The Journey Home by Michael Baron Page A

Don expected. She’d even begun to believe that it would never happen, though her heart broke every time she allowed herself to think that. Now that her beautiful little boy was here, though, she knew that the wait had delivered its reward. When she’d held her son for the first time, she didn’t think she had ever seen anything so perfect, and she still felt that way – even if at the moment her perfect child had green mush in his hair. She’d let him get as messy as he wanted right now; they would be taking a bath together in a few minutes anyway.
    An hour and a half later, everyone was seated around the elongated dinner table. Don raised his glass, and everyone joined him, except the baby who was too busy trying to stuff a slice of bread up his nose. Yes, she had work to do with this one about the proper appreciation of food. It was going to be difficult to give him this lesson, however, if she giggled through the entire thing, and, above everything else, the boy knew how to make her giggle.
    â€œI’d like to wish my sister-in-law the happiest of birthdays. Somehow all the women in this family
look younger every year. I’m not asking how it happens, but I did want you to know that I noticed.” Everyone laughed and Rachel thanked Don and told him that he’d just earned an extra night of babysitting from her. Glass still raised, Don turned toward Antoinette. “And to my remarkable wife, I want to offer a toast to the wonderful food she’s made for us today. Hannah, you never cease to amaze me.”
    Cheers went up around the room, but then ended quickly, as people set out to fill their plates. Antoinette knew there would be little conversation for the next fifteen minutes or so, other than the occasional comment on the meal. They would linger at the table for at least an hour afterward, catching one another up on the events of the week or the news outside their doors, but while they ate, they said little. Antoinette took that as the ultimate compliment . . .
    â€œI’m afraid you’re going to have to accept that the lucid moments are going to become briefer and less common.”
    â€œI’m not sure how much briefer they can be. I can barely get a good fifteen minutes with her now.”
    â€œThis is never easy. I’ve been doing this a long time and I’ve never come up with anything to say to make family members handle this any easier.”
    Antoinette opened her eyes to find her son standing next to her bed with one of the doctors. She could tell that Warren was worried about something. Ever since he was a baby boy, he’d worn the same expression – a look of total confusion – whenever he was upset.
    â€œHey, Mom,” her son said when he saw her
looking at him. “Dr. Cantor was just checking on you.”
    Antoinette’s eyes moved to the doctor, who reached out to take her hand.
    â€œHow are you feeling, Antoinette?”
    â€œI’m lovely,” Antoinette said, thinking back on the birthday feast she’d just enjoyed with her family.
    The doctor squeezed her hand softly. “I’m very glad to hear that.”
    â€œDo you want to sit up, Mom. I was trying my hand at Rachel’s Cornish Hen with Spring Vegetables.”
    It was nice of Warren to cook for her, but Antoinette was still full from the meal. “I don’t think so, honey. I’m going to close my eyes again, if that’s okay with you.”
    â€œIt’s okay, Mom. You rest.”

FIFTEEN
    Closely Intertwined with the Taste
    Warren placed the electric skillet on the dinette table and turned it on medium high to preheat. The electric pressure cooker was there as well, along with the electric rice cooker. Warren hoped he didn’t blow a fuse with all of these electrical appliances. The Treetops staff had been extremely understanding about his cooking in his mother’s apartment the past six weeks. Several people even asked him