They say memory softens the edges of pain, yet the kitchen of our modest terraced house still holds the echo of a name that once haunted meLaura. She was Olivers first wife, the phantom of his past that lingered like a faint scent of rosemary on a winter night.
It was Laura who always slipped a pinch of sugar into the borscht, I would hear Oliver remark, his voice as flat as the chalkboard in a schoolroom. Just a whisper of it, and the broth turns richer. Yours tastes as sharp as if someone poured vinegar over it.
I stood there, ladle in hand, watching Oliver push away a steaming bowl of rubyred soup. The fragrance of fresh parsley, garlic and a wellmade stock filled the room, promising a perfect family supper. Then he uttered that name, and the warm hearth turned cold, as if the walls themselves remembered a longgone guest.
Lauramy predecessor, a legend in his stories, a woman now reduced to a spectre that had haunted our flat for two years of marriage.
Oliver, I began, trying to keep my voice steady, Im making the stew exactly as my grandmother taught me. You loved it last week, praised it, asked for seconds. Whats changed?
He shrugged, tore a piece of crusty wholegrain bread and chewed lazily, eyes glued to the blackandwhite set on the wall.
Nothing, dear Nan. Its just that Laura had a light touch with the spices. She knew the balance, a talent you cant teach. Dont take it personally; youre trying, I see it. Thats all there is to it. Eat, itll cool down.
The ladle slipped back into the pot, my appetite fled. I sat opposite him, studying his profile: silvertinged temples that gave him a dignified air, broad shoulders, a steady gaze. When we met three years earlier, he seemed the ideal husbanddivorced, childless, serious, responsible. He spoke little of his previous marriage, merely noting we didnt click. I, being a sensible woman, never pried. I understood a man in his forties would have a past and I respected it.
Who could have guessed that past would prove so tenacious?
The first halfyear of our marriage was blissful. Then, as if an unseen valve had been opened, Olivers memories began to spill out. At first they were occasional, almost accidental comments: Laura had a vase just like that, Laura loved that film. I brushed them aside as harmless. But the comparisons grew frequent, and increasingly they favoured Laura.
The shirt is badly ironed, Oliver remarked one crisp morning as he prepared for work, turning in front of the mirror. The crease is crooked. Laura always used a special spray, and her iron was a steamgenerator, I think. Her trouser seams were so sharp you could cut yourself. This will do for the countryside, though.
Having risen at six to make his breakfast and press his suit, I felt a lump rise in my throat.
Oliver, I have an ordinary iron and I press as best I can. If you dont like it, you can take the clothes to a drycleaner or do it yourself.
He stared at his reflection, perplexed.
Whats thatsohigh tone? Im just sharing a tip. Maybe you should buy that spray? I just want you to improve. Laura, by the way, was always meticulous about the little things. Her house was spotless, not a speck of dust.
I keep things tidy too, I said quietly, recalling the twohour battle with the bathtub the night before. And I work a full day, just like you.
Laura also worked and managed everything. Anyway, Im off. Ill be late this evening; Mum needs help with a tap.
The door slammed shut. I was left alone in the quiet flat, watching Oliver drive away. Laura, Laura, Laura played in my head like a broken record. If Laura truly was an angel of the kitchen and a fairy of cleanliness, why had they split? Oliver would dodge the question, muttering something about people change or the routine got stale.
That night I abandoned the idea of cooking dinner. There was no appetite for anything, especially not for a meal that would inevitably be judged against Lauras imagined perfection. I bought readymade cabbage rolls from the local delicatessen, warmed them, and settled with a book.
Oliver staggered home at nine, angry and famished.
Mum sent her regards, he grumbled, slipping off his shoes. Agnes also mentioned you. She asked why you never use the cake recipe she suggested. She says Laura always baked on weekends, filling the house with the smell of sweet dough. Our place always reeks of readymade meals.
I closed the book; calm was slipping further away.
Agnes can bake if she wishes. Im not fond of dough.
Exactly! Oliver lifted a finger, as if Id been caught redhanded. A woman should love to tend the hearth. Laura
Enough! I snapped, rising, the book thudding onto the floor. I hear that name more often than my own. Laura cooked, ironed, cleaned, breathed perfectly! If she was so flawless, why didnt you stay with her?
He stammered, unprepared for such a blaze.
There were reasons. She was a difficult character, bossy, liked to command.
