By the second day of Diane's cold, I was ready for the house to feel normal again.
She sounded miserable.
Her cough had become more frequent, and she kept a box of tissues near her favorite chair.
Whenever I passed through the living room, I heard her clearing her throat.
She insisted she was fine.
I didn't argue with her about that.
If she wanted to call it a cold, she could call it a cold.
What mattered to me was keeping the kitchen as clean as I reasonably could while she recovered.
I wasn't trying to isolate her from her family.
I wasn't asking her to stay in her room.
I simply wanted her to use her own utensils and keep her mouth away from the food everyone else would eat.
That morning, I made chicken soup for Noah's dinner.
It was the kind of meal I liked having ready ahead of time.
I could prepare it, leave it to cool, and serve it later without having to rush around the kitchen when Noah was hungry.
I put the pot on the stove.
The lid rested beside it.
I made sure the serving ladle was within reach.
Then I turned to Diane, who was nearby.
"That's Noah's soup for tonight," I told her.
She glanced at the pot.
"All right."
"If you'd like some, just use the ladle to put a portion in a bowl."
She looked at me.
"I know how to serve soup."
"I know. I'm just asking you to use the ladle rather than eat from the pot."
Her expression changed.
I could see the familiar irritation beginning.
I kept my voice even.
"Especially while you're sick."
Diane picked up a tissue and dabbed at her nose.
"Oh, for heaven's sake."
I waited.
She folded the tissue and set it aside.
"I heard you the first time."
I nodded.
"Okay."
I wanted to leave it there.
I had made the request clearly.
She had acknowledged it.
There was no reason for another argument.
I went back to what I was doing.
For the next several minutes, I concentrated on ordinary tasks.
I checked on Noah.
I moved a few things around the kitchen.
I thought about the rest of the day and what needed to be done before dinner.
The soup was still on the stove.
I could smell it whenever I passed the counter.
It should have been an ordinary morning.
Then I returned to the kitchen.
Diane was standing beside the pot.
The serving spoon was in her hand.
For a fraction of a second, I thought she was simply stirring the soup.
Then I saw her bring the spoon to her mouth.
She tasted it.
She licked the spoon.
And she lowered it back into the pot.
She stirred.
I stopped in the doorway.
It was the same movement I'd seen with the potato salad.
The same casual confidence.
The same assumption that there was nothing to discuss.
Except now she was sick.
And the soup was for Noah.
I felt my stomach tighten.
"Diane!"
She turned sharply.
"What?"
I pointed toward the pot.
"What are you doing?"
She looked at the spoon, then at me.
"Tasting the soup."
"You just put that spoon in your mouth."
She glanced at the pot as if the answer should have been obvious.
"Well, how else am I supposed to taste it?"
I stepped closer.
"You can use a clean spoon."
She made an impatient sound.
"Here we go again."
I could hardly believe we were having the same conversation.
I'd told her what the soup was for.
I'd explained exactly how she could serve herself if she wanted some.
She had said she'd heard me.
And then she'd done precisely what I'd asked her not to do.
"Diane, you're sick."
She looked at me as though that detail had nothing to do with anything.
"I have a cold."
"And that's Noah's dinner."
"Then he can eat it when it's ready."
I stared at her.
I was trying to find a way to speak that would make her understand how serious this felt to me.
I didn't want to scream.
I didn't want to frighten Noah if he was nearby.
But I couldn't pretend I hadn't seen what she'd done.
"You've just put a spoon from your mouth back into the soup he's supposed to eat."
Diane slammed the spoon down beside the pot.
"Would you stop carrying on?"
The sound made me flinch.
She was angry now.
Not embarrassed.
Not apologetic.
Angry that I'd caught her doing something I'd already asked her not to do.
I looked at the soup.
I thought about the time I'd spent preparing it.
I thought about Noah sitting at the table that evening, expecting his dinner to be ready.
And I thought about how many times I'd tried to handle this quietly.
I'd asked.
I'd explained.
I'd offered clean utensils.
I'd spoken to her politely.
Mark had spoken to her, too.
Nothing had made a difference.
"Why won't you just use a clean spoon?" I asked.
Diane crossed her arms.
"Because this is ridiculous."
I felt my face grow warm.
"How is it ridiculous to ask you not to put your saliva into food other people are going to eat?"
She shook her head.
"Children need germs. That's how they build up their immunity."
I stared at her.
I didn't know where to begin.
I wasn't trying to raise Noah in a sterile room.
I wasn't asking him to avoid the world.
I was asking an adult not to put a spoon from her mouth into his dinner, particularly when she was coughing and congested.
Those were not the same thing.
I wanted to explain that.
But looking at Diane, I realized she wasn't waiting for an explanation.
She'd already decided my concern was foolish.
Anything else I said would simply give her another opportunity to dismiss it.
I took a slow breath.
"Please don't do it again."
She rolled her eyes.
