The apartment was modest in the way that real life is modest. Not artful, small, not curated, minimal, just actual, honest. This is what we have. Small. There was a couch with a throw blanket draped over one arm in the pattern of something Ava had clearly chosen.
There was a coffee table with a ring stain on one edge and a stack of library books on the other. There were drawings taped to the refrigerator. Ava's clearly a progression of figures and places and one that was unmistakably Gerald the fish rendered in blue crayon with a small crown. The kitchen smelled like garlic and something slow and rich and old in the way of handed down recipes. It felt like something.
Caleb appeared from the kitchen, dish towel over one shoulder, and stopped when he saw her. Just for a second, just long enough for something to move through his expression that he managed quickly. You brought flowers. I brought wine also, so I didn't know which was more appropriate for a Saturday in November with a 7-year-old who controls the cooking. Both are appropriate.
He took both. Come in. I told her to wash her hands, Ava said from the kitchen, having already returned to her post. Did you wash your hands? Caleb called toward the kitchen.
Yes, Dad. Did you? The answer is still yes, Dad. Natalie met Caleb's eyes. He pressed his lips together.
She washed her hands at the kitchen sink, following Ava's instructions on the angle and duration with complete seriousness, and then was assigned the task of stirring because Ava determined after a 30-se secondond assessment that Natalie's upper body strength was adequate for the task. What am I stirring the base counterclockwise for now? Why counterclockwise? Ava looked at her because that's how Grandma Doris does it. Natalie stirred counterclockwise.
Caleb leaned against the counter and watched the two of them and said nothing, which was the right thing to do, which Natalie understood only because she could feel the specific quality of his silence not withdrawn, not absent, just present, just watching something he'd been hoping for with the careful attention of a man who doesn't want to startle it. Ava talked the whole time they cooked. She talked about Gerald, about a disagreement she'd had at school that she had resolved through what she described as negotiation, about a book she was reading that she felt had an unsatisfying ending because the character made a decision she disagreed with. "What decision?" Natalie asked.
She left when she should have stayed. Caleb moved slightly. Natalie kept stirring counterclockwise. Why should she have stayed? because everything she was looking for was already where she was. She just didn't look at it right.
Natalie looked at the pot. How do you know she didn't look at it right? Ava turned and looked at her with those dark calibrated eyes. Because she kept looking at what wasn't there instead of what was. The kitchen was very quiet for a moment.
That's a very good reading of a book, Natalie said. I know, Ava said and went back to her spoon. Caleb looked at Natalie over Ava's head. She looked back at him. She went back to counterclockwise.