The Secret Ingredient

by Stewart Lewis

  “Well, Livie, I think the first order of business is ice cream. The real stuff, none of Jeremy’s plastic-wrapped sandwiches. Then we’ll make a plan.”

  A classic strategy: distraction. It actually works. Lola gets Oreo cookie and I get double chocolate crunch. We sit on a bench watching the hipsters go by.

  “I know it’s a bit maddening,” she says, “but you can’t try and figure everything out at once. Your dads have everything under control. I mean, they’re not rich, but they make things work. Livie, they raised you to be the amazing person you are! Not too shabby.”

  I smile and lose a bite to the sidewalk.

  “At least everything sounds great with Theo.”

  “You know what’s weird? If we were dating in the sixties, we might be thinking about getting married right now.”

  “I’d start with a boyfriend before thinking about a husband. Anyway, your mother, now, that’s something we should act on. If you really want to find out, or find her, then we should. Right?”

  “Will you be my partner in crime?” I ask, knowing she’ll agree.

  “Well, how about a copilot? That sounds less incriminating. What bank is the key from?”

  “North Hollywood Bank and Trust.”

  “Okay, let me do some research. Let’s meet tomorrow—outside your office right after you get out of work. Bring the key.”

  “Sounds great. Thanks, Lola, for everything.”

  She drops me at my bank, and I deposit most of the first of the money I’ve made this summer, saving it for Bell. I keep the rest and pick up the ingredients for the cucumber soup.

  When I get home and start unpacking the groceries, I already feel myself getting in the zone. I sauté the garlic and onion, add some lemon juice, and pour in the vegetable broth. I chop the cucumbers, fast at first, then slower. If I ever needed calming, it’s right now. And, sure enough, as I cook, I feel that sense of peace that nothing else brings me, cloaking me in safety.

  The soup calls for only salt and pepper, but I decide to add some cayenne as well. I transfer it all to the blender and add avocado and parsley, then slowly stir in the yogurt. It comes out beautifully. Perfect texture and just the right amount of kick.

  I sit in the living room, a bowl of it on my lap. I am certainly calm, but I know it’s just a matter of time before things get chaotic again. The trick is to enjoy the quiet moments in between. While I’m eating the last spoonful of the soup, the phone rings and startles me enough that I spill a few drops on the couch.

  Flustered, I scramble to pick up. It’s Enrique, I can tell by his breathing.

  “Ollie, it’s me. I’m at the police station.”

  CHAPTER 13

  “What! Why? What happened?” I can’t breathe.

  “It’s Jeremy. He’s been arrested.”

  “I’m coming.”

  I slam the phone down and run to the station, which is only a few blocks away. Enrique is there, but Jeremy can’t be released until Bell shows up. When I ask Enrique where Bell is, he just shrugs.

  It turns out that the ice cream truck Jeremy bought was stolen, and his driver’s license was expired, and he didn’t have a permit to sell the ice cream, and there was beer involved.… Basically my brother is in deep crap. I feel bad for not seeing this coming or doing something to stop it. I tell Enrique as much, and he says, “Ollie, Jeremy is his own person. You cannot be responsible for everyone.”

  I let his words hang in the air, giving them a chance to sink in. “I just can’t believe him. He never learns. How much is the bail?”

  “I don’t know, but we don’t have it.”

  I walk up to the clerk lady, state my name and Jeremy’s, and ask how much his bail is.

  “Five thousand dollars.”

  “What?”

  She looks past me to the next guy in line. I sit down next to Enrique, and Bell finally shows up a few minutes later. He looks frantic.

  “Is he okay?”

  “Yes, but Dad, if we haven’t got five grand they’re not going to let him go,” I say.

  We all sit there for what seems like a long while but could be ten minutes. Then we go home. The whole time, I avoid eye contact with Bell. He looks too defeated. But when I go to say good night, I hug him extra tight.

  For some crazy reason, I sleep really well and wake up after my dads have left. I barely have time for juice as I rush out the door. But something stops me: a postcard, falling at my feet from inside the screen door. Again it’s a black-and-white photograph of a street in Paris. There’s a small dog, and someone walking a vintage bike. I smile and turn it over to read:

  Liv the Dream—

  See you at BEAN

  Tomorrow night at 7:45

  I’ll be the one smiling.

  —Theo

  In the afternoon, Janice hands me an advance on my next paycheck. It’s a little over three hundred dollars. It’s sweet of her, but it’s not going to get my stupid brother out of jail.

  I quietly call Enrique on his cell.

  “What’s going on?” I ask.

  “The public defender said if we can prove to the police that Jeremy bought the car and didn’t steal it, they’ll drop that charge and the amount of the money for bail. So Bell has been there since five a.m. trying to get him out.”

  “Okay, keep me posted.”

