“Thanks, kiddo.”
I slump back into my bedroom, crawl under the covers, and fall back into the dead dreamless sleep of the afflicted.
I wake in a pool of sweat, my fever having broken while I was asleep, making the sheets uncomfortably sticky. I throw off the covers and get out of bed, still leaden and aching. I go to the bathroom and run a hot shower, find an old mentholated bath disk under the sink and put it on the floor of the shower, hoping the eucalyptus vapors will cut through the cotton in my head a little bit. I put on a shower cap, deciding that wet hair is going to be a bad idea, and knowing I have neither the strength nor inclination to use the hair dryer. The hot water scalds a bit at first, my skin still clammy from the fever sweat. But gradually it stops stinging and starts soothing, and by the time I get done, I feel a little better.
I get dried off and get into my cashmere lounging pajamas, a birthday gift from Gilly, and a luxury I thought was ridiculous until now. I head out to the kitchen, and put on the kettle for tea when there is a gentle knocking at the door. I walk over and open it up.
“Hey, beautiful!” Nathan says.
I slam the door in his face. “Go away!” I yell at the closed door.
“I will not. Open up.”
“Dot a chance. I’ll make you sick.”
“I’ll take that risk. Open this door.”
“You can’d make me. I habe a miserable code, I feel like crap, I look like crap, I’m nod up for company. And I don’d wand you to get id. Go away and lub me from afar.”
“I am going to love you from anear, and I’ve had my flu shot this year, and I think you look lovely, and I am going to come in there and take care of you. Now open this door.”
“No, no, no, no, no. I will nod and you cannod make me.”
“You leave me no choice.” Suddenly I hear a key in the lock, and the doorknob turns, and the door is open.
He grins, dangling the key at me. “Nadia called and told me you were under the weather, and she loaned me her key in case you were sleeping when I came over.” He is carrying a big bag from Treasure Island. He leans over and kisses my forehead. “No fever, that’s a good sign. Go get yourself settled on the couch and I’ll get this stuff put away and bring you a cup of tea, how’s that?”
“The kettle is on. Thanks, Nate, readdy, I . . .”
He puts a gentle finger on my lips. “Go get comfy, sweetheart. I’ll be in with your tea shortly. Have you eaten anything yet today?”
“Not yet.”
“Think you can manage something, or is your stomach wonky?”
“It isn’t a stomach bug, just a bad head and chest code.”
“Excellent. Then I’ll bring you something to eat as well. Now scoot.”
I head into the living room, and curl up in the chaise section of the couch, pulling the throw blanket over me. I bought it in Christchurch when Andrew and I were in New Zealand for our fifth anniversary. It is a pale blue leaning toward teal, heathered with brown, and made of a combination of merino wool and Chinese possum fur. It is the coziest thing I own next to these pajamas. I can hear Nathan puttering around in the kitchen, and suddenly I start to cry.
Alone isn’t bad, mostly. I’m independent; I don’t need constant company or socialization. I was always okay eating alone, going to movies solo, keeping my own counsel. The time I’ve had since Andrew and I split hasn’t been easy, but it isn’t the alone part that was tough; it was the betrayal and feeling of being such an idiot that made things hard. But the one time that being alone really sucks is when you’re sick. Having to take care of yourself, make your own food and clean up, having to get yourself dressed enough to go to the drugstore for Kleenex and cough syrup.
The last time I got a cold like this was about a month after I moved into this place, and I was amazed at how truly depressed I got having to take care of myself. But now, as shitty as I feel, I’m so grateful to have this man in my kitchen, making me tea and breakfast, here to take care of me.
Nate comes in with a tray, and I quickly blow my nose and wipe my eyes before he sees that I’m emotional. Lucky for me, he is paying very close attention to not spilling what’s on the tray, which he puts down on the coffee table in front of me.
“Tea with honey and a little bit of lemon. Toast with some of that apricot jam you like. And a sliced banana.”
