Page 79 of Waking Olivia

“Make the mashed potatoes.”

I look at the bag in my hand and back to her. “Uh, okay. Do I bake them first or something?” Like I said, my cooking skills are unbelievably limited. Aside from eggs, everything I know how to make involves ground beef and spaghetti sauce.

She laughs. “Is that a serious question?”

“Well, they need to be soft, right?” I scowl. “I’ve only made mashed potatoes from a box.”

“You’ve never seenanyonemake them?”

I shrug. “My grandmother stopped cooking when I was pretty young, and this is the only other kitchen I’ve been in.”

She turns to me, her eyes sad. “How is that possible, Olivia? You’ve been on your own since you were 16.”

“It is what it is,” I say, wanting this conversation to end rapidly. “So what do I do with them?”

“Peel them, quarter them, boil them. We’ll start with that.”

“Seems like a lot of potatoes for four people.”

“Peter’s coming too,” she says, as if that explains why she’s got me working with about 40 pounds of potatoes. I’m tempted to tease her about the fact that she blushed as soon as she said Peter’s name, but I decide against it. “How old were you when you took over the cooking for your grandmother?” she asks.

I pause. It’s a casual question that does not come with a casual response. My first impulse is to shut the conversation down.Old enough, I could tell her, but I don’t. “I was 11.”

I focus on the potatoes in my hand, the ache caused by the cold water, even though I know she’s stopped what she was doing completely. “What did you cook for Thanksgiving?” she asks quietly when she finally resumes her work.

I shrug. “Same as I cooked every other day. She didn’t really know the difference and it’s not like we celebrated Thanksgiving anyway.”

“So you’ve never had a Thanksgiving meal?”

I pause. “Yeah, I think maybe with my mom. I remember her making a pie.” A shudder passes through me. My mom is smiling in that memory, interested in me, explaining how a pumpkin is considered a fruit because it has seeds. In that memory she doesn’t seem like the kind of person who just abandons her child, and I prefer the monster I’ve created in my mind. It makes it at least possible that some of the fault rests with her.

“I always wanted a girl.” Dorothy smiles at me. “Especially for times like this.”

“You could probably still have one,” I reply. Maybe it’s just good genes, but Dorothy looks young. Too young to have grown sons, actually.

“Shop’s closed. And besides, I have you now, don’t I?”

Will wanders in an hour later, looking adorably sleepy and unshaven,and hot. Who the hell looks totally doable just out of bed?

“Out,” says his mother.

“Coffee,” he replies, scrubbing a hand over his face. “You’re not getting me out of here without coffee.” He glances at me and grins. “My mom trusted you with a knife, did she?”

I narrow my eyes at him. “That was before she knewyou’dbe in the kitchen. Hope that coffee’s fast. I’m feeling stabby all of a sudden.”

He hops on the counter and watches me peel potatoes. “For the record, I’d like my potatoes without any of your fingers in there.”

“Keep jabbering and you’ll be getting them with an extra serving of spit, my friend.”

The next time he comes in he’s dressed and shaved, with Brendan behind him. “We demand food,” Brendan tells his mom.

“Have some cereal,” she says.

“Cereal? We’re growing boys.”

“If the two of you grow any more, you won’t fit in the house. Out.”

“Mom,” Will whines, sounding so young it makes me laugh, “we’restarving.” When that fails, he turns to me. “How about sneaking your favorite coach a few of those rolls?”

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