Page 32 of Across Time

I glance down. "Are you talking about my breasts?"

She explodes in laughter. "Dieu, Amelie. I meant your cooking, but if you think your breasts can kill also, by all means use those if necessary."

* * *

Henri drives her into town, and I find myself at loose ends. On crutches, I’m mostly too inept to help with much. I could cook something, but my best-case scenario is wasting a lot of their food and my worst case is burning their home to the ground.

I’m tired of reading. I’m tired of my own company. I while away the time by swinging my body around the living room on the crutches, trying to see how fast I can cross the room. It’s a stupid and potentially dangerous game, but I don’t know what to do with myself today.

When Henri walks in, he is drenched to the skin but stops, looking over at me with suspicion. "What are you doing?" he asks.

"Absolutely nothing,” I reply. “Perhaps you should entertain me."

He laughs, brushing wet hair off his forehead. "I have a fence to mend."

The rain is coming down so hard I doubt he could even see a foot in front of his face. Why does he never give himself a day off? "You can't mend a fence in this weather. It's pouring rain. You'll get sick."

"Better a cool rain that a hundred degrees and sun,” he says.

"Come on," I wheedle. "Stay in. It’ll be pleasant on the porch."

He gives me a half-smile. It's enough to light up his whole face. "So you want me to entertain you? Shall I sing? Dance?"

"Can you sing or dance?"

"Non," he says, mouth still turned up.

"And you're not funny, and you don't say all that much, which really makes you a poor choice on my part, but I don't see a lot of options."

He leans back against the wall with his arms folded over his chest. "So I'm to struggle to entertain you while you insult me today. This sounds better and better."

"I won't insult you," I promise, holding up my hand as if I’m taking an oath. "Not more than usual, anyway. And I'll even...I'll make you hot chocolate."

"You know how to make hot chocolate?"

I shrug. "Sort of."

"Fine," he says. "Let's see you sort of make hot chocolate. Then, perhaps, I'll stay."

"Go get on dry clothes, first," I order.

A single brow raises. "You're worrying about me now?"

I flush. Why do I care that he’s in wet clothes? "No,” I reply. “I just don't want you dripping all over the floor."

He goes up to his room to change and I stand at the counter, struggling to remember the recipe for cocoa. It's always been a skill of mine, this bizarre ability to recall things when I need to—I just have to focus on the memory and it's almost like I'm there again, seeing what I need to see. I close my eyes and try to picture the back of the Hershey's cocoa box. It’s been ages since I’ve made it from scratch. Probably not since Kit died.

My eyes are squeezed shut, but I hear him come back into the room. "What are you doing?" he asks.

"Remembering the recipe for cocoa," I reply, pressing an index finger against my lips so he won't ruin my concentration.

I see myself as a child, in the kitchen with Kit after a day of sledding. Her cheeks are pink and her hair is soaked through. How long will it take? she asks, jumping in place. She always had so much energy, a constant blur of movement from the moment she woke until she collapsed into sleep. I’d forgotten that about her, and remembering hurts. I guess it’s why I try so hard to avoid thinking about her.

I pick up the Hershey's container and begin to read from the back of the box.

"I need sugar," I say to Henri, my eyes still closed. "Half a cup. Four cups of milk. A teaspoon of vanilla—the recipe calls for slightly less but we like it with more. A third cup hot water, a dash of salt, and a quarter cup of cocoa."

I take one last look at Kit. I’m sorry, I think. God I’m so sorry. If one of us had to die, it should have been me. Not a single member of the family would say otherwise.