And this is what I love about Gillian. Because if I said yes, she would pay through the nose for the next flight out, and be here before the day is through. And somehow, for whatever else our relationship is, this is what makes it special and important. “I’m okay. We’re grownups, we’ve had time to cool off. He called yesterday to apologize and sent a lovely bunch of flowers, and I’m assuming that tonight we will both have a chance to express ourselves in a less emotional way and figure out why we both ended up so hurt and upset. I’d always rather you make plans for a real visit, when I’m in a good mood and we can do fun stuff.”
“I know, me too. Tell you what, why don’t I come for Fakesgiving?”
When Gillian first moved abroad, I always wanted her to come home for Thanksgiving, but it is such an awful time to travel anywhere for any reason, and it isn’t like she got the days off from her job in London, so we invented Fakesgiving; we’d pick a weekend when flights are cheap, and I’d make a full Thanksgiving dinner, and we’d watch our DVD of the 1985 Super Bowl when the Monsters of the Midway routed the Patriots, just to have some football on the television while we napped after dinner. We haven’t done it in the last couple of years, and I miss it. I think about all the people I now have in my life, and think about how much fun it would be to do a Fakesgiving with all of them included.
“I would love that. You pick the weekend and I’ll make sure to keep it clear for you.”
“I’ll check my calendar tomorrow with my assistant, and send you some dates. In the meantime, for what it’s worth, I’m sorry your ex is such a complete and total butt munch, and I’m sorry that your boyfriend is behaving badly, and I’m really sorry that I’m not there to get you drunk.”
“Thanks, little girl.”
“Love you, sis. And please, keep me in the loop, I really do want to know everything that’s going on with you, ’kay?”
“Promise. And don’t forget to send me those dates. I want them in red ink on both our calendars.”
“Promise. Bye, honey.”
“Bye.”
Nate is picking me up from the store, and I’ve arranged for Nadia to take my car home. I’m nervous, stomach fluttering, more nervous than I was on our first date, even more nervous than I was the first time we made love. I have very little vocabulary for relationship problems. With my dad gone, my mother took the attitude that she had already had “her husband,” that she had no time or inclination for dating, that me and Gilly and her friends were enough company for her. So I never saw her dating, never watched her work through any sort of relationship difficulties. My own dating life, pre-Andrew, was placid, the men I chose were mild in every way, and I was quick to have the “let’s just be friends” conversation at the slightest sign of potential problems.
Andrew and I never fought. We didn’t bicker, we didn’t rail, we didn’t disagree. I know it seems amazing to think of, people who lived together for nearly eight years before marrying, and stayed married for another nine, but frankly, there was never really much to argue about.
We both made plenty of money and carried no debt beyond car payments and our mortgage, and we lived within our ample means, so there wasn’t any financial tension. We had the same politics, liked the same music, wanted to see the same movies, and we both loved food and sex more than anything. With no real family to speak of, there wasn’t any need for either one of us to get defensive about the behavior of our kin, no need to bicker about how to split up the holidays. We were both neatniks, slightly anal about keeping the house tidy. And though we certainly both had interests the other didn’t share, it never caused tension. Andrew was an avid art collector and I never really understood what moved him about pieces, but he never brought anything home I thought was ugly. And I collected DVDs nearly obsessively, especially classic black-and-whites from the thirties and forties. But while Andrew didn’t know why I had to own them, he liked to watch them with me, and even had special shelves built in the library to house them.
Of course we had the occasional cranky moments, when someone would snap at someone for forgetting to do something or agreeing to a social engagement without checking in with the other one first. He hated the way I drove, aggressive and impatient, and I hated how poky and conservative he was on the road, so any time in the car could be a little bit tense. Occasionally one of us might say something unintentionally hurtful, but when called on it, we both were quick to apologize, to forgive, and to get naked to make it go away. But really, I can’t remember a single major fight, neither of us ever raised a voice to the other or said something mean until the day he told me he was leaving me and confessed to the affair, at which point I unleashed on him all of the fury I possessed.
