Free Whatever by Ann Walsh Page A

chicken noodle soup instead.
    â€œIt’s so good to hear the two of you talking,” said Mom, smiling and hugging us.
    â€œMom!” Andrew pushed her away. “Don’t helicopter.”
    â€œSit down, let’s eat,” said Dad.
    â€œGo ahead,” I headed for the kitchen.
    There were two biscuits left. I found the butter and jam and gave the biscuits a few seconds in the microwave to warm. Then I brought them into the dining room and announced, “I baked them myself. Try one.”
    â€œPoison, poison, spare me, evil sister.” Andrew threw his hands up over his face and pretended to cower. I thrust the plate under his nose. He sniffed, grabbed a biscuit and took a bite.
    â€œHey, not bad for poison. Did you really make them?”
    There were still traces of tears on his cheeks. For a moment I thought I was back in that kindergarten room with a five-year-old brother clutching my hand. It was a good memory.

    Andrew was himself again by the weekend. He’d pulled the bandage off so the stitches showed—ugly black threads with the ends sticking out like spider legs over the angry slash of the cut. When Mom made a fuss, wanting to put another bandage on him, he ignored her. “It really is gross,” I said.
    â€œGood. Don’t look.” Things were back to normal, whatever normal was in our house these days.
    Andrew asked for more cheese biscuits. I didn’t have Mrs. Johnson’s recipe, but I found a recipe on the internet that sounded the same and made biscuits for Sunday dinner. Mom cooked a roast and bought some macaroni salad. She insists we eat dinner together, the whole family—she read somewhere that doing that will keep your teenagers off drugs, or something equally bizarre. So unless someone has a meeting or a game or a rehearsal, we always sit at the dining-room table and eat dinner together. But usually dinner wasn’t this fancy, with a roast and my biscuits.
    Dad and Andrew ate so many biscuits I moved the remainder beside my plate. “You’re both cut off until Mom and I have had our share.”
    â€œMaybe there will be some left for breakfast,” said Andrew.
    Dad nodded. “If only we had some strawberry jam like my mother used to make . . .” He saw the look on Mom’s face and shut up.
    â€œI’ll see what I can find at the farmer’s market,” she said, her voice tight.
    â€œMaybe Darrah can learn how to make jam,” said Dad. “Do you suppose your Mrs. Johnson can teach you how?”
    â€œI can make it by myself. There’s recipes on the net, I’ll look one up.”
    â€œWhy don’t you stick to making biscuits and try to enjoy the jam I buy from you know, one of those stores where they sell food? Not every woman is born wanting to make jam,” said Mom.
    Dad and I looked guiltily at each other. Mom could be sensitive about her cooking—or rather her lack of cooking. “I have a job outside the home,” she said. “I do my best, but I don’t have time to make jam. Or biscuits.”

    Monday afternoon I was back at Mrs. J.’s.
    â€œJam?” she said, horrified. “You’re not ready, not nearly. Besides, I gave away my jars and canner last year. It got toohard to clean the fruit. Got two big flies in my last batch of peach jam; decided it was time to give it up.”
    â€œAre we going to cook?” Again the house was spotless, clean blue and white tea towels hanging by the sink, the crocheted slippers nesting tidily in their basket, the kitchen floor swept. There were no area mats in the kitchen or anywhere else that I had seen. No place to hide dust.
    â€œNot today. You can read me the paper.”
    â€œStill can’t find your glasses? Want me to look for them?”
    â€œNo, leave it be. Just read.”
    The town’s twice-weekly paper was the only newspaper on the kitchen bench; Mrs. J. must have been recycling. Or else