Michael sits at the other end of the table, chewing on his second slice. Maybe it tastes the same to him. He swigs from a can of PBR after every two bites, so perhaps he’s just forcing it down.

Bartenders serve cold beer from fresh kegs while people swig from their Solo cups, swaying and dancing to the music.

“All right. I won’t be long, and I’ll bring you back a corn dog,” I say. “A beer would be great too.” She laughs, but I know she’s serious.

“Mom!” Michael whines, stealing my attention. Egg yolk is splashed across his shirt. “Look what they did,” he says, gesturing to the mess.

He stomps his foot, letting his head fall forward. I place my hand under his chin, lifting it, and promise him cotton candy when he returns. That garners a smile and gets him moving.

He sits across from me at the head of the table, shoveling a forkful of food into his mouth. I made ramen, mixed with chunks of thick-cut ham, scrambled eggs, and fried onions. It’s cheap but everyone enjoys it. Brian smiles at me as he twists the fork in his bowl, entangling a wad of noodles between the tines. I don’t feel so different than the ramen.

Clutched in my mitten-covered hands are a casserole dish and an assortment of baked goods.

So, I started doing things that would make me feel an ounce better. Like this . . . bringing a hot dish and sweet treats to the man whose life we ruined.

He pulls open the fridge. It’s nearly empty, aside from a case of Miller Lite and a dozen or so half-empty condiment bottles. “I’ve got beer too or tap water.” “I’m good,” I say. “But you should refrigerate these two.” I pull the casserole and another dish out from the stack of containers and extend them to him. He eyes it suspiciously. “What is it?” “This one’s a cheese ball, and this is a tater tot casserole.” Charles collects the dishes and puts them in the fridge. He turns back toward me with knitted brows. “Why’d you bring me this stuff?”

“Excuse me.” He fills a glass with tap water and serves up several baked goods on a paper plate. Charles takes his time choosing, selecting a custard-filled red-and-green cupcake, smothered with cream cheese frosting; a fudge-covered Rice Krispie treat; and a Reese’s Peanut Butter blossom cookie. As he walks out of the kitchen, he tells me he’ll be back in a second.

I remember making dinner that night. I prepared pork chops, mashed potatoes, and corn on the cob. Brian and I even split a bottle of sauvignon blanc to celebrate how well Groovin’ in the Grove had gone. He and I clinked our glasses, sipped on the crisp zesty wine, and took our seats at opposite ends of the table, completely smitten with one another.

The butter spurts and hisses as I crack an egg into the skillet and then another and another. Hash browns cook in one pan, sausage in a smaller one. The smell is divine, and this cozy combination is my favorite way to start a morning with my family.