Fixing

Jessie Slipchinsky 2024

Drama, Repairing a Kitchen Appliance, a Cobweb.

Her mother’s stove arrived shortly after the funeral.  The movers had done nothing to clean it, simply uncoupling it from where it stood for untold ages and depositing it, grime and all, in the tiny bit of space we had left.  Though I told her I didn’t want it in the condo, my wife insisted.  I didn’t have the heart to fight her grief.

“You didn’t know her then,” she said, looking past me into a memory I couldn’t see.  “She loved to cook, to bake.  That’s how I want to remember her.”

“You can remember her without the stove,” I said.

“I always helped,” she went on, as though I hadn't spoken.  “Even when she didn’t know who I was anymore, she’d remember baking with her daughter.”  She traced a finger along a knob, which clattered down to leave a mark in our new flooring.

“Love, you hate baking,” I reminded her.

“But that’s how she knows me,” she said, “standing next to this stove.”

She reached for the knob, but I took her hand before she could pick it up.

“Knew, honey,” I said softly, looking into her eyes.  “That’s how she knew you.  She’s gone now.”

She returned my gaze, in disbelief at her own momentary forgetting, her mouth open in a heartbroken “oh.”

I let go of her hand and she retrieved the knob, fumbling to put it back on.  It shone where her fingers had brushed away years of dust.

“You don’t need to be anything for her sake anymore,” I said.  “You don’t need to pretend anymore!”

It came out more carefree than I’d meant it.  Her fury was instant.

“You sound happy about this!”  The accusation stung in its truth.  “You want me to just forget her?”

“Of course not,” I said, “but I do want you to be your own person, for once.”

“She doesn’t know who I am without this,” she said, looking back and forth from me to the stove.

“Do you?” I demanded.  “Do you know who you are without it?  Without her?”  I hit the side of the stove in frustration and its door fell open with a metallic shriek.  I couldn’t help but look inside; a spider huddled in the corner, clinging to its web, perturbed by having its home upset.

“Look,” I gestured, “when was the last time your mom even used this thing?”

“I… don’t know,” she admitted, though I’m still not sure which question she was answering.  Her downturned face was flushed, her eyes darting, searching the floor for answers.  My heart sank.

I pulled an empty jar from the counter and squatted by the appliance.  The spider skittered further into its cave, sensing my intent.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“We can’t fix this thing if there’s bugs living in it,” I said.

She crouched next to me, taking it in: the cobwebs, the dust, the years of disuse.  She sighed.

“Maybe it’s not the stove that needs fixing.”