Page 101 of Aftertaste

And Kostya seemed to understand. When his mother had tried to end the aftertastes by ending her life, his father had backed off. Had stoppedtrying to make her feel him. He’d moved on to Konstantin. And somehow, other spirits had followed.

“I’m sorry, Mama. And Papa—I’m sure he’s sorry, too.”

She gave a weary sigh.

“Sometimes the people you love hurt you. Sometimes they mean to. And sometimes they don’t mean, but cannot help. It is you who must decide to keep loving them anyway.”

Kostya thought about his father, the way he’d driven his mother almost to madness, right up to the edge of death, and she’d still forgiven him. Had kept loving him, all this time.

He wondered how much of his own pain he must have inflicted on her over the years. And she had kept loving him, too, had kept trying. No matter how caustic he had been.

He thought of Maura. Of what she’d put him through tonight. Of the way she’d hurt him, bone deep, but without meaning to. He wondered if he could forgive that.

His mother put a clammy hand over his. “You still tasting him?”

“Sometimes.” Kostya shivered, a draft in the room like someone had left the fridge open. “Thepechonka—the burnt one—it happens when I miss him most.”

She nodded, and he knew she understood. And like he had been listening, had been waiting in the wings, Kostya’s father materialized in his mouth.

Rich morsels of liver, the texture too firm, overcooked. Onion so sweet it melted between his teeth. Crystals of salt, crackling on his tongue. The bitter char in the back of his throat.

The liver had been burned the way Kostya burned now, itching to prepare this dish, to share it with his mom, to bring his dad back. He knew in his gut that this was the time, that if he made this dish now, it would absolutely work. All the components of the recipe were right here, in this room—his father, their shared grief, the best memory of his dad’s life.

“They say on TV that you bringing back Dead with your food.”

He looked at his mother, the subtle way her eyes grew wide. She believed it, believed in him. It was right there, everything he’d wanted. Everything he’d spent the last year working for, that had all come unraveled tonight. He wouldn’t get the girl, or the dream, but maybe—maybe—he could still have this.

“I can bring Papa back, Mama,” Kostya said softly. “Right now. We can say goodbye.”

His mother looked at him for a long moment, tempted. Then she shook her head.

“Nyet, Kostya. That’s only for us. Best thing for Papa is to let him rest.”

“But—”

“It’s twenty years. We holding him back long enough.” Her eyes glazed with tears. “Now real love is to let him go.”

She was right. Of course she was.

All the spirits ever wanted was to rest. To make peace. All this time he had been holding on, Kostya never once stopped to wonder whether he had been holding his dad back.

Was this what Maura had meant? Had she been telling the truth? That there were ghosts stuck in his apartment, tethered by their Living? By his food? Waiting to be let go? He still hadn’t seen them for himself, but then, he knew better than anyone that he didn’t have to see them to know they were there.

His mother suddenly laughed, breaking his train of thought. “You know, you so much like him. You looking like him now. Same expressions! And cooking; oh, how he love food! And,” she teased, “leaving house in mess, for anyone to walk in!”

“What mess?”

“Coffee mug on floor! Glass all over, in kitchen. But don’t worry. Cleaning girl pick up when she let me in.”

“What cleaning girl?”

“With purple hair.” His mother sniffed. “I normally don’t like this color, but she is single? Maybe you ask out?”

“Shit. Mama, did she say anything?”

His mother frowned, thinking. “She leave you note, I think, in kitchen. And she take notepad. Say she needed borrow recipes.”

KONSTANTIN TORE HISkitchen apart, searching. Maura had taken his Saveur Fare order pad, all the recipes he’d recorded—a complete inventory of every aftertaste he’d ever made. Not that it mattered for the opening; every cook at DUH could make those dishes handcuffed and blindfolded. But what did Maura, who couldn’t cook to save her life, plan to do with them?

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