by S. A. Wolfe
Now my mother spends every day living through the same routine. She showers and dresses as if she’s going to work, wearing nice dresses or pants with a silk blouse, elegant pieces of jewelry, and fixes her mid-length hair in a stylish wave of loose curls. She’s meticulous about her appearance, yet she can’t step foot outside our home.
We left Lublin, Poland, when I was twelve. Our optimism fortified us, believing our strong work ethic would propel us into a better life, an American dream. Our friends warned us that it would take time and there would be bouts of fear and uncertainty.
Those first few exciting, but scary, months turned into several miserable years. My father couldn’t get work as a civil engineer or anything close to what he did back in Poland, but a friend from our Lublin days got him a low-level management position with a grocery distributor out of Queens, a job he disliked and complained about every day.
I thought my parents were both strong and confident when it came to doing what was best for the family. They had the idealistic conviction that they would both be able to go back to school during the evenings and work on advanced degrees so they could get better jobs. Their simple plan never came to fruition, though. They didn’t really have the opportunity to enroll in night classes. They were beaten down, stuck in a routine of low-paying work and putting in overtime to cover our monthly expenses. It strained the marriage and their motivation.
It was the lowest I had seen my parents, but I assumed that, once we gained our citizenship, they would recover emotionally and get back to being the optimistic people who had bounded out of our former homeland as if they were off to conquer the world. They were going to be the risk takers.
I imagined a scenario where they could buy the deli and sandwich shop that was for sale in our Queens neighborhood. My mother could put her own twist on the food, and they would build a name for themselves and expand on their reputation with one or two more locations. As a teenager hungry for my family to be whole again, I imagined all this good fortune on the horizon. But it wasn’t happening. The challenges in the years leading up to our citizenship had already taken its toll on their marriage. There was less affection, more fighting, and a general sense of giving up on their big dreams. They were merely trying to get by.
Initially, my sister, Aleska, was excited to finish her middle and high school years in America. She had already seen herself as an American kid as we waved goodbye to friends and boarded the plane. She held on to that hopefulness longer than I did. Coming to America was a big blow to our disintegrating idealism. We all became fragile in our own ways. I acted out in school, becoming angry with my parents and scared that I didn’t know what to do. My teenage rebellion started early—poor work habits in school, dating troubled boys when I was barely fourteen, and a penchant for smoking with the older high school kids just to shock my peers. It all felt out of character even to me, but I did it anyway.
The whole time we lived in Queens, I was the outsider, the foreigner, the one who didn’t speak like everyone else, no matter how hard I worked at it. I have an ear for music, and learning the piano was easy, but my special ability to hear notes and chords never translated to hearing and comprehending English as well as my family. I think my fear of making mistakes and being judged made it worse.
One boy used to mock everything I said with a Dracula accent, and the other kids would laugh along. I was so embarrassed by my accent, and for a long time, it clouded my ability to move past my shame and anger. I’m amazed I managed to graduate high school. The administration must have been as eager to get rid of me as I was to leave.
It didn’t help that Aleska had to start working part time at sixteen while she was just a high school sophomore to supplement our parents’ incomes. By then, I was a sullen eighteen-year-old with no college prospects, so it was easier for me to join the full-time workforce. My expectations were so low at that point.
We tried to scrounge up enough money and financial aid so we could both attend state college, although there was little chance for me, but there wasn’t enough money. And cutting down our work hours at the Greek restaurant where Aleska and I bussed tables meant reducing our family’s ability to pay bills. We’re all in this together—that was the mantra my father kept repeating to us.
Frustrated and tired of the endless cycle of work and growing unhappiness, my father negotiated with a produce distributor he knew to get a job out of the city. It meant a slightly lower salary, but we’d be able to cut down on our living expenses and save money if we were careful.
After Aleska graduated high school, we moved to the little town of Hera, New York—less than a thousand residents, tranquil in the winter but bustling with tourists in the summer. We arrived without knowing a soul, rented a small home, and once again let our hope fuel the motivation we needed to get through each day in our new, lousy jobs.
My mother, Aleska, and I cleaned houses for a disreputable firm based out of Yonkers that pilfered our wages. Five days a week, we cleaned other people’s toilets and tried to perform miracles of getting cat and dog odors removed from their carpets and upholstery. On our two days off, we started our own part-time housecleaning business, and the first client I secured was Carson Blackard. When I saw how he didn’t keep his kitchen stocked and rarely ate at home, I started offering to cook for him and the other busy professionals he hooked me up with. It was slow going, but it was the new beginning I needed.
Four years ago, and one year after coming to Hera, on a morning like any other, my mother took off her housecleaner’s uniform and refused to leave the house. My father assumed she was having a midlife crisis, a mild breakdown, and it would pass. It didn’t.
Her undiagnosed situation became worse as she rose each morning and got ready for the day, inventing dozens of excuses why she couldn’t leave our home. After a year of rapidly dwindling income, my father could no longer contain his exasperation, which had transformed into indifference toward his wife and daughters. Instead of physically hauling her off to a doctor as Aleska and I begged him to do, he chose to move out and leave his family altogether.
