Torture to Her Soul
Page 88
Her mouth opens, and closes, before opening yet again.
I know what she's going to ask before she can even find the words to say anything.
"Are you, uh…?" She pauses, her expression hopeful as she motions toward the stove. "You wouldn't happen to be hungry, would you?"
"I might be," I say tentatively.
"Well, I thought I would… that I could… you know… make something."
My gaze shifts from her to the mess she has already made. "I see that."
She doesn't come out and ask me.
She says nothing else, matter of fact.
She turns away, going back to what she was doing, but leaves the earbuds out so she can hear me, in case I have something to say. I watch her for a few minutes as she tosses cubes of potatoes into the boiling water, watching as she pours some oil into the frying pan. After she has going whatever it is she needs on the stove, she grabs some iceberg lettuce from the fridge and slaps it down on the counter, on top of a chopping board.
She grabs a small, serrated steak knife and jams it down the center of the head of lettuce. She yanks it back out, and I cringe, shaking my head as I push away from the doorframe. She tries another tactic, going at it from the side, and barely misses stabbing herself with the knife.
"What are you doing with that lettuce?" I ask, strolling over to her, plucking the knife right out of her hand before she severs a finger. "Other than massacring it, obviously."
She glares at me, trying to grab the knife back, but I move it out of her reach and toss it in the sink.
"I'm making a salad," she says, grabbing the large bowl from the counter and waving it toward me as if to make her point. "Or I'm trying to, anyway."
"Trying is right," I reply, reaching past her and grabbing a 10-inch straight edge Chef's knife. I wave it toward her, taking a page from her book. "This is the knife you should use."
I flip the head of lettuce over, cutting off the end, and remove the outward layer, tossing it in the trashcan. I cut what's left straight down the center before sectioning it into quarters, quickly cutting it into smaller pieces and tossing them into her bowl. It's finished in under a minute and I turn to her, raising an eyebrow. "What else you got?"
She's still just standing there, gaping at me. It takes her a moment to respond. "Uh, um… here."
She grabs some tomatoes and sets them in front of me.
I dice them quickly, getting rid of the excess juice and seeds, and toss the tomatoes into the bowl. Before I can say a word, Karissa drops some cucumbers in front of me. I stare at them before cutting my eyes at her, seeing the smile playing on her lips as she turns her focus on the pot on the stove. She keeps shoving vegetables my way, even after the salad is done. Onions and green peppers, fresh thyme and oregano, things she needs for whatever she's cooking.
When all that is done, she sets a block of cheese on the counter. I eye it peculiarly before cutting it into perfect cubes. "What's the cheese for?"
"Dunno," she says, reaching past me and grabbing a cheese cube, popping it in her mouth. "I just like watching you do that."
Laughing, I toss the knife in the sink, stopping before she invents something else for me to cut up. "My father showed me how to use a knife when I was a kid. I spent my summers in the back of the deli with him."
"That's sweet," she says.
"It's only because I was free labor. He was too cheap to ever hire anybody."
"Still, I'm sure it was nice getting to spend time with him."
"Yeah, it was," I concede, wiping down a section of counter, cleaning up my mess. "It was the only time he ever recognized me for something good. Usually it was 'Ignazio, you disappoint me' or 'Ignazio, be a man', but those days he'd look at me and say, 'Ignazio, my son, you did good today'. It was nice to hear that."
"So he taught you how to cook?"
"He did."
"So why don't you?" she asks. "If you're worried about everyone poisoning your food, why don't you just cook for yourself?"
"Good question," I say. "Maybe I've got a death wish."
Before she can respond, I give her a smile and walk away. "I'll be in the den if you need anything, Karissa."
She doesn't stop me.
I'm thankful for it.
A few minutes pass—five, maybe ten—before I hear her cursing. Seconds later, I faintly smell smoke. Sighing, I lean back in my chair, hands clasped on the back of my head, my eyes closed.
I don't know what's happening, but I'm sure she can handle it. If not, she knows where I am.
Eventually, her cursing tapers off, and all goes quiet. I get lost in the peace for a moment until I hear her voice. "Naz?"
Opening my eyes, I look at her in the doorway. The tentative expression is back. "Yes?"
"If you're hungry, the food is finished."
She fidgets like a nervous child awaiting punishment. I nod in acknowledgement. "I'll be there in a minute."
It's a small concession on my behalf, but to her it's everything. Her face lights up, eyes sparkling. I get a glimpse of her radiant smile as she leaves the room, easing my worries.
I'm offering her my trust again.
When I walk into the dining room, she's already seated at the table, in the same chair she always sits in with or without me. I take the seat across from her, eyeing our plates warily. Steak with loaded mashed potatoes and a bowl of salad.