“Thank you, Nate, it’s all wonderful. Now can I please ged you to leave? I’m serious, it’s a nasty bid of business, dis, and I’m going to feel so bad if I give id to you, especially since, unless you ged id on a Monday, I can’d redurn the Florence Nighdingale favor.”
“I once did a film about doctors, and you know what I found out? The common cold is at its most contagious in the three days before the symptoms appear. By the time you get sick, you are really unlikely to make anyone else sick unless you are swapping spit or coming into contact with mucus and the like. So, while I will refrain from juggling your snotty tissues, making out with you, or eating off your fork for the time being, it’s likely that I’ll be safe. And since I haven’t seen you in four days, I should be reasonably out of danger.”
“Id dat true?”
“Yep. So stop trying to get me to leave, and let me take care of you, okay?”
“Okay.” He goes to the kitchen to tidy up, and I drink my tea and eat the toast and banana. It makes me feel better. He returns with a glass of water for himself and a bag from Walgreens, which he hands to me.
I open the bag and find daytime cold medicine and nighttime cold medicine, cough drops, little Kleenex packets, and a stack of silly tabloid celebrity magazines.
He smiles at me. “Figured while you were getting better you might want to catch up on all your Britney Spears gossip and find out how many more kids Brangelina are planning on adopting.”
I laugh. “You think ob everything.”
“I try.”
I yawn deeply, the hot shower and tea and food hitting me all at once.
“Why don’t you see if you can nap for a little while, rest is the best thing for you.”
“And what are you going to do while I’m sleeping?”
“I brought a book and the crossword, and who knows, I may even grab some winks myself. Don’t worry about me, just settle in.” He gets up and tucks the blanket more carefully around me, putting a small throw pillow behind my head. Then he kisses the top of my head, picks up my empty tray and heads back for the kitchen. I’m asleep before he returns.
When I wake I’m groggy with the discomfit that comes with oversleep. The room isn’t dark exactly, but it is clear that I’ve lost a large percentage of the day. I stretch, feeling the tightness in my muscles that comes with too long a sleep in an odd position.
“Well, look who’s up!” Nate says from across the room. He’s sitting in a chair, small reading glasses perched on the tip of his nose, his feet crossed on the coffee table, a book facedown across his stomach.
“Hey.” My voice is rough, my mouth dry and foul tasting to me.
Nate gets up and crosses to the couch, sitting next to me and stroking my face. “I think your fever came back a little, how do you feel?”
“Stiff, out of it. And parched.”
“Let me get you something to drink.”
He heads for the kitchen and I get up off the couch and go to the bathroom. I pee, wash my face, brush my teeth. I look awful. My skin is pasty and gray. My hair is matted with sweat and sleep, my eyes dull. I head back to the living room, where Nate has brought me a large glass of ice water, and another cup of hot tea. I drain the water in one draught, feeling the coolness run down my throat and settle in my belly.
“What time is it?”
“Nearly five.”
“Good lord, I’ve been asleep all day! You must have been bored out of your skull.”
“Nah. Not at all. I did the whole crossword, read my book, did some work, took a little snooze myself. It’s been a very peaceful day. Plus you’re very cute when you sleep.”
“Yo
u are a very nice liar.”
He laughs. “Hungry?”
I check in with myself. “Starving, actually.”
“Good. I’ll whip something up. Sit tight.”
He gets up, and I reach for one of the magazines he brought, and start flipping through it, shocked at how purely enjoyable it is to read gossip about famous people, even if most of the people on the pages are young enough to be my children, and I have no idea who they are or why they are famous. Whatever High School Musical is, it must be very popular. Ditto something called The Hills.
I’m comparing snippy comments about the “What Were They Thinking” outfits on the back page, when Nate reappears with the tray. This time it’s cream of tomato soup and a grilled cheese sandwich. I can’t remember the last time I had this, but I can’t think of anything in the world that I would be as happy to see as this simple meal.
“Campbell’s?” I ask him.
“Yep.”
