Unhealthy Coping Mechanism

Chapter 19

There were few noises Harriet knew she'd remember for the rest of her life: Frank proposing to her, her happy crying mingling with Sam's as she held him for the first time, Sam's first words.

Unlike those sounds, the wails that tore out of Harriet and her mom were full of raw pain and grief. The sudden, terrible reality of their loneliness crashed on them in waves. Elijah was gone, and no amount of baking could fix that.

The funeral would be next week, Nia explained through her sobbing, a small affair consisting of the family members and few surviving friends who could handle yet another trip so close to the holidays. They tearfully reminded each other to call if there was anything either of them needed before Harriet allowed Frank to lead her to their car with his arm over her shoulder.

There was no time to thank Patricia for watching Sam while they were out, no time to explain to Sam why his mom was too hoarse to tell him why she was upset. There was only the kitchen and the solace it brought her.

A dusting of flour permanently coated her hands, and the scent of dark chocolate filled the house as thoroughly as November chilled the grieving home.

Harriet felt nothing. Whether she was dicing nuts or tempering chocolate, all of her emotions went straight into whatever was baking. Cookies, cakes, and dozens of other baked goods piled up in the kitchen, cluttering every bit of counter space that wasn't claimed by her supplies. Although she still felt the warm kisses Frank planted on her cheek each time he passed and the tears Sam wept into her leg, she didn't hear a word they said over the whir of her new mixer.

Only the stubborn ringing of the doorbell managed to break through her trance.

"Honey, could you get that?" she called out.

There was no response save another ring. Where on earth were they? Heck, what day was it? Harriet could only barely tell it was sometime before noon thanks to the sun doing its level best to blind her with brilliant rays stabbing through the drapes.

Harriet groaned as yet another ring echoed through the house. Damn, these people were stubborn! Couldn't they tell she was busy?

She opened the door to stop the assault on her ears, only to immediately be ensnared in a spine-crushing hug. "Oh, Harriet!" Vicky said with a sob. "I'm so sorry!"

"Frank told us what happened," Patricia said softly. She presented Harriet with a saran-wrapped potato casserole. "We thought you could use a little cheering up."

As if potato casserole, the quintessential pan of I'm-too-depressed-to-cook-for-myself meal, would make her feel even slightly better, especially when it had interrupted her vigil over the maple pecan bars in the oven. "You might as well come on in," she said as a steady beeping summoned her back into the kitchen.

Vicky eyed the heaps of Tupperware as if she expected a rat to dash out from the clutter at any moment. "You've been keeping busy."

Patricia glanced around for empty space to put her casserole before giving up and depositing it on top of a container full of cookies on the verge of becoming stale. "Did you seriously manage to bake all this these last few days?"

"Somebody has to make sure everyone has enough to eat at the funeral reception," Harriet said dismissively.

"Couldn't you have hired a caterer?" Vicky said. "I know a couple folks who'd be delighted to help, and Eleanor and I totally have you covered if you're worried about money."