Garlic Bread | From the Stovetop Issue #2

Jul 6

Heather stood among the herd of mothers leaning against the school gates. She adjusted her blazer and kept her eyes fixed on the classroom door. An unsubtle murmur surrounded her. The women in their leggings and expensive runners were huddled in clumps. Their eyes ran over her pencil skirt and low bun, whispering as though Heather had cotton in her ears. She missed her own leggings, with the pilling in the thighs, and the squishy feel of her acid green Hokas.

The classroom door swung open and a flock of seven-year-olds raced toward the school gates. Among them was Lily. Wiry, strawberry blonde and dusted with a constellation of freckles across the bridge of her nose. She leapt into her mother’s arms.

Heather gave her a tight hug. Lily squirmed under her grip.

‘Why are you dressed so fancy?’

Heather picked up Lily’s school bag and took her by the hand.

‘It’s not fancy, is it?’

‘Your hair is up, your hair is never up.’

Heather supposed that was true, ‘I had an appointment.’

Lily’s little face scrunched as if she were about to say something. Another little girl with curly brown hair waved at her as they passed; Lily’s attention moved to enthusiastically waving back.

‘How was school?’

Heather hoped this would be enough to keep Lily chatty, at least until they got to the car. Perhaps by then she’d have a plan.

To her relief, Lily began to talk at length about the butterfly they’d had in their classroom. It had finally broken out of its ‘chrysalisp.’

That morning, while Lily and her classmates watched the butterfly emerge, Heather sat in a cold marble foyer. An equally cold man sat across from her. He sat rigid, eyes piercing her. She kept her hands pressed into her lap and eyes down. Her skin was purpling.

‘I can ask them to turn on the heat—’

‘No,’ she glanced at him. He sank further into his seat. She surveyed his chest for the rise and fall that never came.

‘We don’t have to do this,’ he crossed his arms.

‘Yes, we do.’

She turned her attention to the ceiling, wrapped one arm around herself and pressed her fingers to her mouth. A large chandelier hung above them. Heather wondered if she would die instantly if it fell, or if she’d be aware that she was taking her last breaths under its crushing weight. He would stay seated, no doubt. She hoped it would be a quick death.

‘Mr and Mrs Howard?’

Heather looked to the voice. A small, well-dressed man with round spectacles and a shiny bald head stood at the end of the foyer.

‘They’re ready for you.’

Heather nodded and stood up. Her husband followed.

For the next hour, their lawyers bickered.

They argued about who would get what, why she deserved that more than he did, what was best for their finances and, eventually, their daughter. They talked in circles, citing ‘irreconcilable differences’ over and over again. Heather squeezed her hands, watching blooms of white fade back to purple. Her heart was racing. The lawyers danced around the real issue like they were being paid by the minute.

Finally, Heather had reached her limit.

‘Are we ever going to address the fact that he lied to me for two years?’

The room stilled.

‘Heather,’ her lawyer reached to pat her hand. Heather recoiled.

‘No, I want to know what the compensation is for that. Two years pretending to have long COVID. Sleeping on the couch all day, losing his job, sneaking out at night to pilfer the local blood bank. Leaving me to keep the roof over our heads, our child attending school and fed. He never even heated up a tin of beans!’

Her husband frowned.

‘Mrs Howard,’ his lawyer opened his palms, ‘let me appeal to your good nature. Your husband was suffering from a condition. Those two years were more than just lying about and sleeping all day. His body was adjusting. It was a period of transition.’

Heather gawped. She remembered it vividly.

He had come home looking gaunt. At first, she assumed it was food poisoning. Then came the fits, seizing in bed beside her. When he could speak, he refused an ambulance. Then came the cold. His limbs felt like granite. His palms firm as marble. If he weren’t capable of holding a conversation, she would have thought he was a corpse.

‘You’ve got a bloody nerve calling it a condition,’ her lawyer spat.

Heather’s focus narrowed on his lawyer.

‘Exactly how much should I sympathise when he voluntarily put himself in that position?’

The lines in his lawyer’s jowls deepened.

‘Voluntarily?’

Heather’s eyes flickered to her husband, followed by his lawyer’s. She couldn’t manage to stifle a laugh.

‘You haven’t told him?’

Her ex-husband looked at the table and said nothing.

Heather straightened in her seat.

‘He mistook a gang of vampires for teenagers, hoping he could score some weed from them at the back of a hardware store. When he realised what they were, and that he’d left his wallet at home, he handed over his wrist willingly.’

His lawyer’s eyes widened. He shot a look at his client and began to whisper intensely.

Heather rolled her eyes. Her lawyer smirked.

‘My client will be taking the house, and full custody of the child,’ she rose from her seat. Heather followed.

‘I will email you the finer details of the financial settlement.’

Heather slipped off her wedding band and placed it on the table between them.

‘Always a pleasure to see you, Horace,’ her lawyer said to his lawyer. His lawyer nodded amicably.

Her ex-husband stood up.

‘What about Lily?’ His large eyes that were once brown bore into her. They’d turned slate grey under the fluorescent lights.

Heather clenched her jaw. She shook her head and began to head for the door.

‘Where will I live?’ he called after her.

She turned back to him and shrugged, ‘You’ve got all of eternity to figure that out.’

‘What’s for dinner?’ Lily called from the back seat.

Heather flicked on her left indicator and began to merge into the turning lane.

‘Lasagne.’

Lily squirmed in her seat with delight, ‘Ooh, I love lasagne!’

She continued to chatter about all the other sorts of pasta she loved, spaghetti, ravioli, carbonara…

Heather stared at the red arrow in front of them. Sitting on the counter at home was a brick of frozen lasagne she’d picked up from the supermarket. The thought of serving it in place of her homemade one turned her stomach.

The arrow turned green; Heather turned with the rest of the traffic. She veered off the main street and pulled into the nearest supermarket car park.

‘Why are we here?’ Lily looked around.

‘We’re going to need garlic bread, aren’t we?’ Heather glanced at her daughter through the rear-view mirror. Lily giggled and nodded.

‘Daddy likes garlic bread too, doesn’t he?’

Heather inhaled sharply. She hoped not anymore.