Winter Garden

“When I am gone, you will only have each other. ”

Meredith walked over to the samovar. That was the last thing she wanted to think about today—her mother’s death. “It will be hot in a moment,” she said without turning around.

After a while, she heard her mother walk away, and Meredith was alone again.

Nina planned to wear her mother down. If Meredith the martyr’s performance in the kitchen had proven anything, it was that time was of the essence. With every rip of newspaper or clang of a pot, Nina knew that another piece of her mother’s life was being wrapped up and put away. If Meredith had her way, there would soon be nothing left.

Dad had wanted something else, though, and now Nina wanted it, too. She wanted to hear the peasant girl and the prince in its entirety; in truth, she couldn’t remember ever wanting anything more.

At breakfast, she’d gone into the kitchen, stepping carefully around her ice-cold sister. Ignoring Meredith, she made Mom a cup of sweetened tea and a piece of toast and carried them upstairs. Inside her mother’s bedroom, she found Mom in bed, her gnarled hands folded primly on the blanket over her stomach, her white hair a bird’s nest that hinted at a restless night. With the door open, they could both hear Meredith packing up the kitchen.

“You could help your sister. ”

“I could. If I thought you should move. I don’t. ” She handed her mother the tea and toast. “You know what I realized when I made your breakfast?”

Mom sipped tea from the delicate silver-encased glass cup. “I suppose you will tell me. ”

“I don’t know if you like honey or jam or cinnamon. ”

“All are fine. ”

“The point is, I don’t know. ”

“Ah. That is the point,” Mom said, sighing.

“You’re not looking at me again. ”

Mom said nothing, just took another sip of tea.

“I want to hear the fairy tale. The peasant girl and the prince. All of it. Please. ”

Mom set the tea down on the bedside table and got out of bed. Moving past Nina as if she were invisible, she walked out the room, across the hall, and went into the bathroom, closing the door behind her.

At lunch, Nina tried again. This time, Mom picked up her sandwich and carried it outside.

Nina followed her out to the winter garden and sat beside her. “I mean it, Mom. ”

“Yes, Nina. I know. Please leave me. ”

Nina sat there another ten minutes, just to make her point, then she got up and went inside.

In the kitchen, she found Meredith still packing pots and pans into a box. “She’ll never tell you,” she said at Nina’s entrance.

“Thanks for that,” Nina said, reaching for her camera. “Keep boxing up her life. I know how much you want everything to be neat and labeled. You’re a barrel of laughs. Honest to God, Mere, how can your kids and Jeffstand it?”

Nina came back into the house at just past six. In the last bit of copper-colored evening light, the apple blossoms glowed with a beautiful opalescence that gave the valley an otherworldly look.

The kitchen was empty except for the carefully stacked and labeled cardboard boxes that were tucked neatly into the space between the pantry and fridge.

She glanced out the window and saw that her sister’s car was still here. Meredith must be in another room, knee-deep in boxes and newsprint.

Nina opened the freezer and burrowed through the endless rows of containers. Meatball soup, chicken stew with dumplings, pierogies, lamb and vegetable moussaka, pork chops braised in apple wine, potato pancakes, red pepper paprikash, chicken Kiev, stroganoff, strudels, hamand-cheese rolls, homemade noodles, and dozens of savory breads. Out in the garage, there was another freezer, equally full, and the basement pantry was chock-full of home-canned fruit and vegetables.

Nina chose one of her favorites: a delicious slow-cooked beef pot roast stuffed with bacon and horseradish. She defrosted the roast in the microwave, with all the root vegetables and rich beef broth, then ladled it to a baking dish and put it in the oven. She set the oven for 350 degrees, figuring it couldn’t be too far wrong, and then filled a pot of water for homemade noodles. There were few things on the planet better than her mom’s noodles.

While dinner was in the oven, she set the table for two and then poured herself a glass of wine. With this meal, the aroma would bring Mom to her.

Sure enough, at six forty-five, Mom came down the stairs.