Mission and Sheila were on the couch. He was sleeping with his head on her shoulder, and her eyes were closed. Without opening them, she said, “Is that you, Bea?”

“Yes.” I held my breath.

“Don’t worry, honey. It’s okay.”

“It is?”

“Yes, honey. Whatever happens, it’s okay.”

Dad came out of his room and waved me into the kitchen, where he poured us two bowls of cereal. “You said you wouldn’t tell her,” I whispered.

He put some pumpernickel bread in the toaster and pushed the lever down. “I didn’t. She figured it out.”

“Is he going to stay here?” Mission, I meant.

Dad shook his head. “He’s staying at Sheila’s until the wedding. Then I guess he’ll go back home.”

“How’s Jesse?”

“He’s happy,” Dad said. “And sleeping late.”

“So, everything is—good?”

“Yes. Everything is good.” But his face looked tight.

We ate our cereal. Then I said, “Hi.”

But Dad just smiled.

Box

When I let myself in at Mom’s the next afternoon, there was a cardboard box on the floor under the coat hooks. On the box was a picture of an orange spoon.

“Mom?”

The toilet flushed.

“Mom?” I knocked on the bathroom door. “Did you buy a giant orange spoon?” I was thinking of the gigantic fork I saw at the department store with Jesse.

“No, silly!” she called back over the sound of running water. “That’s dinner! I’m going to cook it!”

“Is Melissa coming over?”

The door opened. Mom’s face looked just-washed, but not like she had been crying. “Nope,” she said. “All me.”

The box turned out to be full of ingredients, all just the right amount to make dinner for two: Two tomatoes. A small square of Parmesan cheese. One zucchini. Two carrots. A red pepper. Some little green peas. A skinny box of pasta. A teeny bottle of olive oil. A tiny plastic bag of salt.

And there was a shiny recipe card that said exactly what to do.

“Pasta primavera!” Mom said, waving the recipe card. “Did you know that ‘primavera’ means spring in Italian?” She held up the little bag of peas and smiled at it.

“Is this one of those dinner kits?” I said. “Dad always makes fun of them. He calls them ‘kiddie kits.’ ”

Mom was reading the recipe. “I know he does. But this is great, right? They give us exactly what we need, and there are pictures showing exactly what to do. It says here to put half the salt into a pot of water.” She dumped the salt onto the counter and began to divide it into two piles, pushing salt grains back and forth with a butter knife and then standing back to squint at them.

“I don’t think it has to be exactly half the salt, Mom.” I was thinking of the way Dad just threw big handfuls of salt into his pots.