The Promise Kitchen: A Novel by Peggy Lampman

Author:Peggy Lampman [Lampman, Peggy]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
ISBN: 9781503938847
Publisher: Lake Union Publishing
Published: 2016-08-15T18:30:00+00:00

Mallory

I awaken to cries and scratching sounds on the glass pane beside my bed. The figure of the cat, hair standing, back arched with claws extended, lurks outside my window. He must be hungry, but the mournful cries were mine. Visions from last night return in a flood. I should have downed a bottle from my inheritance of Mama’s cancer-coping arsenal instead of those two piteous pills.

When the meds did their job, my dreams were delirious. I gave birth to twin daughters with fins instead of arms. We glided through ocean swells, our synchronized hips weaving, keeping time with the rhythm of the current’s pull. As hunters, we were out for a kill. I pointed to a large grouper hiding behind a fossilized conch, and we unfurled a net and wrestled it over our prey; the angry fish thrashed, tangling itself in our web. I cautioned the girls to beware, never kill your fish in the sea: blood lures sharks. They appear out of nowhere when you least expect it. Thrust forward by the relentless surf, we swam away with our struggling catch, planning to spear it on the safety of the shore.

Then the ocean heaved into a tunnel, and the walls began crumbling. I couldn’t breathe. I was in a train going nowhere, the whistle blasting. My cries for help were ignored by fellow passengers who didn’t speak English or didn’t want to get involved. Mama, Daddy, and Papa Lakes—all the people I had ever loved and lost—linked hands and circled me, praying in a monotone hum for my soul. I tried to cut in and join their ring, but they were braided together.

My family, those who are dead, lived honorable lives and are in a sacred place; my lamentations are damned.

I know to be saved I must be willing to change, but there is no change I can make that will expiate me, no potion that will erase last night. I was sharing a moment with Itchy, looking into her eyes, not paying attention to the road. I could have killed that man. I would have killed him if I’d had more to drink—would have run right over him. The officer said he was here illegally and I had done the state of Georgia a favor. What will become of him now, if he’s not already dead?

Itchy’s final words last night, after I stopped my car in front of her house, echo as if trapped in the base of a well. He wasn’t wearing a helmet. Remember that, Mallory. It was dark, there was no light on his bike, and he was not wearing a helmet. He must have fallen into your car. It’s his fault, Mallory, not ours. Driving back to Cabbagetown, I felt the jolt of the car as I hit him—huh-whump. It was my fault. I was looking at Itchy. I swerved into him.

Nine hours have since passed. I stagger out of bed, go to the cupboard, and with trembling fingers pull out a tin of tuna, the pricey yellowfin from Spain; at least I can keep that cat alive.

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