So Im just convenient? I sneered. Silent, patient, trying. Yet you keep poking me with her virtues. Im fed up.
Dont exaggerate, he waved off, heading to the kitchen. Whats for dinner? More takeaway? Laura would never let a husband eat shopbought food. She cared about my stomach.
I slipped away to the bedroom. That night I lay awake, staring at the ceiling, a plan formingone that could either shatter our marriage completely or rescue it. I would no longer live with three: me, Oliver, and Lauras ghost.
Saturday arrived, the traditional day for cleaning and errands. The morning ringed with a call from Agnes, my motherinlaw.
Darling, hello, her voice crackled, honeyed with a hint of venom. Oliver and I will be at the church tomorrow for my fathers anniversary. We need the fence painted. Could you bake some pies for the road? No cabbage, Oliver gets heartburn. Meat, please. And make the pastry fine, as we always did.
I breathed deeply, looking at my reflection in the hallway mirror.
Agnes, Im working tomorrow, deadline crunch, documents for the house. I can buy pies from the bakery near the tube, theyre excellent.
Working on a Sunday? Thats sinful, dear. And leaving a husband hungry is a sin too. Laura never shirked for the family. Shed get up at night to bake pancakes if Oliver asked.
Let Laura bake then, I cut, surprising myself, then hung up.
Oliver, who had heard the tail end, emerged from the bathroom, toothbrush in mouth.
What are you saying to your mother? Shes old.
Im setting boundaries. Im not Laura, Oliver. Im Natalie. I wont bake pies at midnight.
Of course, he spat, flushing the sink. All you do is bury yourself in paperwork. Theres no femininity in you. Laura was a real womancareer, husband, home. And you sigh.
He swung into the kitchen, kettle clattering. I stood in the middle of the room, a cold resolve spreading through me. Each remark about Laura struck like a hammer on a crystal vase already cracked. The vase was now shattered, the last piece about to fall.
I walked calmly to the bedroom, opened the large rolling suitcase we kept for holidays, and spread it on the bed.
Oliver peeked in, chewing a sandwich.
Where are we going? A business trip? Helping Mum on the garden?
I said nothing. Methodically, I began pulling his shirts, trousers, sweaters, socks from the wardrobeitems he had always pressed with that imagined perfect iron.
What are you doing? he asked, bewildered, a flicker of panic in his eyes. Natasha?
Im helping you, Oliver, I replied evenly, folding his favourite jumper. Ive realized Im not worthy. I cant sweeten the stew, I cant perfect the collars, I cant bake midnight pies. Im a poor housekeeper, not feminine enough, and my iron is cheap. I cant compete with an ideal.
What ideal? Stop this circus! He lunged for the shirt, but I stepped aside.
Dont interrupt. Ive thought this through. You live in constant stress, endure my sour food, my laziness. You suffer, remembering how great things were with Laura. I dont want to be the cause of your pain. I love you, Oliver, and I want you happy. And your happiness seems tied to that past marriage.
I scooped his underwear and tossed it into the suitcase.
So I propose the only sensible solution: go back to Laura.
Silence hung, broken only by the ticking clock and Olivers shallow breathing.
Youre mad, he whispered. Which Laura? We divorced five years ago! Shes married now or not? I dont know!
It doesnt matter, I said, zipping the bag. You talk about her so often, describe her virtues in such detail, Im convinced she still loves you. A perfect woman must be waiting for her prince. Youll return, repent, and shell feed you the right stew, iron your shirts with that steamgenerator, and youll live happily ever afterwithout me or my readymade cabbage rolls.
I placed the suitcase on the floor and pulled the handle outward.
Everythings packed. I even slipped your toothbrush and razor in. You can leave right now. Agnes will be delighted to discuss how saintly Laura is, while I remain the mistake of nature.
Oliver stood, gulping air like a fish stranded on the shore. He had grown accustomed to my compliance, to my soft apologies. He never imagined I could act so decisively.
Natasha, enough. Who hasnt slipped a word here or there? Why pack a suitcase? This is childish! He forced a smile that fell flat. Lets just put everything back. I wont go to the church, Ill stay home, help you with the report.
I shook my head. No anger, only fatigue and disappointment reflected in my eyes.
No, Oliver. This isnt a nursery. Its selfrespect. I have endured a year. I tried to be perfect, learned new recipes, stretched myself, but I was competing with a ghost. You lose against an imagined perfection. I will not be secondrate in my own home.
