Flicker
By Kim Galovich
My mother rampaged around the kitchen, pots and pans clattering in her wake.
“Mama,” she shouted, “stop being a nuisance.”
The stove light flickered as she tossed minced lamb in the skillet. Meat sizzled as the scent of cumin and garlic filled the warm kitchen. I sat near the window, wiping the fog with my sleeve, and watched as snow fell glinting off the streetlight.
My grandmother left her body six months ago. She wished me goodnight and was gone by morning, though pieces of her lingered---her glasses collected dust on an end table, and a bottle of her favorite wine sat unfinished on the counter.
"I think you just need to screw the bulb in tighter,” I told my mother.
“Don’t be silly,” she replied. “Your Nana always has to butt in when I’m cooking.”
It was true. When my grandmother had her body, she and my mother would bicker constantly in the kitchen. “Not enough garlic,” my grandmother would say, “needs more butter,” or “you call that a tablespoon?” She thought every dish should burst with flavor. My mother was more concerned with heart disease.
I grabbed plates, preparing to set a place for four people before realizing the mistake. As I tucked the last plate back in the cabinet, the doorbell rang.
The dog barked lazily from the couch at the expected visitor. I opened the door, and Morkoor Angie rushed inside as snowflakes melted into her wool jacket.
“Hello, my Sarah-noush,” my aunt said, breath heaving as she unwrapped the scarf engulfing her head. “Have you eaten yet?”
“You’re just in time,” my mother called from the kitchen.
I finished setting the table as my mother poured two glasses of red wine. We sat down to eat, and the stove light flickered.
“What now?” My mother threw down her knife and took a long gulp of wine.
Morkoor Angie looked towards the stove. “Is something wrong with the light?”
“Mom thinks it’s ghosts,” I replied.
“Ghosts?” my mother scoffed. “Who said anything about ghosts?”
“You said Nana was messing with the light.”
“She does that from time to time,” Morkoor Angie interjected. “She’s always hated how I make paklava. My furnace goes haywire if I don’t overdo the sugar.”
“Doesn’t that mean she’s a ghost?” I stirred the lamb around my plate, creating the illusion of a touched meal.
“I don’t believe in ghosts,” my mother said. “I believe in souls.”
“What’s the difference?” I asked.
“For one,” my mother paused, finishing her glass of wine, “ghosts don’t exist.”
When we finished eating, my mother cleared the table as I walked Morkoor Angie to the door.
“Be patient with your mother, Sarah-noush.” She kissed me on the forehead. “Grief binds us together as easily as it pulls us apart.”
A burst of cold air filled the room as she left.
My mother washed the dishes while I dried. She handed me the last pan, and the stove light flickered. She inspected the dish closely and rolled her eyes, scrubbing off a determined crumb.
“Why don’t you just turn the light off?” I asked.
“I leave it on so your Nana can talk to us.”
“How do you know she’s here?” my voice cracked. The stove light blinked in and out of consciousness.
“Where else would she be?” She pulled the stopper in the sink. White knuckles gripped the counter.
I knew better than to prod, than to scrape my fingers across a festering wound, but I needed to hear her say it, needed to hear her accept Nana was gone. “Don’t you want her to be at peace?”
My mother sighed, watching the water swirl down the drain. “I would rather have her here.”
She switched off the stove light and disappeared up the dark stairwell without another word.
Outside, the snow dropped in large clumps. I grabbed the light above the stove, cupping the warm bulb in my palm, and twisted it further into the socket. I flipped the light back on and watched the steady beam.
The kitchen basked in the cool winter glow. A chill coursed through my body. I loosened the bulb in its socket.
The stove light flickered, and I smiled. “Goodnight, Nana.”
THE END
Author Bio: Kim Galovich is a web developer, horror writer, and Creative Writing MFA Candidate at Columbia College Chicago. She lives in a haunted house and has grown to appreciate the company.