Chapter 3
"Allergies? Who can even tell if it's real or just faking it," Helen scoffed.
Emily's hands slipped, and the blanket ended up folded all wrong.
Emily didn't go in and confront her.
Some things, once you say them out loud, just break that thin layer of family harmony.
She thought if she just kept avoiding chives, never ate them, never touched them, she'd be fine until the baby was born.
But right after her third month, Helen casually mentioned she was going to make ravioli for Emily.
"Store-bought ravioli isn't clean enough. I'll make it myself," Helen said.
Emily sat at the dining table, her fingers freezing for a moment.
"What's the filling?" Emily asked.
Helen was busy with the dough, not even bothering to look up.
"Just eggs," Helen said.
Emily asked again.
"Only eggs?" Emily pushed.
Helen finally looked up, her smile gentle.
"What else could I possibly put in? Do you really think I would ever do something to hurt you?" Helen said.
Her words hung in the air, and even the sound of water by the bowl seemed to pause for a moment.
Emily pressed her lips together.
"I was just asking," Emily said.
Helen kept kneading the dough.
"Don't worry, I remember," Helen said.
That morning, the sky hung low and overcast.
The clothes on the balcony had dried, but the dampness had crept back in, leaving them cool to the touch.
When Emily woke up, David had already left for work.
There was a sticky note from him on the headboard.
[Soup's in the pot, meds are in the left drawer. If you're not feeling well, call me right away.]
She slipped the note into the drawer, and after she finished washing up and came out, she heard the door unlocking.
Helen walked in, lugging two big bags.
One bag held eggs and flour, and the other was stuffed full, and she had it gripped tight in her hand.
Emily was standing at the dining table.
"Helen, why are you here this early?" Emily asked.
"Early? Making ravioli for you isn't quick work," Helen replied.
She set the bags down on the kitchen counter.
The bags made a soft rustling sound as they slid across the counter.
Emily glanced over.
Helen casually slipped the bulging bag under the kitchen counter.
Her movements were steady, not rushed, but not slow either.
It was so ordinary it could not have been more ordinary, and it was simply another day at home.
Emily didn't say a word.
Helen took a bowl out of the fridge and turned on the faucet to wash her hands.
"Don't just stand there. Pregnant women shouldn't be on their feet so much," Helen said.
Emily sat down at the dining table, watching Helen through the kitchen door as she bustled around.
Helen poured flour into the bowl, adding water bit by bit.
Helen really went at the dough, pressing down so hard her wrist made the whole bowl thump.
"Did you like ravioli when you were a kid?" Helen suddenly asked.
Emily hadn't expected her to make small talk.
"They were alright," Emily replied.
"David loved my ravioli when he was little. Every time I made it, he could put away more than twenty," Helen said.
Her voice softened as she talked about David.
"We didn't have much money back then, so meat was a luxury. Egg ravioli was a real treat," Helen said.
Emily nodded along.
"He still loves them," Emily said.
"I know exactly what he likes," Helen said.
Helen looked up at Emily.
"You young couples, once you get married, you just push your mom aside," Helen said.
Emily slowly clenched her hands in her lap.
"David's always been so respectful to you," Emily said.
"What good does that do me?" Helen snapped back.
She slammed the dough down into the bowl.
"He only cares about his wife now," Helen muttered.
The kitchen went quiet, the air suddenly heavy.
The faucet wasn't shut all the way, and water dripped, drip by drip, into the stainless steel sink.
Emily listened to the sound, her chest feeling weighed down.
She thought about texting David, but it seemed like petty complaining, and it was not worth pulling him away from work.
Helen covered the dough and started cracking eggs into a bowl.
She tapped each egg against the rim, one after another, the sound sharp and steady.
She cracked six eggs and beat them fast with her fork.
The golden egg mixture foamed up with tiny bubbles on the surface.
Once the pan was hot, she poured in the oil, and the smell of fried eggs filled the kitchen in no time.
Emily's morning sickness made her super sensitive to the smell of oil, so she cracked the window open a bit.
Helen noticed, but she did not say a word, and she only cranked the range hood up to its highest setting.
After a while, Helen pulled the bag out from under the counter.
She turned her back to Emily and quietly opened the bag.
Emily's eyes lingered on Helen's shoulders.
Helen's loose gray sweater covered up most of her movements.
Emily heard the sound of a knife hitting the cutting board.
The chopping was delicate and quick, like she was mincing something into tiny bits.
Chop after chop, the knife kept going.
It didn't sound like she was chopping eggs.
The eggs were already fried, fluffy and piled up in a bowl.
Emily picked up her glass and took a sip of warm water. The water slid down her throat, but it couldn't ease the tightness in her chest.
"Helen, are you putting anything else in?" Emily asked.
The chopping paused for a moment.
Helen didn't turn around.
"Just some parmesan, makes the filling a little more interesting," Helen said.
"Can I take a look?" Emily asked.
Helen turned around, her smile still lingering on her face.