Sugar in Wine

By Noor de Vos

The firewood crackles and snaps me back to consciousness. I was daydreaming. I do that a lot. The heat from the flames gently touches the skin on my arms and face. The sound of sausages sizzling in oil carries from the kitchen to the living room, together with their pungent smell. My husband is cooking. If you listen closely, you can hear the sound of the boiling water too, as the skinned potatoes hop around the pot. The couch feels soft under me. On my left, a speck of white pokes out of the sofa. I pull on the whiteness and a feather emerges. It is almost 18:30, I notice when I glance up at the clock. It is the type that constantly ticks lightly. It used to drive me crazy and still does sometimes. I just need to try to forget about it so that it will disappear into the background, overpowered by the sound of our home. I can ignore the ticking better now. Tick. Tick. Tick. Oh no! It is almost 18:30. My husband is in the kitchen, I remember.

I quickly stand up, hurry to the kitchen, and ask, “When are they getting here? They’re never late. I should call—”

“Oh, they won’t be able to make it tonight,” he interrupts.

“But they always come for dinner on Wednesdays? Is it-” I pause, doubt myself. “It is Wednesday, right?” The more I think about it, the more unsure I am that it is, in fact, Wednesday.

“Yes dear,” he answers softly. “But they couldn’t make it this week.”

“But we haven’t seen them in ages! We won’t live forever you know. I have a right to see my grandchildren.”

He looks at me for a moment, as if calculating a response. I storm out before he can do so. I don’t understand, do they not want to see me? I plop back down on the couch, my arms crossed tightly over my chest.

Wine. A glass of wine is what I need. Red wine. Back to the kitchen I go. I do not acknowledge my husband as I step back into our kitchen. It is an old-looking kitchen. I wanted to get it renovated a while back but it never happened. All we have is Merlot. I would much prefer a glass of Pinot Noir, but that’s life, right? If only I could share this wine with my family. Let it pour down my throat while I share a laugh with my only son and his wife as their children watch one of our cassettes for the hundredth time. Or play with the Barbies in our garage. Or use my sticker-making machine. We could eat together. Mashed potatoes, beets, and sausage. That is my son's favourite, I think. Or was it my late husband who liked that? Afterwards, the kids would get ice cream. Why aren’t they coming? Maybe they’ve forgotten about me. I can’t quite recall when they were last here. Must be ages ago. I pour myself a generous glass of wine, add a sugar packet, grab a teaspoon, and stir stir stir.

I am back on the couch now. The curtains are drawn, allowing only a sliver of the evening gloom to reflect on the opposite wall. The fire gives the whole room an orange glow. The room feels far too hot now. I blame the wine. And small. It feels so much smaller than when the sun shines into the room. Has it gotten smaller? No, that isn’t possible. It feels that way though. 

“Dinner!” My husband shouts from the kitchen.

The table is laid. I bring my glass of wine over as he carries a pot and puts it on a trivet in the middle of our dining table.

“What are we eating?” I ask.

“Mashed potatoes with sausages and beets.”

“Oh, that’s my son's favourite!” I recall.

“Yes, it is.”

My husband starts piling food onto my plate. I suddenly don’t feel so hungry. We sit in silence. I watch the steam slowly dance upwards until it doesn’t.

“Honey, your food is getting cold,” says the man across from me.

“I don’t want it,” I say, a seemingly unwarranted sense of bitterness lingering within my chest. “I am not hungry and it doesn’t look so good. Also, it’s cold, I think.”

I move the food on my plate around with a fork, a sour expression on my face. I imagine this only highlights the wrinkles I am beginning to get on my forehead, as they crinkle closer together. I look at the food on my plate with distaste. Disgust. I continue to play with my food. The man watches me.

“You should eat something,” he says after some time. “Do you want me to make you something else?”

I look at him and think about it. Think think think. “No, I don’t think so.”

In front of me is my son’s favourite food. Where is my son? Where is my Maxime? I leap out of my chair. The man, I’ll ask the man. He might know.

“Do you know where my son is?” I ask frantically. “He’s just turned six. He’s about this high, small boy.” I motion my hand a bit higher than the table.

“Listen, honey,” he says, his tone calculated. “He isn’t here, but you don’t have to worr—”

“What do you mean, I don’t have to worry! He is a child. He can’t just be alone.”

He’s probably home, I think. Back at the house, with my husband. I should go. Quick. And check if they’re okay. I need to get home. How do I get there? I’m not sure, but I’ll figure that out later. I am still standing, bent down slightly with my hands plastered on the table on both sides of the cold meal. My heart races as I try to concentrate on the task at hand. I have to go find him, my son. I remove myself from the space between the table and my chair and begin to walk towards the front door. I faintly hear the man calling for me to stop, but I do not. With a single swing, I open the wooden door and close it again. I don’t have shoes on, not even socks. I must find my son.