Deviled Eggs

Six boxes. 

After eight-six years of life all that remains of her earthly possessions are six cardboard boxes. 

Looking at the cartons from the entryway, I get the feeling that my mother would be disappointed that we weren’t able to pare it down to fewer items. 

“Well at least that is done”, says Jack, my older brother. 

It’s been another long weekend of sorting, cleaning, boxing, and a fair amount of arguing, but the apartment in which our mother spent the last thirty-two years of her life is finally empty. 

“Yeah”, says Linda, “it could have been much worse.”

Our mother wasn’t the sentimental type. She didn’t acquire things for the sake of acquiring. In fact, when it came to how she kept, and what she kept in her home, she was downright fastidious.  

The entirety of the salvageable clothes were donated, along with the bedding, and the majority of the furniture. What little remains in these six boxes is mostly kitchenware, decorative items passed down from our grandmother, photo albums, and books. 

Books. 

My mother’s ultimate bliss was reading. She was a frequent library patron but there were certain books she needed to possess. She once told me that the books that she chose to live with were some of her greatest friends. 

No wonder I couldn’t find it in my heart to part with them.

Mother was active in the church, serving on the finance committee and organizing the weekly coffee-hour. For as long as I can remember she had been a Sunday School teacher. Recently, she “passed the baton” to a young woman, new to the area and looking to take on some responsibility.  

Mom had a sterling reputation and was well-known in the community for getting things done. She was a member of the local rotary club and orchestrated a plethora of fundraisers and events on their behalf. Every other night of her week was accounted for with some planning committee or event.  

But the truth is that while she was sensible and shrewd, she was also an enigma. She was a private person and didn’t share unnecessary thoughts or feelings, even to those closest to her.

“Let’s get these things to the car”, I said, suddenly wanting to extract myself from this place. This place where I did most of my growing up, but have no connection to anymore.

After two trips from the second floor apartment, the task is complete. Thankfully the heaviest boxes are mine but I quickly bring them down before Jack can insist on helping with his bad back. 

We buried our mother weeks ago but somehow the clearing out of her things is what brings a finality to her death. 

We stand at our cars, shifting our weight from side to side and adamantly not making eye contact. 

“I guess we’ll see each other at Thanksgiving in a few weeks”, says my sister finally. She’s the middle child but inherently plays the role of the caretaker.  “Everyone is still coming, right?”

“Of course”, I say. “I can make the deviled eggs this year.” I pause, suddenly feeling like an insensitive jerk, “unless…”

“No, you should make them”, Linda says too quickly. It’s our favorite Thanksgiving dish, and our mother has made it every year our whole life. 

The palpable awkwardness has proven too much for Jack and he’s already walking backwards towards his car door. 

“Drive safe. See you both at Thanksgiving”, his voice is gruff and throaty. 

“See you”, but he’s already turned away and is opening the driver’s side door.

Linda and I watch as he pulls out and makes the turn onto the main thoroughfare. 

We all live thirty to forty-five minutes from each other, and yet we only see each other on birthdays, holidays, and now the occasional funeral.

After a long pause Linda sighs. “Don’t unpack the boxes today. Just take it easy the rest of the weekend.”

I look over at her but she’s still staring in the direction that Jack had headed, even though he’s long gone. “I wasn’t going to”, I lie. 

The spell is broken and my sister’s eyes drift over to mine at last. She pulls me into a hug. “Text me when you’re home”, she murmurs into my ear.  

We pull away from each other and I give her a nod and a nervous smile. 

I’m anxious. This is our family’s equivalent of going to pieces. But at least we do it quietly. 

I get in my car and start the engine. There’s no use waiting for Linda to leave first, that’s not her way. 

I exit the parking lot and head in the direction of home. 

I don’t have to look back to know that she is watching me until I disappear.

**********

I decide to follow Linda’s advice. She’s usually right, even if I don’t want to admit it. I leave the boxes in the car for several days, this action of procrastination, a small miracle for me. 

A few days later, after a quick stop at the grocery store, I open the trunk to find the three boxes there waiting for me.

When I get home I make quick work of bringing the boxes into the house.

Of the six boxes, I claimed three of them. Two are filled with books, and the third contains random kitchen items. I decide to tackle the kitchenware first, since the box is only partially filled. 

The items are commonplace with no real value apart from sentimental. As I take each one out of the box, I feel transported to my childhood. The white casserole dish with the blue flowers, the pyrex orange-brown mixing bowls, the green, yellow and orange 1970’s tupperware, and of course the deviled egg platter, with its individual egg-shaped divots. 

The sight of the platter reminds me of the project that awaits me. Reconstructing mom’s deviled eggs for the first Thanksgiving without her. Good riddance, what was I thinking?

I recall seeing mom’s recipe card catalog in one of the boxes, but I don’t remember whose box it ended up in. When a cursory glance doesn’t yield any result I begin to think that it probably ended up in one of Linda’s boxes. 

I pick up my cell phone and contemplate sending her a text. Hesitation gets the best of me and I put the phone down. Linda has always got something on her plate to deal with. 

My siblings and I have a different relationship than typical siblings. The reason being, we didn’t grow up at the same time or in the same place. The age difference between Linda and I is thirteen years and Linda and Jack are fourteen years apart. Jack and I are of entirely different generations. He has two kids that are older than me.

Each of us were raised by a different version of my mother. Jack was born to a young and hopeful newly-wed. She was a full time working professional when my sister arrived, and by the time I came into being, she was a widowed single mother. If you were to hear any one of us talk about our childhood, you would never know we had the same parents.

