Read Online From the Kitchen of Half Truth by Maria Goodin - Free Book Online Page A

allowing this situation to continue. I love that he understands where I am coming from, and his frustration on my behalf is touching, but suddenly I wish I had never brought this up. I want him to support me in this battle against madness and delusion, but I also want him to understand what a difficult battle it is to fight, and that’s something he can’t seem to comprehend. In his eyes it’s simple: separate fiction from reality. But in my world things have never been that easy.
    â€œI’m not going to be coming back for the start of term, Mark,” I say. “In fact, I don’t think I’ll be coming back this year.”
    I haven’t told him that my mother doesn’t have as long as I thought. I don’t want him knowing that I have been laboring under a misapprehension all this time. He would have checked out the facts earlier, done his research, dug beneath the surface of pretense, and armed himself with the truth. Right now he would be calling psychiatrists, funeral directors, clergymen, financial advisers, lawyers, all the things he has just told me I need to do. But I just don’t have the heart to do any of these things, and suddenly I feel useless and overwhelmed. I have never displayed incompetence in front of Mark, though, and I don’t intend to start now.
    â€œI think you’re right to stay there,” says Mark. “It sounds like your mother needs help facing up to this. I’ll bring all your belongings down tomorrow.”
    â€œWould you? Oh, that would be great.” I breathe a sigh of relief that at least one thing has been taken out of my hands. My heart swells with gratitude and affection. Mark is a rock, always there for me when I need him, always capable and strong, thinking ahead, planning, making sure everything is in order. With him I feel safe and protected, and although I am perfectly capable of looking after myself, occasionally—and it pains me to say this—it feels nice to have someone to rely on.
    â€œHave you spoken to Dr. Coldman?” asks Mark.
    Over the summer I am meant to be working as Dr. Larry Coldman’s research assistant, but I’ve barely had a chance to start. I feel terrible at the thought of letting him down, but what else can I do?
    â€œNo, I’ll call him tomorrow and explain,” I say.
    â€œAnd have you spoken to your tutor about taking a year off?”
    â€œNo, not yet.”
    â€œAnd you’ll need to cancel your rent. What was your rental agreement?”
    â€œI don’t know.”
    â€œWhat about your house key? Do you have any library books that need returning? Any outstanding assignments?”
    â€œI…Mark, can we sort all this out later?”
    â€œIt’s best to get things in order, Meg. A few late library books can quickly spiral out of control, and before you know it you’ve got chaos on your hands.”
    â€œRight. Of course. I’ll make a list.”
    â€œGood idea. Lists are good. So I’ll see you tomorrow. I’ll be there by four o’clock. Or maybe quarter past if the traffic’s bad. But if the traffic’s good I might be there a little before; it depends. If the traffic on the ring road is flowing steadily—”
    â€œBye, Mark.”
    â€œOh, bye, babe.”
    ***
    I always wondered how I would react if I came face-to-face with an intruder. Would I scream bloody murder? Would I attempt the “stun and run” technique learned during a single self-defense class in the university sports hall last year? Would I grab the nearest weapon—a kitchen knife, a heavy vase, a poker? Would I freeze?
    It turns out I do all four, in exactly that order.
    I am so startled when a scruffy young man bursts through the back door into my mother’s kitchen that I scream, throw my hands up into what I think is the basic self-defense position but probably looks like I’m about to start dancing to “YMCA,” grab