I think my mother’s behavior was the opportunity he had been waiting for all along. My father could go much further in his American life without the burden of an unstable wife and children who were dependent on him. He was willing to give up our love in return for bearing no responsibility for anyone. The bastard also left with most of the money in the family’s savings account. So much for the college fund.
Since I already missed those golden years of college and was well-ensconced in an unfulfilling job that would offer no future or security of any kind, Aleska and I devised a new survival strategy so we could take control of our lives and take care of our mother. When you’re not given a choice in the matter, you take the one path in front of you and figure out how to make it work.
While our father was basking in the Florida sunshine—his idea of getting as far away from us as possible—Aleska and I took the risk of quitting the insufferable cleaning job and taking our business full time. By then, I had become more ruthless and had no moral dilemma about stealing away clients from our former employer. I also expanded basic meals into more refined gourmet dinners with place settings and linens if the client needed them. And after Carson had me cater a few company dinners, things really took off. That’s how I became the local, personal chef in Hera. It’s not a career I planned on. I fell into it out of necessity.
I can cook like no one else. While I was a terrible student in school, I was also my mother’s helper in the kitchen. I paid attention and learned how to cook like Julia Child. Much of it was watching and practicing, and the rest was instinct.
After three years without our father, and our mother’s inability to work, Aleska and I had done fairly well. We could support our mother, pay for Aleska’s night classes, and even give me a couple days off a week to spend time with my fiancé, Marko. It wasn’t magical or perfect, but my life seemed pretty damn good after all those years of uncertainty with
our father.
It was good, not great, until three months ago, when Baldy delivered the scariest news I have ever received.
Talia
I AWAKE WITH THE familiar sharp pain that shoots up my breastbone like a hot rod permanently welded to my chest. I turn on my side, silencing my desire to cry out as the pain radiates around my rib cage until I can come to a full sitting position. I breathe slowly and raise my arms to stretch as far as I can.
The doctors gave me Percocet and other drugs, trying to find one that will subdue the extreme discomfort until I heal, but we discovered I can’t handle anything stronger than Tylenol without severe, adverse effects—vomiting and dizziness to the point that I feel like my body has aged a hundred years and death is imminent.
I shower, then eat breakfast with Aleska and my mother, who still likes to cook for us. She searches my expression for any sign of pain before putting more scrambled eggs and avocado toast on my plate. It embarrasses my mother to have her daughters supplying the only income, but she puts on a stoic face every morning as though this will be the day that she leaves the house.
Plans to bring in a doctor for a house call were met with angry resistance. Aleska gave in immediately, not willing to battle it out with our mother every day, and without Aleska, I don’t have the strength to do it on my own.
As of today, I haven’t worked in two whole months. My sister and mother performed my catering job, with my mother doing all the cooking from our small kitchen because I couldn’t even lift a frying pan, and Aleska delivering the meals. They also covered up my secret—the real reason for my absence—so well that no one thought to ask questions about me. Everyone thinks I was in Florida, visiting my estranged father. As if I would ever spend money on a plane ticket to visit that bastard.
I’ve been going crazy holed up with my mother in our house, working ferociously on my excruciating rehabilitation. I made a name for myself, and having my mother doing my work illegally from our residential kitchen made me uncomfortable and eager to get through my physical rehabilitation.
We each have our specialties. Aleska is majoring in accounting and loves numbers, so she manages not only the cleaning crew, but also the overall business finances. I don’t get that at all, so I stick with the food, designing the menus and cooking at the fancy, high-end, commercial kitchen I’ve been renting in a nearby town. Except that fancy kitchen, the one I love so much and depend on, caught on fire the other night.
Of course it did. I can’t go back to work without more bad news to screw me over.
When the landlord of the kitchen called me yesterday about the electrical fire, I wasn’t even surprised. It’s like I just expect bad things to happen to me. I know this is a shitty way to think about yourself.
Now Aleska drives me to Woodstock so we can see how much damage was done. The landlord, Mr. Ricci, gives us hard hats and escorts us inside. The fire was put out in time to save my cookware; however, the walls and floors are scorched beyond repair. It all needs to be replaced and rebuilt. The chemical stench is pungent.
We gather my good knives, the stainless steel and copper pots, and load our company van. Then I look back at the old building, a place for small, start-up businesses, a place that made me happy while I was cooking and filling my brain with ideas for my future. I feel sentimental about losing it.
“At least you weren’t in there when the fire started. Things could have been worse,” Aleska remarks. “And you’ve already been through enough.”
“True. Besides, Carson’s new kitchen is better.”
“You mean Peyton’s.” Aleska smiles. “He’s running Swill, Talia, and he’s the one who allowed you to use the kitchen.”
I look out the window as Aleska steers the van onto the road, my thoughts turning back to Peyton. He’s gorgeous. He’s also not the type a woman looks for if she wants to settle down and have a family. That doesn’t mean I can’t fantasize about him.
“And you have to admit he’s hot,” she continues.
