by Mike Chen
He should include his death in that. Because he was dead to his family.
“Did she get the cats?”
“I told her to hold off. But she goes in the mornings. Told me she’s bottle-feeding kittens and finding ways to make them shit. ‘Stimulate their digestion.’” Markus shook his head and laughed. “Can’t imagine what Mum and Dad think about that. Bet she didn’t even tell them.”
“What happened with the loan?”
Another headshake. “Denied. Bank said that she needed a more unique angle for the restaurant, so she has to write a whole new business plan. She said she’s going to wait until after you recover, but between you and me, pretty sure it’s because she doesn’t know how to give them what they want.”
Kin elected to not intervene in the sibling tug-of-war between compassion and condescension that Penny and Markus often displayed. He turned to face the window.
For the first time since he’d awakened, Kin looked, really looked, at San Francisco. A few years ago, he bought Miranda a helicopter tour of the Bay Area; they’d circled from the suburban hills of the peninsula over the city itself up to Marin County and back, even under the Golden Gate Bridge. The view from the chopper seemed distant yet real, like every detail before him popped in all its grimy detail. Today, right there, with the atmotube passing by overhead, the Trinity Towers built on top of the Transamerica building and skycars forming a constant stream of little dashes and dots across the skyline, nothing seemed real. He still had to deal with it. “Now what?” he asked, turning back to Markus.
“Well—” Markus’s voice took on a matter-of-fact tone “—you love her. Obviously. Lucky Penny. Learning to cook. In your mind, she was there. I bet you even used some of her recipes. Remember that time she’d layered quinoa in lasagna just to rib you?”
Her recipe. Was that another time-travel fragment? “I don’t know how there she was.” He reached back, trying to recall all the details he could about Penny: the mango smell of her favorite perfume, the way she rubbed her feet together when she was half-asleep, the way she’d click her nails together while she tried to figure out a problem. They all seemed out of reach, a movie out of focus. “I was married to Heather. We had a life together. I need to get used to this era again before I get used to another person.” His voice dropped, his head following suit into his hands. “Markus,” he said. He knew what he wanted to say, though admitting it to such a close friend—Penny’s brother—took all his willpower to get out. “I don’t even know her anymore. Those are only memories. Heather and I were together much longer.”
For all his sarcasm and quips, a solemn scowl brushed over Markus’s face. “Think of it as a chance to start over. Everything you learned in the past eighteen years you can use now to avoid mistakes. If I had a chance to redo some things with Enoch, I sure would.” He glanced at the clock display floating above the door. “I need to get going. Mission briefing in fifteen. Soccer Saturday? First match back, yeah?”
Of course Markus would bring it back to soccer. Penny deflected with self-deprecation when things got uncomfortable. Markus deflected with sport. He knew the Fernandez siblings better than they knew themselves.
And yet, emotions pressurized within Kin, boiling at the way Markus seemingly distilled Heather and Miranda down to an annoyance, like their fate was a scheduling conflict or a spilled drink. Words formed to run to the defense of Kin’s family when he looked at his friend.
So many things to say. And there seemed to be no fit for them, not the right way. A simple nod was all it took to send Markus on his way and leave Kin alone with his thoughts.
* * *
Visualizations helped Kin recall not only the directions from the building lobby to his apartment but the exact steps and turns. Each movement echoed within his mind, from the feel of the elevator’s linoleum to the drab carpet that lined the hallway. The two eras of his life overlapped for a flash, and as he got to the front door, he instinctively reached for his keys before remembering that mechanical locksets weren’t a part of city life in this era. He laughed and straightened, standing about two feet in front of the door and looking up at the facial scanner. Right before he assumed the position, the door slid open.
“Kin!” Penny threw her arms around him. She squeezed him hard, and the scent of her hair—different from Heather’s—caused him to pause. Of all the times he’d caught that aroma, none felt as permanent as this. “I was so worried.”
