Thirty
ABOUT TWENTY MINUTES later, Helen walks into the room carrying a tray holding a steaming bowl, two plates, and two cans of diet soda. “Here,” she says, placing the tray on my lap and grabbing one of the plates and one of the cans. “Eat.”
I look at her offering. A steaming bowl of fragrant tomato bisque and a grilled cheese sandwich.
“You haven’t made this for me in a long time,” I whisper.
“It was the first thing I learned to cook, remember?” Helen says.
“Mom had all the ingredients?”
“Not quite. She had bread and American cheese, and butter, of course. The soup is a combination of jarred garlic and herb pasta sauce and some half-and-half. Turned out pretty good, I think. There’s not much in her kitchen.”
“Mom’s not much of a cook,” I say, plunging my spoon into the creamy-re
