Of Things Unknown But Longed For Still

• Eleanor Robinson, Grade 12
• Short Story
• 2014

Affection was always an afterthought with my mother. Her nursing background saw to that; impertinence was an attitude she detested. It was an attitude I befriended. I was surprised, therefore, to find her in my kitchen. “You should see to that door someday.” Her greeting held irony, a familiar friend, “I was told to give this to you, and that your grandmother left it behind.” In her hand she held a tattered book, dog-eared from love. The gilded lettering now dull with age. “Give her my thanks, would you?” I offered no farewell, she expected no emotion. The screen door clattered shut, the lock thumped against the doorframe.
I put the book on the table, it stood out. Glaringly obvious. I don’t know why, but I felt as if I were being left a message. Something my grandmother would expect of me. I sighed in exasperation; the gilding winked slyly in the sunlight. I questioned my grandmother, argued my mother, I cursed myself.
Hesitantly I opened the book, cringing with every crackle of the dried out spine. The title was simple, “Clarington Book of Recipes”. The orphanage of my grandmother’s upbringing. I flicked onwards, grandmother’s youthful hand writing over the recipes. No page was left unturned: she had adapted every recipe. I recognised many from my escapades to grandmother’s house; the nights when I couldn’t stand my own mother.
The back page was left blank; excepting a lone sentence, hidden on the bottom margin. “Every journey begins with a step, every recipe with love.” I wondered where she had gone wrong with her daughter…or perhaps, where had the daughter gone wrong with the mother?
I sat in silence; the traffic of noise did not enter my head. Only the left grandmother left behind penetrated my thoughts. I thumbed through the pages one last time, noting as I did so pencilled stars in the corners of recipes I had tried. The recipes that had seen me cry, laugh, cheer or reject those around me. One page fifty-seven, her elegant writing flowed into two words: “Marissa’s Childhood”. I pondered on the meaning of scones encompassing my mother’s childhood. I read the note shad placed on the back page.
I found what I needed and read the recipe over. With a breath of anticipation I began. When the scones were in the oven I washed my hands and picked up the phone. She answered on the third ring. “Hello?” Her voice was sharp. “Mother, I was wondering if you’d like to come for tea this afternoon. I made scones.” She waited fourteen seconds before replying. “Perhaps, have you cream ready?” I laughed in nervous relief. “Of course.” Affection was never an afterthought with my grandmother.