He told himself to return the embrace, letting his bag drop to the floor and adjusting to the fact that Penny stood a good six inches shorter than Heather. “I’m fine. Really. I’m sorry I messed up the wedding.”
“New rule in this house—no apologizing for freak radiation accidents,” Penny said before planting a long kiss that said more than her words. Her fingers wrapped around his, leading him into the small apartment. “They told me to help you take it slow. So I wanted to surprise—” Penny’s voice stopped and her grip on him weakened.
Kin looked up and around, taking in the place he used to call home. Furniture sat where he remembered it. The view out the window hadn’t changed. Even the smell, the mix of recycled high-rise air and a hint Penny’s mango-scented perfume, same as it ever was.
Despite the exactness of it all, everything before him displayed an imitation of life, not the real thing.
Meanwhile, Penny’s eyes glistened over, and her mouth trembled, drooping before moving into a smile that her eyes betrayed. Would everyone react this way? And how many times would he have to spit out his cover story? “How bad is it?”
“It’s fine,” she said, her smile becoming brighter as her expression got dimmer.
“I look old.”
“No, course not. Old is like my gran. White hair, jowls, age marks. Like, you know, a hundred and fifty or so. You look...” She stared down at the floor, and her fingers flexed in and out of fists. “You look distinguished. And, I love the spectacles. Very crown.”
Crown. Though he’d been awake for a few days now, this was the first time he’d heard the era’s slang. “I look old,” he repeated before walking in and easing into what used to be his usual spot on the couch. The contours and padding of the couch felt like marbles instead of something familiar and comfortable. His weight shifted, trying to find a familiar groove.
“Of course not,” she said, settling in next to him though beginning a rapid repetition of pushing her hair behind her ear. “I mean, naturalists don’t take metabolizer treatments. Their thirties are our sixties. My cousin Cassie, the naturalist one who lives in Scotland? You’ve never met her. She’s my age, and she looks great. You’d never even know. Well, except for a little bit of—” She stopped herself, shaking her head. “I’m doing it again, aren’t I?”
One memory clicked—Penny’s nervous rambling could be her most annoying and most endearing habit. “Are you saying I look like I’m in my thirties or sixties?” he asked with a wry tone intended to lighten the mood—both of theirs.
“Look.” Penny propped herself on her knees, one hand on his thigh for balance while the other gently caressed his shoulder. “Let me start over. Let’s pretend I’m ‘Penny the chef’ rather than ‘Penny the blathering fool.’ I’m so happy that you’re home and that you’re safe. I’m sorry the accident happened to you, and I want to do anything possible to make you comfortable. Markus said you might be feeling weak or sore from the radiation blasts. You look fine, I promise.” She smiled again, this time with a more genuine warmth. “You’ll forget all about it next week when you and Markus argue about Arsenal and whoever.”
“Thanks, babe.” Babe. He knew he’d slipped as soon as the word escaped his lips—that was his term of endearment for Heather, not Penny.
“Babe? One near-death experience, and you’re getting soft with cute names. What else do you have in store for me?”
A low scratching sound came from behind the couch, soon followed
by a ball of black-and-white fur landing on top of it. Akasha’s pink nose and white chin went into overdrive as she sniffed Kin. “Akasha,” he said, holding out his fingers to scratch behind the collar of the cat Penny saved from an alley next to a hotel catering gig years ago. It was too bad any mention of Bammy was forbidden by the TCB; Penny would have appreciated how he and Heather worked with a rescue organization to adopt the greyhound from a racetrack.
The cat followed his movement and hissed before springing off and running back to the bedroom. “Maybe she doesn’t like the smell of radiation blasts?” he asked with a forced chuckle.
Penny’s left eyebrow arched up at the mention of radiation. Another agent method came to mind, a simple defuse-and-deflect technique: change the subject. “We’ve only talked about me. How was your day? Is that...” Kin took a second to take in and decipher the aroma permeating the apartment. “Chicken fricassee?”
Penny’s head tilted at an angle. “Did the coma turn you into a chef?”