I know what she's going to ask before she can even find the words to say anything.
"Are you, uh…?" She pauses, her expression hopeful as she motions toward the stove. "You wouldn't happen to be hungry, would you?"
"I might be," I say tentatively.
"Well, I thought I would… that I could… you know… make something."
My gaze shifts from her to the mess she has already made. "I see that."
She doesn't come out and ask me.
She says nothing else, matter of fact.
She turns away, going back to what she was doing, but leaves the earbuds out so she can hear me, in case I have something to say. I watch her for a few minutes as she tosses cubes of potatoes into the boiling water, watching as she pours some oil into the frying pan. After she has going whatever it is she needs on the stove, she grabs some iceberg lettuce from the fridge and slaps it down on the counter, on top of a chopping board.
She grabs a small, serrated steak knife and jams it down the center of the head of lettuce. She yanks it back out, and I cringe, shaking my head as I push away from the doorframe. She tries another tactic, going at it from the side, and barely misses stabbing herself with the knife.
"What are you doing with that lettuce?" I ask, strolling over to her, plucking the knife right out of her hand before she severs a finger. "Other than massacring it, obviously."
She glares at me, trying to grab the knife back, but I move it out of her reach and toss it in the sink.
"I'm making a salad," she says, grabbing the large bowl from the counter and waving it toward me as if to make her point. "Or I'm trying to, anyway."
"Trying is right," I reply, reaching past her and grabbing a 10-inch straight edge Chef's knife. I wave it toward her, taking a page from her book. "This is the knife you should use."
I flip the head of lettuce over, cutting off the end, and remove the outward layer, tossing it in the trashcan. I cut what's left straight down the center before sectioning it into quarters, quickly cutting it into smaller pieces and tossing them into her bowl. It's finished in under a minute and I turn to her, raising an eyebrow. "What else you got?"
She's still just standing there, gaping at me. It takes her a moment to respond. "Uh, um… here."
She grabs some tomatoes and sets them in front of me.
I dice them quickly, getting rid of the excess juice and seeds, and toss the tomatoes into the bowl. Before I can say a word, Karissa drops some cucumbers in front of me. I stare at them before cutting my eyes at her, seeing the smile playing on her lips as she turns her focus on the pot on the stove. She keeps shoving vegetables my way, even after the salad is done. Onions and green peppers, fresh thyme and oregano, things she needs for whatever she's cooking.
When all that is done, she sets a block of cheese on the counter. I eye it peculiarly before cutting it into perfect cubes. "What's the cheese for?"
"Dunno," she says, reaching past me and grabbing a cheese cube, popping it in her mouth. "I just like watching you do that."
Laughing, I toss the knife in the sink, stopping before she invents something else for me to cut up. "My father showed me how to use a knife when I was a kid. I spent my summers in the back of the deli with him."
"That's sweet," she says.
"It's only because I was free labor. He was too cheap to ever hire anybody."
"Still, I'm sure it was nice getting to spend time with him."
"Yeah, it was," I concede, wiping down a section of counter, cleaning up my mess. "It was the only time he ever recognized me for something good. Usually it was 'Ignazio, you disappoint me' or 'Ignazio, be a man', but those days he'd look at me and say, 'Ignazio, my son, you did good today'. It was nice to hear that."
"So he taught you how to cook?"
"He did."
"So why don't you?" she asks. "If you're worried about everyone poisoning your food, why don't you just cook for yourself?"
"Good question," I say. "Maybe I've got a death wish."
Before she can respond, I give her a smile and walk away. "I'll be in the den if you need anything, Karissa."
She doesn't stop me.
I'm thankful for it.
A few minutes pass—five, maybe ten—before I hear her cursing. Seconds later, I faintly smell smoke. Sighing, I lean back in my chair, hands clasped on the back of my head, my eyes closed.
I don't know what's happening, but I'm sure she can handle it. If not, she knows where I am.
Eventually, her cursing tapers off, and all goes quiet. I get lost in the peace for a moment until I hear her voice. "Naz?"
Opening my eyes, I look at her in the doorway. The tentative expression is back. "Yes?"
"If you're hungry, the food is finished."
She fidgets like a nervous child awaiting punishment. I nod in acknowledgement. "I'll be there in a minute."
It's a small concession on my behalf, but to her it's everything. Her face lights up, eyes sparkling. I get a glimpse of her radiant smile as she leaves the room, easing my worries.
I'm offering her my trust again.
When I walk into the dining room, she's already seated at the table, in the same chair she always sits in with or without me. I take the seat across from her, eyeing our plates warily. Steak with loaded mashed potatoes and a bowl of salad.