I feign shock, and then we both laugh together. It’s been a long time since we’ve done that.
“Seriously, I’ve seen him around town for months now, and he is scrumptious!” That’s Aleska’s favorite word for handsome men. “When we started cleaning his house—”
“Wait. He’s one of our clients?”
“Yes. He called me two months ago. He wanted the dinner service, too, but I told him we could only offer cleaning at the time.”
“Because I was sick.”
“I didn’t tell him that. But we definitely couldn’t add more clients for Mom to cook for. Not in our little kitchen. But now you can add him to your roster.”
“No, absolutely not. Besides, he lives in a restaurant. He can get his meals at Swill. He doesn’t need me delivering meals to his home when he has Bash cooking for him.”
“Well, all right then. So much for cooking for the hottie.”
We make several stops at a few grocery stores in three different towns so I can get all the produce and special cuts of meat I need for the next few days. Aleska tries to carry most of my bags, but I remind her that I’m permitted to handle grocery bags now. I won’t collapse, or faint, or go into cardiac arrest. This doesn’t stop her from hovering, though.
When a butcher hands me several pounds of lamb chops, Aleska sweeps her arms in front of me, grabs the brown paper packages, and puts them in the cart. I don’t tell her that her overprotectiveness makes me feel like I’m her frail grandmother instead of her big sister.
When we arrive at Swill, Bash is outside inspecting crates of produce brought in by a vendor I recognize, a local organic farmer. Considering it’s not summer, these must be some of his greenhouse produce.
Bash looks over at me, then says something to the farmer, who then picks up his crates and begins carrying them inside. Bash heads my way with a shy smile.
“Let me help you,” he says, pulling the back doors of our van open.
Just as Bash is about to lift up one of my boxes, Peyton comes out of the restaurant, strolling with purpose. I hesitate for a moment to watch him and judge his expression.
“I’ll take care of that, Bash,” Peyton says. “Go in and handle the produce guys.”
Bash looks surprised. “It’s no bother. I’ll help Talia, and then I’ll deal with the deliveries. The guys know where to put everything. We’ve already gone over—”
“No, you’re needed in there. I’ll take care of this.” Peyton doesn’t acknowledge Aleska or me as he hoists two boxes up, one on each shoulder.
Bash’s mouth quirks as if he’s going to laugh or challenge him, but then he seems to decide against it. “Sure thing, boss man.”
“Knock it off.” Peyton gives him a hard look.
“Oh, man, I’ve been usurped by a MacKenzie.” Bash shakes his head.
Peyton wins the stare down as Bash chuckles and leaves.
“Tell me where you want this stuff,” Peyton directs at me.
“And good morning to you, too,” Aleska says brightly.
Peyton’s expression softens into a blip of smile. “Good morning. So where am I taking this?”
“To the kitchen, of course,” I respond.
“Duh,” Aleska adds.
“Of course.” Peyton locks eyes with me for a moment, and I study his light-gray eyes, surrounded by his long, dark hair. He’s striking, really, if you like good-looking men who have a wolf-like appeal.
Inside, the restaurant is buzzing with activity. The new servers and kitchen help are trying on aprons over their Swill T-shirts and setting out the final touches in the dining area. The bartender, a young lumberjack of a man, is lining a row of scotch behind the bar.
“You’re almost ready to open,” I say to Peyton’s back.
With the boxes on his shoulders, he swings around and walks backward. “Almost.” He gives me a devilish smile, knowing that people are jumping out of his way so he doesn’t crash into them.
“Be careful. You could hurt
yourself.”
Peyton is amused by my concern and fakes a stumble. My jaw drops and panic grips me.
“Gotcha,” he says.
Behind me, I hear Aleska giggle. However, I don’t find it funny at all.
Being around Peyton makes me nervous in unexpected ways.
The box I’m carrying grows heavier and pulls at my sternum. I’m not exceeding the weight limits my doctor gave me, but I hoist my box uncomfortably anyway. Peyton notices and frowns.
When we enter the kitchen, I put the box on the long, stainless steel worktable before he can take it from me.
“Talia, I need to run,” Aleska says. “Marguerite is picking me up here. We’re going to use her car today so you can have the van and figure out your new runs.”
“Thanks.”
Aleska gives me a hug, with an extra squeeze on my arms so she doesn’t touch my tender chest.
Daily hugs aren’t our thing, but since it’s my first day back at work, I think my sister is worried about my endurance.
“Let me know if you hit a snag. One of the girls can give me a ride, and I’ll come help you.”
“Got it.” No need to discuss this in front of a kitchen full of people.
After Aleska leaves, Peyton rests a hand on one of my unopened boxes and looks at me as though he deserves some answers.
“What does she mean by new runs? And what’s this about you hitting a snag?”
“I have two new clients: a family and the man who bought the huge house down the way from Carson’s place. I have to figure out a new delivery schedule based on who needs what and when. Some people like a simple drop-off service, while others like for me to heat the food and place it out at a certain time, so I have to factor these things into my deliveries. I have fourteen clients receiving dinner tonight. Those are the runs.”