I have no mental framework for dealing with a problem like this. Today was spent in endless discussion. I had filled in Kai and Nadia and Delia about the fight, and the vote was split. All three agreed that Nate handled the situation badly, considering, and thought he should have saved his ire for later when emotions weren’t so high, especially since he would have had to know I hadn’t intended for him to be hurt. But while Kai and Nadia were both of the mind that he had no reason to be upset, Delia insisted that she fully understood where he was coming from, and thought that even if he dealt with it badly, there was a lot of validity to his feelings.
Then they tried to make me call in to an advice radio show at lunchtime, to talk to a couple of sisters that Nadia says “are like TOTAL relationship gurus,” Kai deems “fierce,” and Delia calls “very Oprah-like, for a couple of white girls.” I’ve heard of them, they are local celebs, and getting some national attention now that they have a television show in the works, and I know that they are very well respected, but I thought that hiding in the office to ask advice from strangers on the radio during the lunch rush seemed silly at best, and if, at forty years old, I can’t find a way to talk openly with my boyfriend about my feelings, then what use am I?
I get ready in the tiny back bathroom, letting my hair out of the tight bun I keep it in when I’m working so that I don’t have to deal with it or worry about it falling in the food, changing out of my chef’s coat and black pants and into the skirt and blouse I’ve brought with me. I throw some mascara on, a little concealer, some blush and lip gloss and figure that if it’s possible I’m headed to a breakup dinner, I’m not getting overly fancy for it.
When I come out of the bathroom, Delia and Nadia are waiting for me.
“You look great!” Nadia says as I hand her my car keys.
“Very lovely.” Delia nods approvingly.
“Thank you both very much for your hard work today, and for all the advice.”
“I’ll hope to not see you at home later,” Nadia says lasciviously.
“Oh, child, really? Is that necessary?” Delia shakes her head, believing that any entendre is unnecessary and vulgar for a woman.
Nadia laughs at Delia’s discomfit, and grabs her in one of her patented attack hugs. “Oh, Mama Bear, loosen up. If they have to have a fight, then at least I can hope that they make up in such a way that requires long hours of the night!”
I didn’t know that it was possible for an African American to blush, but Delia’s color deepens noticeably as she gives herself over to laughing at this elfin child purring like Mae West, her eyebrows performing tricks above eyes that sparkle a little too knowingly. Delia smacks her on the bottom, making her jump.
“Don’t think I won’t take you over my knee for sass, little miss. Get over there and close out that register before you work my last nerve!” Delia winks at me. Nadia feigns subservience, and heads over to run the credit card report.
Delia turns to me and her mouth goes straight. “If he is a good man, then he is worth having, but only you know if he is a good man. Sometimes no man is better than the wrong man. I know you been hurt, I know this is new and hard for you, and I know that now that this man is in your heart it is so easy to just go along to get along. But if he wants you to change, then you might want to th
ink about whether you worked this hard to be who you are just to let some man tell you that who you worked to be isn’t good enough for him. I’m not saying, I’m just saying.”
I look at her impassive face, no different from if she had told me that the beets I ordered were moldy, or that she thinks she has an idea for a black-eyed-pea dish. I look into her eyes, which show the wisdom that only comes from knowing the worst that man is capable of, and all I can do is nod. She smiles softly.
“You are enough for any man, and any man that doesn’t see that, doesn’t really see you.”
I hear a knock at the front door and see Nate’s face in the window.
She pats my shoulder and I head out to meet the man I love, but don’t fully trust.
“So,” Nate says.
“So.”
“I thought it was a good meal. That apple dessert was amazing!”
“Yeah, they do a wonderful job.” We are in the car leaving Prosecco, a fine-dining Italian restaurant where I know the sommelier, and where I am always able to get a delicious and relatively healthy meal.
“I liked your friend. I usually don’t pay that much attention to wine, but everything he picked really enhanced the food, I thought.”
