Grace

“Caroline, Zach! Dinner’s ready!” my mother called up the stairs. I marched down and took my place at the table.

“Wash your hands, dear,” my mother said.

“What’s the point,” I muttered as I headed into the bathroom to wash up.

When I returned to my seat, my father was setting the table. Zach appeared and sat down, placing his napkin in his lap.

My mother came out of the kitchen carrying an enormous turkey on the silver platter, its golden skin practically glistening in the candlelight, nestled among celery sticks and carrots. She set it on the table, adjacent to the glass bowl filled with perfectly ripe fruit.

“My goodness!” my father exclaimed. “Where did you pick that up?”

“Hobby Lobby,” my mother beamed with pride.

“What will they think of next!” my father laughed. “Zach, would you like to say grace?”

“Sure, Dad. Dear Heavenly Father, thank you for this beautiful meal, and for the sweatshop workers who created it.”

“Zach!” my mother snapped.

“Sorry. Thank you for keeping our family healthy, happy, and most of all, full! Amen.”

“Amen,” we replied.

“So, how was school today?” my mother asked. As my brother recounted an amusing story about a classmate discovering a dissected frog in her locker, I stared at the untouched food, fidgeting with my napkin under the table. My father lamented having to fire an underperforming colleague, and my mother shared her envy over Mrs. Applebaum’s stunning array of violets.

“Caroline? Anything to share?” my mother asked.

“No,” I replied.

“Well then. Let’s clean up so you kids can finish your homework.”

Zach stacked the clean plates and put them back in the kitchen cupboard. My father collected the silverware. I folded the pristine napkins and placed them back on the table. My mother returned the turkey and vegetables to the box they had come in and stored them in the pantry. The bowl of fruit remained on the table.

Alone in my room, I rolled up my sleeve. The skin around my nutrient patch had broken out into a rash. I removed the patch and pressed my fingers against my port. The skin was swollen and painful to the touch. I looked wearily at the tubing that ran into the pump, connected to the nutrient outlet.

“Forget that,” I said softly. For the first time in my life, I didn’t hook up to the feeding pump.

The next night at dinner, it was my job to set the table. I retrieved our four plates and utensils, and filled our four glasses with water. As my father and brother sat down, my mother presented the turkey on the silver tray.

“We had that last night!” my brother protested.

“It’s so beautiful, I thought we could have it again. Be grateful you don’t go hungry,” my mother replied. “Caroline? Would you like to say grace?”

At bedtime, I rolled up my sleeve. The rash had spread, and the skin around my port was turning blue. I looked nervously at the pump on the wall. “Not tonight,” I whispered.

In the morning, I woke up to a strange, unfamiliar sensation. My stomach felt hollow and emitted a loud groan. I pressed my hands against my abdomen, praying the sound would stop. To my disdain, it persisted through breakfast.

“Caroline? Are you sick?” my father asked. “You look pale. And your stomach is rumbling.”

“How odd,” my mother said, looking at me with a perplexed expression across the table, over the silver tray that boasted four fried eggs and a stack of waffles.

“I don’t feel good,” I said.

“Perhaps you’d better stay home from school today,” my mother said. “Zach, help your father clean up. Caroline, you get back in bed.”

In bed, my stomach continued to growl. It felt empty, and my mouth was salivating. After my parents left for work, I crept down the staircase and into the dining room. I stared at the glass bowl of fruit, confused. I felt the oddest desire—an impulse to bite. Making sure no one was around, I lifted the shiny red apple to my mouth and bit. Plastic casing mixed with styrofoam met my tongue. I spit it out into my hand with disgust and regarded the strange contents with bewilderment. Back upstairs, I hid the half-eaten apple and the chewed remnants underneath my bed.

I didn’t come downstairs for dinner that night. Before bedtime, my mother knocked on my door. “Feeling any better, sweetheart?”

“No. Can I stay home from school tomorrow?”

“Of course, dear,” as she closed the door, she paused and stuck her head back in. “You haven’t seen my red apple, have you, darling?”

“No,” I replied.

“Hmm,” she murmured. “That apple’s been in our family for two generations. Oh well, perhaps it rolled under the hutch. Goodnight, darling.”

After she left, I rolled up my sleeve. My rash had doubled in size, and the swollen skin around the port felt hot and throbbing. I went to sleep.

In the morning, I slept late, waking up to find the house empty. I felt exhausted and nauseated. My stomach, a gnawing pit, gurgled violently. I disconnected the nutrient pump from the wall and held my mouth under the faucet. The thick, off-white liquid trickled into my mouth. Salty, viscous, metallic.

I reeled backward, the putrid solution dribbling from my lips. The faucet dripped onto the floor. I shut it off and reconnected the tube.

I wandered outside and walked past the neighbor’s yard. Mrs. Applebaum was out back, watering her flowers. From behind her white picket fence, her violets bloomed, their fresh fragrance greeting my nostrils. I reached through the fence and plucked one, lifting it to my nose. The smell triggered a memory.

Once, when I was a very small child, my father took me to visit my grandmother. Inside her kitchen, a warm, floral aroma filled the air. “What’s that smell, Daddy?” I asked my father.

“That, my darling, is your grandmother’s famous lavender pound cake. That she knows—” he looked sternly at my grandmother, “she’s not supposed to bake anymore!”

My grandmother laughed. “What are they going to do? Throw a sweet old granny in jail for baking a cake? I’m too old for that damn port anyway.”

I bit the head off the violet. It tasted strange, yet pleasantly sweet, with a creamy texture that melted in my mouth. I yanked a handful of the flowers from the ground and ran back to my room, consuming the rest of the flower heads and discarding the stems under the bed, next to the fake apple.

That evening, I felt well enough to come down for dinner. After saying grace, my mother began to chatter. “I saw Mrs. Applebaum setting some traps in her yard this afternoon. She said a rabbit got into her violets.”

“Too bad we can’t give the rabbits GLP-1!” my father said. My mother and brother laughed. I remained silent, eyes fixed on the floor, rubbing the infected port under my sleeve.