I wheeled the suitcase into the hallway.
Leave. Stay with your mother. Think. Or try to bring Laura back. But Im not holding you here any longer.
Oliver tried for ten minutes to turn the situation into jokes, then rage, then pity, but I remained unmoved. I opened the front door, waited. Finally he grabbed the suitcase, muttered Stupid woman, youll regret this, and stormed down the stairs.
I locked the door twice, collapsed onto the floor, and weptnot for sorrow, but for release. The house finally fell silent; Lauras spectre seemed to drift out with him.
A week passed. Oliver lodged with his mother. Agnes called daily, alternating curses with pleas to take Oliver back. I never answered. I cooked what I likedlight salads, steamed fish, ordered pizza. No one nagged about underseasoned rice or dust on the cupboard.
One Thursday evening, returning from work, I saw a familiar car outside the block. Oliver sat inside, his head resting on the steering wheel. He leapt out, looking dishevelled: a shirt that had seen better days, a threeday beard, eyes tinged with regret.
Natasha, we need to talk.
Speak, I said, not inviting him inside.
I I was an idiot. I see it now.
What exactly? I asked, a faint smile playing on my lips. Laura didnt take you back?
He flushed, eyes dropping.
I called her, just to see how she was. I thought maybe
And?
She sent me away. Said I was a bore, a tyrant, that shed crossed herself when we split, that her new husband lifts her without a single complaint about dust. She said I wasted five years of her life with my nagging.
I laughed, a genuine, loud laugh. The puzzle clicked.
So Laura was just a figment of your imagination? A story you told yourself to avoid seeing your own flaws?
Probably, he admitted, shifting his weight. Living with my mother is impossible. She nags from dawn to duskhow I place my cup, how I snore. She also constantly reminisces about my father, who was perfect, though they fought daily. Natasha, let me back in. I swear Ill stop mentioning Laura. Ive realised how lucky I am with youyoure caring, warm, real. Im a foolish old man.
I looked at him, feeling a pang of pity. A man who could not value the present, forever chasing a phantom of the past.
Im not sure I want you back, I said thoughtfully. Ive grown to like my solitude. No one compares me to anyone else. No one critiques my cooking.
Please, Natasha! Ill change! Ill iron my shirts myself! Ill learn to cook, honest! Give me a chance. One chance.
I stared at the heels of my shoes, weighing forgiveness. Perhaps people err, but if I let him in now, the old pattern would return in a month.
Alright, I finally said. One chance, but with conditions.
Anything! he replied eagerly.
First: the name Laura is banned in this house. If I hear it, the suitcase will be waiting by the door in a minute, and youll be out. Second: stop comparing me to anyoneyour mother, a neighbour, anyone. I am me. If you dont like me, find someone else. Third: weekends we either cook together or order food. Im not a chef.
I agree! I agree to everything! he shouted, his face brightening as if a weight had lifted.
And the last one. Go to the florist now and buy me the biggest bouquet they have. Not Lauras favourite, but what I love. Do you remember which flowers I adore?
He froze, a bead of sweat forming on his brow, scrambling through memory.
Lilies? No, they give me headaches. Roses? Too common Tulips! You like white tulips!
I smiled faintly.
Peonies, Oliver. I love peonies. Tulips will do if theyre fresh. You have an hour.
He bolted to his car, flooring it so the tires screamed. I watched him disappear, wondering how long his enthusiasm would last. Perhaps in six months hed start complaining again, but I knew one thing: I had changed. I would never again allow myself to be measured against ghosts. The suitcase would remain on the high shelf, a reminder.
When Oliver returned, arms laden with a massive bunch of blushing pink peoniesapparently sourced in autumn from a boutique halfway across the countryI let him in.
That night we ate pizza. He devoured it with the gusto of someone tasting ambrosia, praising the crisp crust.
Delicious, he said, wiping his mouth with a napkin. You pick the best delivery.
I smiled. Lauras phantom, finally dispelled, vanished amidst the scent of peonies and pepperoni. The next day Agnes called, demanding to know if her daughterinlaw was still the suffering one. I replied, Mum, stay out of it. Were fine. By the way, your cake recipe isnt needed; Im making a marvelous tiramisu instead.
Life settled into a steadier rhythm. I knew now that selfrespect is a foundation you never let crumble, even for the greatest love. And should that foundation ever tremble again, I already know how to pack a suitcase in fifteen minutes.
