Free The Murmurings by Carly Anne West

door.
    “I’ve got it,” I say, dropping the knife and hustling to the front door.
    Aunt Becca plants a rushed kiss on my temple beforehanding me one of the two paper grocery bags she’s balancing on her hips.
    “How’s she doing?”
    I bite my tongue before blurting that I have no idea, that I shouldn’t have to keep tabs on my mother, that I’m not exactly fine myself. My face hurts from forcing a smile for everyone else’s sake. All so Mom can recover from her loss.
    “Who knows?” I say instead, mustering my best I’m coping tone.
    “Guess we’ll know soon enough,” she says before whisking past me into the kitchen.
    We eat in the breakfast nook, the three of us quietly marveling at the creation Mom’s managed to slap together. I have to admit, I had my doubts. And I still can’t exactly name whatever it is that she’s made. But it’s warm and savory, and I’m so happy to be eating it. Aunt Becca brought a crusty sourdough baguette and some cheese, and I’m wolfing it down so fast I’m about to slip into a bread-and-cheese coma.
    “What kind of cheese is this anyway?” Mom asks before slathering a slice of baguette with the soft white stuff.
    It makes me irrationally giddy to see her eating.
    “Camembert, I think,” Aunt Becca replies. “Who knows? I grabbed the first thing I found next to the bread.”
    “I can’t remember the last time I’ve had really goodcheese,” Mom says with nostalgia, and I wonder if she’s working up to more important things to remember fondly. “I don’t think I’ve had really good cheese since Mom died. Do you remember how she used to be such a food snob?”
    “Yes!” Aunt Becca climbs onboard. “She was always bringing the girls those fancy French cheeses made from goats’ this or that. The girls loved it, didn’t you?” She turns to me.
    I shrug. Nell had taken to Nana’s eccentricities more than I had. I suppose I didn’t have the right sophistication—the same quality that made Nell so good at poetry. She and Nana had always had more in common.
    “Do you remember that trip we all took to Oregon?” Aunt Becca continues the happy memory game. I’m still just glad to be eating a home-cooked meal.
    “Oh God, the cheese factory! I’d almost forgotten all about that!” Mom starts to laugh, and it sounds out of practice in her throat. Still, shaking off the cobwebs is a good start. The Oregon trip was one of the only out-of-state vacations I remember. Mom and Aunt Becca got some sort of discount for going to a hair show.
    I watch Mom’s face closely from the corner of my eye, and though she looks a little nervous, her smile doesn’t disappear as she forks the next bite into her mouth.
    “Do you remember that, Sophie?” Aunt Becca tries to draw me in, no doubt hopeful that a shared memory will start the healing process right here in the breakfast nook over a plate of mystery noodles.
    “Sort of.” I’m hoping if I don’t join in, this conversation will pass. This sort of reminiscing can’t end well.
    “She might have been too young,” Mom says.
    “I guess she was pretty young. But don’t you remember, Sophie? You have to remember. You were the one who almost got us kicked out for stealing crackers from the gift shop!” Aunt Becca hoots, looking at me with a rapt attention that only comes with remembering something that was fun once upon a time.
    But her face is tight, desperate, like she’s trying to re-create that feeling all over again.
    She’s talking so fast, I can’t stop her before she says, “And then you told the security guard that you weren’t stealing it. You needed it for your low blood sugar. Ha! How could a girl your age even know what that was? And then to pull that out of thin air, I just couldn’t believe—”
    “That was Nell,” I correct her quietly.
    For a second, we all sit in silence, forks resting on our plates.
    “That’s right. I’d forgotten that. She was always comingup with . . . ” Aunt