I pick up a triangular half of the sandwich, seeing the perfectly golden brown exterior, the way the cheese oozes, just short of dripping. “Kraft?”
“On Wonder bread.”
“I lub you bery, bery much.”
“I love you back. Eat your soup.”
I dunk the sandwich in the soup, slurp my spoon, lick the crumbs off my fingers, scrape the last bits of plastic-y cheese off the plate.
“Goodness, I’m in love with a Hoover!”
I look up, having totally abandoned myself to the joy of this childhood favorite, forgetting that Nate was even in the room. “Sorry,” I say, sheepish.
“Don’t be! Appetite is a good sign. I believe you will mend. So much for starving a cold.”
“Thank you for taking such good care of me.”
“You’re welcome. Now, how do we feel about sherbet?”
“Perfect.”
“Orange or lime?”
“Orange.”
“I’ll fetch it.”
Nate clears my tray, and brings two bowls of sherbet, and we cuddle up on the couch. Kai and Nadia both call to check in, and insist on my taking tomorrow off as well to rest up. Nate raids my DVD collection, and we end up watching Capricorn One, a very supercheesy seventies sci-fi extravaganza, that makes us both weep with laughter at the predictable dialogue, obvious special effects, and brilliant casting of Telly Savalas as a crop duster of all things. Nate runs me a hot bath, telling me that it will help calm me down before sleep. Despite my continued protests, he stays, holding me close, not caring that my fever makes me sweat on him, and for all my sense of personal empowerment, I’m very grateful to give over the care of myself to him.
After another day of rest, this one spent mostly playing Scrabble with Nate, who continued to cook me the invalid food of my childhood: Cream of Wheat with brown sugar, SpaghettiOs with crumbled Ritz Crackers on top, ginger ale with a scoop of lime sherbet in it, little Jell-O cups. For dinner we ordered in Japanese, huge bowls of broth and slippery noodles with tender slices of pure white chicken. We spent another night spooned together in my big soft bed, and in the morning, I suddenly found that I was feeling better. Much better. Better enough to adequately show Nate how grateful I was for his care of me.
We shower together, soaping each other with mounds of suds, Nate washing my hair, standing behind me so that I can half-lean into his body, giving myself over to the feeling of his strong hands on my scalp. Clean and pink, we dress companionably, and I call Kai, letting him know that I will be able to make it in to the store today, that if he can get things started, I’ll be in within an hour or so.
“Glad to have you back in the world, beautiful.”
“Glad to be back in the world. You can tend to my health anytime.”
“And so I shall. Do you have time for breakfast, or do you need to get to the store right away?”
“I have time for some quick breakfast here. You can have toast and fruit, and I can probably whip up some eggs.”
“Toast and fruit is fine. I have a lunch meeting at Hugo’s with some of those money guys who think you should eat a side of beef at lunchtime.”
“Fun. Toast and fruit coming up.”
I put on the kettle, and set up the coffee press for Nate and my little teapot for myself. We sit at my tiny little table.
“Is Nadia coming back tonight?”
“Yeah. I sent her a text message giving her the day off and telling her that it should be safe to come home.”
“Do you want her to come home?”
“Of course! I mean, you know, as much as I want anyone living with me who isn’t a romantic partner. She’s generally a pretty good roommate. And she is fun.”
“But if you had your druthers . . . you’d not have her here.”
“Well, you know me; obviously in a perfect world I wouldn’t need anyone here.”
“Do you really need her? I mean, I know that it is a little breathing room financially, but it isn’t a windfall. You would certainly be solvent without it. . . .”
“Nate, I get the impression that you are trying to get me to ask her to leave. Any particular reason?” His tone worries me, the way he is pressing.
He smiles. “Of course not. I just want to remind you that you took her in as a temporary measure. And that you are the one in charge of when that temporaryness is done. If she and that weirdo are doing this well, maybe all she needs is a little push to move in with him. . . .”
