A Polish nanny who didn't know English, the first to see through my secret hidden in the food.-13
Her Baking
Marta bakes a cake in the kitchen. Smell of butter and sugar. Whir of the mixer. Buzzzz. Afternoon. Golden cake dusted with icing sugar on the dining table. Marta cuts a slice. Slides it onto a plate with a spatula. Holds the plate out to me. "Taste." I take it. Cut a small piece with a fork. Put it in my mouth. Sweet. Moist. "Like?" I nod. "Very good." "Polish cake." Points at cake, then at me. "Sleep? Cake help?" Simple, direct. Shake head. "No, cake no help sleep." "But… happy. Happy help." Hand on chest when saying "happy". "Maybe." Finish the cake. Empty plate. Says: "Slowly." Fingers turn slowly in the air as she says this. Mimicking a slow process.
Breaking Point
Waited until 9:10 PM. Confirmed Marta back in her room. Kitchen door closed. Push it open. Walk to the narrow cabinet. Move the baking sheets aside. Pill bottle behind. As it settles in my hand, I turn around. Marta is there. Standing by the sink. No sound of her entrance. She holds the blue mug, scrubbing its base with a brush. Scraping ceramic – sharp, grating sound. Scrubs relentlessly. Then turns to face me. Holds the mug up to the light. Base towards the bulb – visible white streaks, residual water spots unrinsed. Silent. Just holds it up for me to see. Looks at me. Looks at the mug. Pill bottle still clutched in my hand. She sets the mug down. Clunk on the countertop. Walks out of the kitchen. Footsteps clear down the hall.
Barszcz (Beet Soup)
Next evening. A bowl of soup on the table. Marta walks from the kitchen, sits opposite me. Slides the bowl slightly closer. "Barszcz," she says, hand on her heart, pats gently. "Polish. Good for heart." Looks at me, no pressure in her gaze. Makes a sleeping gesture: head tilts slightly towards clasped hands, nods at me. I understand: helps sleep. She passes me a spoon. Reaching for it, fingers touch metal – cool. My wrist trembles. Can't stop it. Spoon clinks loudly against the bowl rim. A splash of deep red soup hits the white tablecloth, spreading like a blood drop. Stare at the stain for seconds. Look up at Marta. "I can't stop," I say. Voice cracks immediately. Didn't plan to cry, but tears well hot, tracking down my face. I don't brush them away.
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Marta bakes a cake in the kitchen. Smell of butter and sugar. Whir of the mixer. Buzzzz. Afternoon. Golden cake dusted with icing sugar on the dining table. Marta cuts a slice. Slides it onto a plate with a spatula. Holds the plate out to me. "Taste." I take it. Cut a small piece with a fork. Put it in my mouth. Sweet. Moist. "Like?" I nod. "Very good." "Polish cake." Points at cake, then at me. "Sleep? Cake help?" Simple, direct. Shake head. "No, cake no help sleep." "But… happy. Happy help." Hand on chest when saying "happy". "Maybe." Finish the cake. Empty plate. Says: "Slowly." Fingers turn slowly in the air as she says this. Mimicking a slow process.
Breaking Point
Waited until 9:10 PM. Confirmed Marta back in her room. Kitchen door closed. Push it open. Walk to the narrow cabinet. Move the baking sheets aside. Pill bottle behind. As it settles in my hand, I turn around. Marta is there. Standing by the sink. No sound of her entrance. She holds the blue mug, scrubbing its base with a brush. Scraping ceramic – sharp, grating sound. Scrubs relentlessly. Then turns to face me. Holds the mug up to the light. Base towards the bulb – visible white streaks, residual water spots unrinsed. Silent. Just holds it up for me to see. Looks at me. Looks at the mug. Pill bottle still clutched in my hand. She sets the mug down. Clunk on the countertop. Walks out of the kitchen. Footsteps clear down the hall.
Barszcz (Beet Soup)
Next evening. A bowl of soup on the table. Marta walks from the kitchen, sits opposite me. Slides the bowl slightly closer. "Barszcz," she says, hand on her heart, pats gently. "Polish. Good for heart." Looks at me, no pressure in her gaze. Makes a sleeping gesture: head tilts slightly towards clasped hands, nods at me. I understand: helps sleep. She passes me a spoon. Reaching for it, fingers touch metal – cool. My wrist trembles. Can't stop it. Spoon clinks loudly against the bowl rim. A splash of deep red soup hits the white tablecloth, spreading like a blood drop. Stare at the stain for seconds. Look up at Marta. "I can't stop," I say. Voice cracks immediately. Didn't plan to cry, but tears well hot, tracking down my face. I don't brush them away.
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