From the Kitchen of Half Truth by Maria Goodin Page B

superconductivity,” he corrects her.
    She laughs nervously. “Silly me! I’m not very good at all this science stuff, am I, Meggy? I never understand when Meg’s telling me about human gnomes.”
    â€œHuman genomes, Mother, not human gnomes.”
    â€œI take it Meg didn’t get her scientific mind from you, then, Mrs. May?” Mark asks my mother. He says it with a charming smile, but I know he finds her lack of scientific knowledge frustrating. “How can people not be interested in the world around them?” he is always asking me, indignant. He can’t comprehend anyone who cannot grasp the complexities of physics as easily as he can.
    â€œOh, goodness, no, she didn’t get it from me,” says my mother, absentmindedly adding sugar to her coffee. “Science was her father’s thing.”
    I stop pouring orange juice and hold the carton in midair, suspended over my glass.
    â€œMy father liked science?” I ask, astonished at this revelation. “You said he was a chef.”
    My mother starts spreading butter onto her croissant with such ferocity that half of it breaks off and flies across the table, landing on Mark’s lap.
    â€œThere is a scientific element to being a chef you know, darling,” she says hurriedly. “Weighing things. Mixing them together. Ovens. Ovens are scientific, aren’t they? All those metal bits and electricity and stuff. Who would like some toast? Coffee? I’ll make a fresh pot.”
    She stands up quickly, taking the coffee pot with her. Mark places the piece of croissant back on her plate and raises his eyebrows at me, inquiringly.
    I have told Mark very little about my father, other than the fact that he is a deceased pastry chef. I have failed to tell him that this is practically all I know. Mark’s family is so perfect that I’m sure he would find my ignorance about my own father shocking and confusing. He would tell me to demand details, access to family connections—where, when, who, why. “It’s your right,” he would tell me. But he doesn’t understand how hard it can be, making sense of my world. He doesn’t understand what it’s like to come up against one brick wall after the other, to live in the murky gray somewhere between black and white.
    â€œWell, wherever she gets her brains from, Meg will certainly be a great scientist,” says Mark, stroking the back of my head affectionately.
    He smiles proudly at me, and I feel my heart flutter, just like it always does when I win his approval. I have sat in on a couple of the lectures Mark has given at the university, discussing the findings of his research, and I have seen how the female students gaze at him as if he is the source of all knowledge, the oracle. I have seen the way their hands shoot up when he asks a question, desperate for his attention, dying to impress him with their intelligence. But I am the one he has chosen. I am the one whose mind has impressed him and continues to do so day after day. This is the ultimate commendation. With Mark I know I am smart enough, bright enough, good enough. There is no way any girlfriend of Mark Daly—soon to be Dr. Mark Daly—could ever be considered laughable.
    â€œShe’ll be wonderful at whatever she does,” agrees my mother, pouring hot water into the coffee pot. “She has so many skills. She used to love writing and painting, you know. And craft work and acting—”
    â€œI was dreadful at all those things!” I scoff, knowing Mark has very little time for the arts. “I was terrible at anything that involved any sort of creativity at all.”
    â€œOnly once you stopped trying. When you were very little you used to adore dressing up and playing at make-believe. Don’t you remember?” She sits down at the table again, smiling at the memories that are flooding back to her. “You used to dress up in green tights and my