“I don’t want to push her to move in with him so soon just because I would prefer to be alone, Nate. She’s a troubled girl, she needs some independence, and she’s been nothing but great to me and terrific for the business.”
“Hey, I didn’t mean to get you all riled up, honey. Forget I said anything. I should never speak without having all the information.” He gets up to clear my plate, and I wonder exactly what information he is referring to.
FRIED CHICKEN
In law school Andrew and I became connoisseurs of takeout. There was just never time to go to the grocery store or make a meal. Everything was eaten with case-law books open, or legal pads full of notes, or half-asleep in front of the television. But the last Sunday of every month we would do a potluck party, just to have some sort of home cooking. One Sunday a girl from our study group, Jenny, invited us all to her mom’s house in Hyde Park for a true Sunday Soul Food Dinner. Jenny’s mom, Billie, a tiny woman with skin the color of café au lait, and silvery hair in a perfect chignon, laid out a soul food spread that brought a tear to the eye. Barbeque ribs, macaroni and cheese, collard greens with ham hocks, bread dressing, green beans, biscuits, candied sweet potatoes, creamed corn, and in the center of the table, a huge pile of fried chicken. I had never tasted anything like that fried chicken. The perfect balance of crisp batter to tender juicy meat. Everything that day was delicious, but the fried chicken was transcendent.
“Mel, I was wondering what you were doing on Monday night?” Delia asks, bringing me platters for getting the food ready for the case.
I think for a second. “I don’t really have anything, I was probably going to see Nathan, why?”
“We’re having a party at the shelter, one of the women who’s been there for almost a year is moving out. She got a job and saved enough to get her own place for her and her kids, and they’ve been a really great family, so we wanted to make them a small party, and they suggested that we use it as an excuse to invite the people who are working with us to come see the facility and meet the other women. I’m doing the cooking.”
“Oh, D, I’d be thrilled to come! Thank you for inviting me. Is there anything I can bring or do?”
“Well, I was wondering if I could use the kitchen here for some of the prep? The kitchen over there is fine for getting dinner on the table for the residents, but it will be easier to do some stuff here and bring it over.”
“Of course! Would you like me to sous chef for you?”
Delia turns to look at me. “You’d really want to do that?”
“Are you kidding? I plan on ste
aling all your secrets!”
She smiles at me. “That would be wonderful.”
“Let’s talk later, you can fill me in on the menu and what we need to do. It’s possible we can get some stuff prepped over the weekend so that Monday isn’t so crazy.”
“That sounds wonderful. Thanks, Mel.”
“Of course!”
Kai flies in from the front at his usual breakneck pace. “Delectable, Teensie, did you see what happened next door?”
We’re in a strip along Lincoln Avenue that has a series of small buildings, most of which have storefront space on the main level and either storage, office space, or living space above. We have the corner space, and immediately to the north of us is a small antiques store. We just have the one level, but next door, while a smaller floor plan, has an apartment upstairs. The owner of the store, a cantankerous gent named Joe, came in once the week we opened, made some denigrating comments about the food, and never came back.
“What happened next door?” Delia asks.
“There is a sign up saying everything must go, the place is for sale!”
“Wow. That’s wild!” I can’t really believe it; I think Joe has been running his little ramshackle shop for probably forty years.
“I wonder what will go in there?” Delia says.
“Let’s all pray for something that will drive in some business! Maybe an exercise equipment store, or fitness clothing . . .” It would be nice to have something else in the block that would attract the kind of clientele that might want to shop here as well.
“Let’s pray for someone nice to work next to for a change,” Kai mutters.
We all laugh, thinking about Joe’s pinched face, his rude behavior, the way he refuses to look at any of us when we walk by his windows.
“What’s so funny?” Nadia enters the kitchen, carrying a large folder.
“We’re just talking about Joe’s place next door being up for sale.”
“Oh. Wow. I wonder what will go in there?” She tilts her head in the direction of Joe’s store.
Good Enough to Eat Page 16