I inhale and physically and mentally shake away the feelings of inadequacy. 

I look at the box at my feet and something red catches my eye. Is that…?

I pull it free from its position, upright on the side of the container. A small smile of recognition forms as I feel the worn, grizzled wood under my fingertips. It’s the cutting board that my mother inherited from my grandmother. Mom was only twenty-nine when she died. 

Mottled and discolored, with deep grooves etched in the center, it looks exactly like it did when I last saw it some twenty years ago. I run my finger along the back and all the way to the curl of the tail. The faded painted red rim gives the natural wood a pop of color. Carved into the shape of a pig, the cutting board was a principal character in mom’s kitchen. 

Leaning the cutting board upright against the kitchen backsplash like mom used to do, I resume putting the items away. The items might be old and worn, but they are of good quality and were well taken care of. 

Having emptied the container, I dismantle the cardboard and put it in the garage. Now all that awaits me are the books. 

I’m the youngest, the baby of the family, yet my sister likes to joke that I live like a spinster. She’s not wrong. 

I live alone, single, and have never been married. Nowadays, a single thirty-seven year old woman isn’t exactly novel. Perhaps the astonishing part is that I prefer it this way. My last relationship was five years ago. My last date, four years ago. 

But being single and childless has its advantages. I get to do things when and how I want to. I have an abundance of spare time, an immaculately clean home, money in the bank, and have traveled the world twice over. However, that doesn’t mean I don’t get lonely sometimes. 

Keeping myself busy has always been a focus of mine. My days, nights, and weekends are scheduled, and if I don’t have something to do, I find something. Isn’t that a famous quote? ‘Keeping busy is the best and cheapest form of medicine’?

Looking down at the two remaining boxes, I consider my options: tackling the book arrangements now, or saving it for a rainy day.

In the end, curiosity wins. I want to get a closer look at the contents of the boxes.

Many of the books I recognize as staples on the bookshelf growing up. I had, in fact, read and loved many of these. Mom was a fan of the classics, from Jane Austen, the Bronte sisters, C.S. Louis, George Orwell, the list goes on. 

Before I know it, I’m sprawled out on the living room floor with several stacks of books, categorizing them based on genre and author. Time escapes me as I can’t help but peruse some of the titles, and note that she had made some annotations in the margins. 

I’m deep in the wormhole of my mother’s thoughts and commentary when I hear a sound from the kitchen. Pausing mid page-turn, I swivel my head in that direction and listen quietly. 

A moment passes in silence. Satisfied, I continue my task. 

Resuming my survey of Animal Farm, I smile as I read her tiny, cursive scrawl. 

A sound like a long exhale rips my attention from the book in my hand and back to the kitchen behind me.

I slowly and carefully rise to my feet and turn to face the kitchen. 

The main floor is an open-concept design. From the living room I see directly into the kitchen, dark except for the overhead stove light. From where I stand, there is no one there. 

My mind cycles through my earlier actions. ‘Did I lock the door to the garage?’ The attached garage has a door that connects to the kitchen.

Unnerved but not alarmed, I silently walk around the breakfast bar and turn on recessed lights. 

Everything is just as I left it. 

All is still. 

Shaking my head at my own absurdity, I open the cabinet and pull out a glass. Filling the glass with water from the refrigerator dispenser, I take a giant gulp and turn, just as a distinct voice startles me.

 “How do you do?” a voice calls out from somewhere in front of me.

Swallowing and gasping simultaneously, my eyes water as I choke. 

I grasp a butcher knife from the block on the counter, while trying to get my cough under control, noting that all the knives are in their place. I’m in a full panic.

I’m pivoting and looking left, right, and center, trying and failing to find the source of the voice. 

“You’re not going to get anywhere with that”, chuckles the voice, sounding from somewhere within the kitchen. 

I continue to wildly search the area around me, when suddenly my eyes pause. They hone in on the crimson-edged pig, stationed upright, just where I left it.

I squint, leaning forward. 

The grain of the wood on the cutting board has contorted to form an eye and a thin, mischievous mouth. 

“Yes”, it says, in an unmistakably mature, feminine voice. 

The embodiment of aghast, I observe the movement of the wood fiber as it blinks and smirks at me. 

A shiver runs down my back and I grip the knife even harder. I don’t dare take another step. 

A prolonged pause is finally broken by the mystifying creature. 

“Aren’t you going to say something, dear?”

I blink once. I blind twice. 

It’s still there. 

“I’ll wait while you gather your faculties.”

Either this is a dream, or I've lost my mind. 

I glance down at the knife in my hand and decide to try the ultimate test of consciousness. I lift the blade to the top of my forearm, when–

“Let’s not do anything rash, Molly.”

The mention of my nickname temporarily paralyzes all thought and action. 

The wooden face, with an uncannily emotive eye and mouth, stares back at me sympathetically and says, “Your mother wasn’t a believer at first either.”

I put the knife down as I take a tentative step towards it. “Can you…?” I clear my throat, “can you hear me?”

“Of course.” She pauses, a twinkle in her eye, “I’m Adelaide. But you can call me Granny.”

Dazed and disoriented, I mutter, “I need a drink.”

“Make it a strong one”, the little one says, sizing me up. “Because I have a story you’re going to want to hear.”

I turn my back on the inanimate-object-come-immortal-entity and pull out the freezer drawer. 

I just discovered my mother’s secret.