“Ha. I wish.” Kin’s past and future collided in his head, reflexes from both fighting against each other. He shouldn’t know a single thing about cooking other than how to open and activate insta-meals. “Lucky guess. Smelled familiar.”
“You know chicken fricassee?”
Of course. Miranda called it his “famous Frenchy chicken.” Had he somehow taken Penny’s recipe along with him to the past?
“They gave it to me at the hospital yesterday. An insta-meal version. I recognized the name, the smell.” Savory. Rich. Tender stewed meat. His last variation included caramelized onions for a hint of sweetness. “You made it on our first date, too.”
Penny’s eyes brightened. “And I thought that brain of yours only recalled Arsenal facts. I figured—” her voice softened as she continued “—it’d be a nice gesture for coming home. Though I wasn’t sure you’d actually remember.”
“It’s been jogged a bit lately.” That night was about a week after they’d first met at Markus’s barbecue. Which also included a week of Markus telling him all the reasons why a TCB agent should not date his sister. He’d arrived early, not on purpose, but simply because he did. Her apartment—smaller, denser than their current shared space, with a litter of foster kittens mewling through the closed bathroom door—smelled just like it did now, a savory aroma that he now knew to be a mixture of herbs and chicken broth. She’d opened the door in full chef mode, her hair covered by a bandana and a not-that-clean apron draped on, and one look told him that she definitely didn’t appreciate the early arrival. Instead, he’d played it off, acting like he wanted to learn about cooking when really, he just wanted to continue the conversation they’d had the week prior before Markus tried prying them apart.
It didn’t take too long for her to figure out that he was helpless in the kitchen. And yet somehow, they’d managed to agree to a second date.
“Besides, how could I forget a master chef’s creation?”
“See, you’re buttering me up now,” she said with a laugh. “I’m no master chef. I’m just Penny.”
Just Penny. Her self-effacing catchall whenever someone complimented her, probably spawned from a childhood under the thumb of her overbearing parents. He’d referred to the lucky penny as “just a penny” countless times, and all this time, the phrase, the coin, and the woman were anything but. “I was actually thinking maybe you could show me how to cook,” he said, searching for anything that might rebuild the bridge between them. “That is, if you’re willing to teach me.”
Penny’s eyebrows lifted, her mouth dropping half-open. “Kin Stewart,” she said after a pause, “one coma is all it takes for you to finally be interested in food.”
“When you’re in a hospital bed, there’s a bit of time to think about stuff.”
Penny motioned him over to the brighter kitchen, the colors of her dress subtly changing hues to match the light.
“So, what’s going on here?” Kin asked. “For real. Not like our first date.”
“Well, this is simmering right now. I just added red wine. And I’m about to mince some garlic.” A tray formed out of the countertop next to garlic cloves, a dull gray cutting board materializing out of standard kitchen furniture. “Some chefs like the auto-mincer but it’s too precise. Too perfect. There’s no love in it. I prefer to still cut by hand.” Penny put the cloves on the board, then started quickly chopping, her hands in textbook position.
Kin knew it. Not from a cooking show or an online video or a book. He knew it because he fought the urge to join in, do it himself, and model her perfect form. Instead, he forced himself to stand still. Though when Penny stepped back, one thing became clearer.
Her work was much neater than his.
All those years, was he just emulating what lingered in the depths of his memory?
“So, you mince and add.” Penny grabbed chopsticks off the counter and used them to push the garlic in before stirring. “Sprinkle it in, give it a stir, and taste.” The contact of fresh garlic and hot liquid released a warm, savory scent into the air. Penny held up a tasting spoon to him, her eyes glowing. “I don’t know what you did with the old Kin but foodie Kin is sexy.”
Heather had always given him grief about loving cooking too much, claiming he sometimes put in too much effort to be practical. He’d have to get used to getting encouragement for this. He tasted, letting the flavors percolate, his mind deciphering Penny’s alchemy. “What about adding caramelized onions?” he said, the words coming out reflexively.
