Page 4 of Forget Me Not

He shifts into reverse, still grinning. “Italian food it is.”

I’d argue, but he’s clearly not listening to anything I say.

Since talking isn’t getting me anywhere, I resort to staring out the window. Mr. B doesn’t seem to mind a little awkward silence. He just turns up the radio, singing along to nearly every song. Sometimes he gets the lyrics right. Sometimes he doesn’t. It’s almost like he’s most committed to belting as loudly as he can when he knows he’s butchering the words. He’s funny. Which I find a little annoying. I don’t want to be amused right now. I don’t want to go eat Italian food. It’s all wrong. Gun should be sitting in this truck with him, not me.

I’ve been zoning out for a while when we stop and I have no choice but to check back in with reality. There’s no restaurant in sight. We’re in a neighborhood. Old houses, most of them the size of small castles, line the street in both directions. Right across from us is a lake. It has to be a lake, we’re nowhere near the coast, but it’s so damn big I can’t see land on the other side.

“I thought we were going to get food,” I point out, following his lead and getting out of the vehicle. I have to hurry to catch up when I’m out. He’s already halfway up the walkway leading to the door.

“We are. Best Italian around.” He winks at me over his shoulder, then knocks. And walks right in. “Ma?” he calls out into the stone paved hall. It echoes. The place is huge with a gorgeous, warm Mediterranean theme all throughout. If this is the house Mr. B grew up in, I don’t know what in the hell he finds appealing about the Whaler’s House for Boys. This place is like something right out of a fairy tale.

We’re just barely turning the corner into the next room when I hear voices. A lot of them. All ages. Kids. Babies. Men. Women. Then, a woman old enough to be my grandma, I’m guessing, I don’t have a grandma, comes hurrying out to greet us. She’s got thick black hair, laced with grey and white streaks, resting on her head in big, wavy curls. Her olive complexion is flawless and if it weren’t for her mannerisms and the way she dresses, I’d have struggled to place her age wise.

“Bon-Hwa,” she gushes, squeezing his cheeks and kissing his forehead. “You don’t come see your mother enough.”

I’m a little lost. This tall Korean man did not come out of that little Italian woman. I don’t think anyway. I mean, I guess it’s possible.

“Ma, this is Cooper,” he introduces me while I’m still busy gaping all around the room as two kids with curly blonde hair and whiter than white skin race past me. “Cooper, this is my mother, Nadine.”

“Hi.” I grimace attempting to smile. “You like a lot of people.”

She laughs heartily. “You could say that. Come on.” Where her son was delicate about guiding me along, she just reaches right in, arm stretched around my waist, hand resting on my hip while the other squeezes my arm. It’s the most loving gesture I’ve been exposed to in a long time and my throat clenches at her actions.

Whether she notices or not, she doesn’t show. She just keeps right on talking as we make our way through the house, Mr. B following a few steps behind.

“Wait until you try my lasagna. It’s my mother’s recipe – all from scratch, fresh tomatoes and basil from Gianni’s garden. She waves at an older gentleman standing out on the back porch as we pass by. He shouts an enthusiastic greeting through the open glass doors but we’re already entering the kitchen by the time I have it together enough to answer.

“Uh-huh,” I mumble as she somehow places me into a chair on her way to the stove.

“I hope you like mushrooms, my oldest makes the best stuffed mushrooms,” she goes on as she opens the oven and a wave of hot garlic comes wafting in my direction. I don’t like mushrooms, but there’s a pretty solid chance I’ll eat those things anyway.

“Your oldest?” I finally manage more than some non-verbal syllables again. “How many kids do you have exactly?”

Two oven mitts placed safely on her hands, she bends down and briefly disappears before making a reappearance with two baking sheets laden with cheesy, garlicky mushrooms. “Birthed two, collected eight and borrowed twenty-three and counting.” She looks absolutely delighted by her own announcement.

“Collected?” Can you collect kids?

“Adopted,” Mr. B fills me in quietly on his way to snag a mushroom.

“Oh.” Going along with that terminology, I suppose it’s safe to assume the borrowed ones are fostered. Andcounting.So, they’re still taking in more kids. I turn to Mr. B, trying my hardest to catch his eye so I can practice my mental telepathy skills and inquire about my status in this kitchen. Am I passing through for dinner? Or a highly-desired collector’s item.

I’m about to burst out into complete sentences, when a woman walks in. She’s wiry like me, big hair that seems to go from too much attention to none at all based on the overgrown bangs and three inch roots showing off a stark contrast between her coffee colored hair and the fiery red she died it once upon a time. She’s got resting bitch face down pat and even her overall body language screams of fuck off. She’s definitely something they collected.

“Magdalene!” Nadine tosses her arms into the air dramatically and embraces the pissed off stick figure who seems somewhat immune to it.

“Hi, Ma.”

Nadine must be used to this. Kisses fly from cheek to cheek and end in one last smack on top of her unkempt head of hair. “I love this mess.” She tousles the wild mane and laughs. “Suits you.”

Magdalene nods, her eyes flaring wide for a moment as they meet Mr. B’s. “B.”

“Mags.”

I can’t tell if they like each other or not. But then it’s hard to say whether this chick likes anyone at all.

“Marie pop yet?” She asks, plucking a grape from the massive fruit bowl at the center of the kitchen island.

Mr. B chuckles. “She wishes. Not due for two more weeks.”

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