“He’s very talented.” The meal was good, conversation focused on work for both of us, some family updates on his end, current events. Light and easy, but with the obvious underlying tension of what we have been through. I don’t want to bring it up, but as much as I’ve been dreading having to have the conversation, I’m suddenly eager for it to begin, even if it is just to get it over with.
“Did you want to come over?”
“Did you want me to come over?”
Nate sighs. “I’m not good at this, Mel, never have been. There are many reasons I’ve never been married, and even my ego isn’t so huge as to not be able to recognize that at least a part of that is related to how I deal with communications. In my work I’m either alone, or with a skeleton crew, and their job is to take direction from me. I like to think I’m collaborative, but ultimately, it’s my vision they are there to support, and my opinion counts more. It’s hard to shut that off. I’m sorry about how I handled things the other day, as I said on the phone yesterday, and I know that just apologizing doesn’t fully take care of anything, because obviously you and I have very different perceptions of what happened between us. But I love you, and I have heard your side and shared my side, and I hope we can try to understand each other better. So yes, I want you to come over, and I hope that we can have a drink, and talk, and then I hope that you’ll stay over and that tomorrow we will wake up together in a better place. But I also know that this whole thing between us is still in the early stages, and maybe you might feel like it’s too soon to be having deep relationship conversations, and that you might just want a little space to ease back into things. It’s your call.”
“I’d like to come over. But you’re right, I don’t want to make more of this than necessary. It was a strange situation, a unique set of circumstances, and I’d like us to recognize that and not belabor it too long, if that makes sense. I think we’re both independent, wary of needing anyone, reluctant to trust, I know I am. But I also know that if we focus too much on it, it becomes bigger than it needs to be, and we have every chance of getting into another tiff over it. I love you, and I’m sorry that I hurt your feelings.”
“I love you too. And I’m sorry I was insensitive to you and upset you.”
“Then take me home.”
And I think that we’ll be okay, that this isn’t going to be some long, horrible thing, that for all my worrying, it isn’t going to go the way I feared.
We get back to Nate’s place, share a brandy, and go to bed. But for the first time, we seem somehow out of sync, bumping teeth when we kiss, knocking noses. I can’t relax enough to come, and Nate’s erection waxes and wanes, until finally he mutters something about not being as young as he used to be and that he shouldn’t have had the brandy on top of all the wine. He kisses my forehead and pulls me close, but after a few minutes he rolls over and settles into sleep, leaving me in a lonely space next to him, trying not to doubt myself, trying not to think that the fight has made me less attractive to him. I try to hang on to Delia’s statement: I am enough.
But what if I’m not?
TOMATO SOUP AND GRILLED CHEESE
Some things are universal. I have tried, but I can’t find anyone who doesn’t like the smell of freshly cut grass, who hates puppies, who thinks a fire in the winter is a bad idea. I’m sure there are exceptions to every rule, but in my world, everyone loves the feeling of clean, hot towels just out of the dryer, waking up to find you have three more hours to sleep, and tomato soup and grilled cheese when you are sick. Not stomach-bug, puking sick; if you’re nauseous the idea of acidic tomatoes or gooey cheese will make you ralph for certain. But if you are NyQuil sick, sniffly-sneezyachy-stuffy-head-fever-sore-throat kind of sick, then cream of tomato soup with a grilled cheese sandwich is just the ticket.
Everything hurts.
My eyelashes ache. The little bits of skin between my fingers are sore. The tendons in my knees are tight. My earlobes are sad and tender. I have a sore throat that has lodged itself at the very top of my sinuses, feeling like it is right at the internal base of my nose. My eyes are puffy and bloated feeling. My head is stuffy, but when I blow my nose, nothing comes.
I’m fucked.
In most jobs, although it isn’t encouraged, you can usually fudge if you have a cold. If you aren’t barfing, then it’s just about suffering through your day in a haze of cold medicine and hot tea with honey and trying not to breathe on people. You can buy some of that sanitizing gel and wash your hands a lot and get through your day.