“Caramelized onions?” Her fingers pushed her hair over her left ear, once, then a second, then a third time.
“Yeah. I mean, it’s just an idea.” Kin nodded but averted his eyes. “I read a little bit on it while laid up.”
“No, it’s a fine suggestion. It’s just that...” A flush came over Penny’s cheeks, her shoulders tensing up until they blended into her neck. She blew out a sigh, eyes closed, and her posture reset.
He’d struck a nerve with her. Only one hit that hard.
“It’s just that my dad suggested the same thing. Yesterday. Told me he was helping me with ‘unique angles’ for my restaurant idea.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
“It’s fine. Really.” This time, it was Penny’s turn to nod to thin air. “I refused to use it. Wouldn’t even try it. It could have made the best damn chicken fricassee in history, but they just couldn’t help themselves from trying to tweak my recipe. It wouldn’t be mine anymore. But,” Penny said, opening the storage slot in the wall for vegetables, “now it’s different.”
“How’s that?”
“You suggested it. On your first night back after a radiation accident. So—” she held up a bright yellow onion “—it’s not their change of my recipe. It’s your first suggestion as a chef.” Despite her smile, a film covered Penny’s eyes, and she blinked rapidly, the unpeeled onion still in hand. Kin reached over and pulled her in, the familiarity of her fit igniting even more memories and feelings.
“Hey. Don’t worry. I’m back.” Kin pressed his lips against the top of Penny’s head, a surge of affection rising out of nowhere—and a completely impossible gesture for the much taller Heather.
“I’d really like you to think about a new job,” she said into his shoulder, her voice barely audible. “You know, if we decide to start a family someday, we need something safer. Something without radiation.”
The word family caused him to stare straight up to the ceiling, unblinking. His body stiffened instinctively, images of Miranda and Heather coming to mind at the mention of family. He remembered now, he remembered vividly that he and Penny had talked about this in the weeks following a day out with Markus’s son—in fact, he told her that he wanted to have kids soon, much sooner than this era’s standard of waiting until fifty or so. She was the one who hesitated, so his empty response probably threw her off.
Of course she expected a different reaction from him. To her, that conversation was only weeks ago. For him it was in another lifetime.
“You know what? I’m sorry. I shouldn’t bring that up right now. It’s not the time or place. We have plenty of time to discuss it later,” she said, her syllables slamming into one another as she pulled back. “So, caramelized onions. It’s your suggestion. You should cut it. Like this.”
The knife’s weight felt familiar in his hand, a hefty, solid presence. But Kin reminded himself of where he was, when he was, who stood next to him, and altered his grip to a much poorer form. And as he cut, he purposefully chopped at odd angles, slow speeds, failing to get all the way through. The result was something that almost looked like when Heather tried cooking.
She never could keep up with him in the kitchen, and when Miranda was born, she gladly handed all culinary responsibility over to him. She’d sit at the counter, sometimes with glass of wine in hand and laptop open, sometimes coloring with Miranda or reading to her, but hardly ever touching a pot or pan again. And always offering to do the dishes afterward.
He could hear her laugh now. It echoed in his mind, worming its way into every thought, every breath.
He missed her. And she’d probably been dead for a hundred years or so by now.
Penny took the onion chunks from him, though she caught his long look. He offered a smile in return that faded fast, even when he tried to force it. For the first time since returning to the apartment, a heaviness sank his limbs, an unnatural stillness that made every gesture become more and more difficult.
“Aw, don’t worry. You did fine.” Penny gestured to the cutting board.
She tossed the onions into an adjacent frying pan and punched numbers into the floating holo burner controls. “And now we let them do their thing. Sauté until the heat brings out the natural sugars in them.” She cozied up to him again, not with the urgency that came with concern, but a softness that only affection could draw out. They locked eyes, and though something about Penny’s very presence draped a familiar calmness around him, everything about her remained out of focus.