I turned away from the stove.
That was when Mark walked in.
He must have heard our voices.
I hadn't noticed him approaching, and I wasn't expecting him to become involved at that exact moment.
He stopped near the kitchen entrance.
His eyes moved from me to Diane.
Then he looked at the pot.
Finally, he noticed the spoon lying beside it.
Nobody spoke for a moment.
Mark didn't ask what had happened.
He seemed to understand from the way we were standing.
He looked at his mother.
"Mom, did you just taste that soup with the serving spoon?"
Diane lifted her chin.
"Yes. I was checking the seasoning."
"And then you put it back in the pot?"
She gave an irritated sigh.
"Yes, Mark. I did."
He glanced at me.
I didn't say anything.
I was too tired to explain the situation all over again.
Mark turned back to his mother.
"Do you really think she's making a big deal out of nothing?"
Diane answered immediately.
"Absolutely."
There was no hesitation.
No sign that she understood why he might be concerned.
She seemed almost relieved that he had asked, as though she finally had an opportunity to prove that I was the unreasonable one.
Mark stood very still.
Then he asked another question.
"And you honestly don't see anything wrong with what you just did?"
Diane spread her hands.
"There's nothing wrong with tasting food. People have been doing it forever."
He didn't respond right away.
I watched him closely.
Usually, when Diane became defensive, Mark tried to soften the situation.
He might remind her that I had a point.
He might ask her to calm down.
He might suggest that everyone stop talking about it and move on.
He didn't like arguments, especially with his mother.
I had seen him choose silence many times when speaking up would have been easier.
But this time, he didn't look away.
He looked at the soup again.
Then he looked at the spoon.
Then he looked at Diane.
"All right," he said.
Two words.
Nothing more.
Diane seemed satisfied.
She picked up the tissue beside her and turned away from the stove.
I stood there, waiting for Mark to say something else.
He didn't.
He walked out of the kitchen.
I wanted to follow him.
I wanted to ask whether he was angry, whether he had finally understood how exhausted I was, whether he was going to do anything about it.
But I stayed where I was.
Diane had already moved on.
She seemed to believe the conversation had ended in her favor.
She had defended herself.
She had dismissed my concern.
And Mark had said, "All right."
To her, that probably sounded like agreement.
To me, it sounded different.
I couldn't explain why.
I simply watched Mark disappear down the hall and felt that something had changed in the way he was looking at the situation.
Not dramatically.
Not loudly.
He hadn't raised his voice or threatened anyone.
He had only asked his mother two questions and listened to her answers.
But he hadn't tried to excuse her.
He hadn't told me to let it go.
And he hadn't asked either of us to stop arguing.
He had gone quiet.
That afternoon, I dealt with the soup.
I couldn't bring myself to serve it to Noah after what I'd seen.
I didn't make a scene about it.
I simply put it aside and prepared something else.
I was angry about the wasted food.
I was angrier about the reason it had been wasted.
Diane didn't apologize.
She didn't acknowledge that anything unusual had happened.
She carried on with her day as though I'd objected to the way she stirred a pot.
I cleaned the kitchen.
I washed the spoon.
I put the ladle away.
The ordinary motions gave me something to concentrate on while I tried to settle myself.
Later, Mark found me alone.
He stood near the counter, looking more thoughtful than upset.
"Are you okay?"
I nodded automatically.
Then I shook my head.
"Not really."
He leaned against the counter.
"I'm sorry."
I looked at him.
"For what?"
"For letting this keep happening."
I hadn't expected him to say that.
I had expected another conversation about his mother, another attempt to explain why she was difficult, another reminder that we only had a few weeks left.
Instead, he looked genuinely troubled.
I felt some of the tension leave my shoulders.
"I don't want to fight with her," I said.
"I know."
"I just want her to listen when we ask her not to do something."
Mark nodded.
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
Then he glanced toward the hallway.
"Don't worry about it."
I gave him a doubtful look.
"Mark, I've heard that before."
"I know."
His voice was different now.
Not defensive.
Not impatient.
Just certain.
He moved closer and lowered his voice.
"I have an idea."
I waited.
"I'm going to deal with this."
I didn't ask what he meant.
I was afraid of getting my hopes up.
He seemed to notice my hesitation.
"Just be in the kitchen tomorrow morning."
I looked at him.
"Why?"
"You'll see."
He gave my hand a brief squeeze.
Then he left me standing beside the counter.
I looked at the clean spoon I'd put away.
For the first time since Diane had arrived, I had the feeling that Mark wasn't planning to ask his mother nicely one more time.
He was planning something else.
Click here to continue reading: PART 4: Mark Said He Wanted to Look After His Mother at Breakfast, and the Shiny Metal Cover Made Her Smile Before It Disappeared
I Thought Six Weeks Would Be Easy Until I Found Diane Standing at My Kitchen Counter With a Spoon in Her Mouth
Part 3 of 8