But in the food business, you can’t go to work when you are sick. In fact, you’re supposed to leave work the moment you feel the tiniest symptom coming on. Because kitchens are tiny places where you share air and touch one another constantly and any contagious sickness can spread like Ebola if you aren’t careful, taking down a whole staff. And what is worse, you can pass something on to a customer. As careful as we have to be with general sanitation to prevent food-borne illness, we have to be equally vigilant about colds and the flu. I thought the headache I had when I came home last night was just the result of a long day at the store, but I appear to be wrong.
I roll over and pick up the phone.
“Weensie! Whassup?” I have no idea how Kai can be so chipper at five thirty in the morning.
I put on my saddest, most nasal Edith Ann voice. “I’m sick. I habe a code in by node.”
“Oh, no no no no no. Poor thing, you sound peevish and peaked and you must STAY THE HELL AWAY FROM ME! Phil and I are going up to Door County this weekend, and I will NOT spend my mini vaca languishing in bed with the sniffles, DO YOU HEAR ME? Go back to bed. I’ll call Delectable and see if she can come in early. But before you go back to sleep, go wake the little pink-haired pixie and tell her to come on down and help. Suggest she go stay with that boyfriend of hers for a couple of days so she doesn’t catch the plague from you. I’ll call you later.”
“Danks, Kai. I readdy appreciade id.”
“Get some rest. It’s only Wednesday. Hopefully if you take care of yourself today and tomorrow you’ll be right as rain by Friday.”
“Oday. Dalk to you lader.”
I drag myself out of bed, feeling like I weigh a million pounds. I knock on Nadia’s door, hear a muffled noise and open it.
“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGGGGGGGGH-HHHHHH!” A naked Nadia rolls off the side of the pull-out bed.
“Oh, I, um, I, hi . . .” An equally naked Daniel reaches down to the foot of the bed to retrieve the rumpled sheet, which he pulls to his chest like a timid bride.
“Oh, crap. I’m so sorry, I, um . . . I didn’t dow . . .” I back out of the room and close the door. I stand in the hallway, stunned. I can hear rumblings and stumblings and mutterings behind the door. Suddenly the door flies o
pen, and Daniel, red-faced and with his shirt on inside out, exits.
“Sorry, Melanie. I, um, it was very nice to see you again.” And he runs up the hallway, and I can hear the door click as he leaves. Nadia stands in front of me in her bathrobe.
“Jesus, Mel, you scared the ever-loving craparoonie out of me. What’s going on?”
“I’m sick. I habe a code. I can’d go to work. Kai is going to open the store and see if Delia can come in early, but he asked me to check to see if you could come id as well to hep him oud. I didn’t know you had company. I’m sorry I walked in od you.”
“Oh you poor thing, you sound TERRIBLE! I’ll jump in the shower and go down to the store to meet Kai. Is there anything you need, anything I can do for you before I leave?”
“Pack a bag.”
She looks stricken. “What? You want me to leave? Just because Daniel slept over without asking you? He brought me home late, we had a nightcap, we fell asleep watching TV, I didn’t think it was . . .”
It takes my fuzzy head a minute to realize she thinks I’m kicking her out. “No, no, no, stop. I’m dot mad. I’m a little embarrassed, and we should probably habe a system for warning someone about things like dis, but I meant that you should go spend a couple nights at Daniel’s place so you don’t catch my code. I don’t want to make you sick.”
She laughs. “Paranoid much, Nadia? I’m sorry, Mel, it’s early, and I didn’t sleep much, and the look on your face when you came through the door. You’re really not mad?”
“I’m too stuffy and shitty to be mad. I’m just glad you can go help Kai. But serioudly. Dis id a really icky code, I don’t want you to ged id. So tell Daniel his punishdment for violating the sancdidy of my house id to pud you up for a couple nights till I ged bedder.”
“Will do. Go back to bed. I’ll call later to see how you are doing, and you can let me know if you want me to get anything for you.”
Good Enough to Eat Page 15
