Read Online The Journey Home by Michael Baron - Free Book Online

Warren said apologetically.
    Antoinette couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “How could you be such a wimp? You’re letting them steal from me!”
    Warren applied more pressure to her arm and practically threw her out of the diner. In spite of her aching legs, he scurried her along and didn’t let go of her until he’d forced her into the car.
    When he came around to sit in the driver’s seat, she glared at him. “You disappoint me,” she said severely.
    â€œMom, the woman didn’t steal your purse.”
    â€œThen who did?”
    â€œ No one did. You didn’t have it with you.”
    Antoinette threw her hands up in the air. “Well, that’s just ridiculous. I always have my purse with me.”
    Warren took a deep breath, and Antoinette could practically see his mind working as he tried to come up with a response.
    â€œYou haven’t used a purse in more than a year. I don’t even know if you have a purse anymore.”
    â€œWell, you should. I use the leather purse that you gave me for Christmas.”
    Warren shook his head slowly. “I gave you that purse ten years ago. We gave it to Goodwill when we moved you out of the house because you’d replaced it with the black one with the gold clasp.”
    For the first time since this incident started, Antoinette felt confused. Why would Warren tell her that he’d given her the purse so long ago? She
remembered that Christmas vividly. Don had teased her about all the stuff she was moving from her old bag. The waitress was probably just going to throw that stuff in the garbage after she took her money.
    Ten years ago . Why would Warren say something like that?
    Her confusion fogged her anger. As Warren drove her back home, she stared out the window at the unfamiliar landscape.
    She felt very tired.

NINE
    Getting to Delicious
    The episode at the diner had confounded Warren more than any previous event with his mother. It wasn’t simply that she’d become so irrational about the purse, though that was harrowing enough. What truly upset him was the juxtaposition of her fury against the pleasantness of the conversation they’d been having earlier in the meal. This spoke volumes about where things were going.
    When they’d been joking about the diner’s mediocre food and reminiscing about his mother’s cooking, Mom had seemed more alive than she had recently, and he’d found that extremely encouraging. When she started deconstructing his soup and analyzing its shortcomings, it was as though he was a teenager and she was in her fifties again.
    Regardless of how much he’d read about his mother’s disease, he continued to be mystified by the processes of the human brain. She looked at a town that she’d lived in for decades as though she’d never seen it before, but she could call up her cooking knowledge without a hitch. This had to have something to do with the way these things were imprinted
on her mind, but Warren knew that the nuances of how this worked would always elude him. One thing was certain, though: his mother might have lost touch with most of the world around her, but she still felt some connection to food. Since taking her out to eat was probably too risky to venture again, Warren decided he would bring food to her in a way she never could have anticipated. He would cook for her.
    Warren had grown up loving food. It was impossible to live in his home and feel differently. Something always seemed to be on the stove or in the oven, and the aromas always seemed seductive. While he attached to the family passion for dining very early, he never connected with his mother’s excitement for making meals. They’d spent some enjoyable times in the kitchen when he was younger, and even when he was older he’d help her chop vegetables from time to time, but the end product was always much more appealing to him than the work involved in getting