  Janice comes out and starts briefing me on the film she’s casting, the big one, the one I’ve been waiting for her to clue me in on, but I’m too distracted to care. Why is my family such a bunch of screwups? I usually have this way of letting things roll over me, but right now I’m just plain sick of it. And I’m so angry at Jeremy for stressing out our dads even more than they already were.

  I hear the names Reese Witherspoon and Shia LaBeouf, something about an exotic location, and a “budget with open faucets.” Janice keeps on talking, and once again I notice how attractive she is, even with the taut ponytail and boyish sports coat. She finishes and looks at me expectantly, then says, “So?”

  I have no idea what she’s referring to. “I’m sorry, I missed the question.”

  “Can you call all these people on this list and give them their time slots?”

  “Yes, sorry.”

  The rest of the day can’t go by fast enough. I do more busywork, which I’m thankful for, and at five on the dot, I meet Lola at the corner. As she drives us east on Sunset, I show her the key.

  “Great! And while you’ve been at work, I’ve gone all Veronica Mars.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, my father’s mate is a high-level executive at North Hollywood Bank and Trust. I thought so when you told me the name, but I had to check to be sure. I explained everything to him, and he called in a favor and said you could have a couple minutes, but you’ll be screened on your way out. I suppose that means they just want to make sure you haven’t stolen anything.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Yes. He said the people at the bank could lose their jobs for listening to him and letting you have access ’cause it’s totally illegal, but I explained that it’s just a name you’re after.”

  I stare at Lola in her white scarf and big black glasses, looking like Jackie O’s long-lost British granddaughter.

  “I know. I want to know. Even if she’s, like, a homeless person or a crackhead.”

  “Well, if she has half a brain, which, knowing you, I’m sure she does, she’ll probably have a respectable lot in life.”

  I grab the key out of my pocket and stare at it to make sure it’s real.

  As we drive the 101 into North Hollywood, I try to calm myself down. It’s just a name, like she said. It doesn’t mean everything has to change. But I can’t help feeling it might.

  When we park, Lola turns to me and says, “Okay, Livie, this is the plan. Someone named Mr. Horne is about done with a meeting, and when he is done, he’s going to personally walk you in. He said I should wait in the car.”

  “Lola, this is crazy!”

 
She literally pushes me out onto the sidewalk. I climb the steps and push the revolving glass door and immediately breathe in the cold, stale air of the bank. I just stand there, kind of frozen, until a woman asks me if I need help.

  She leads me to Mr. Horne’s office.

  “You must be Olivia,” he says, reaching out his hand.

  “Yes. Thank you for doing this, I really appreciate it.”

  As he leads me downstairs to the boxes, I look around in awe. What if all these boxes contain secrets that, if revealed, could change people’s lives?

  When we get to 74C, he says, “Two minutes. And I can’t leave you alone.”

  “Okay.”

  My hands shake as I open the small door to the safe-deposit box. Inside there are two files. One is from the adoption agency, and the other is unmarked. I decide to just open the one that pertains to me. Sure enough, there’s all my information: what I weighed, what time I was born, etc. I scan down farther and boom, there it is, a name, typed with an actual typewriter, next to the words birth mother: Jane Armont, 1992. I let out a noise that is somewhere between a whine and a gasp.

  “Are you all right?” Mr. Horne asks.

  “Yes,” I say, trying to pull myself together.

  I put the file back and close the door. I pray he won’t notice that there’s a tiny earthquake happening all over my body. It’s a wonder I can even walk. I’m not sure what exactly happens next, but eventually I make it upstairs and outside. When I get into the car, I can’t speak. I’m still in shock.

  “Just say the name,” Lola says, pulling out of the parking space.

  “Jane. Jane Armont.”

  “Oh dear, I think that’s French. Hang on.”

  Lola pulls into a gas station and types the name into her phone. I look up at the palm trees and a few wispy clouds. I feel dizzy. I am now seeing through the eyes of a girl with a mother in the world. At least, the name of one.

  “Nothing comes up, Livie. Just what looks like a very famous painter from Santa Fe who’s about ninety years old.”

  She pulls back onto the road. As we drive, I think about the name Jane. It’s a solid name, just like Rose—did I expect it to be Rose?—like she could be a nurse or a teacher, or maybe even a lawyer.

  “You know, I’ve never gotten to call anyone Mom.”

  “It’s overrated, dear, believe me. My mother is so obsessed with yoga and her bloody juice cleanses that we barely have any conversations anymore.”

  “But you did. You were close to her. And that relationship shaped the person you are.”

  “What are you, a shrink now? Listen, we’ll find your mum, trust me. But I wouldn’t have expectations. It’s not going to be all Hallmark with you running off into the sunset with her.”

  “Well, maybe we can at least make cookies or something?”

  Lola laughs and adjusts her scarf. “You could probably teach her a thing or two.”

  When she drops me off, Lola looks at me intently for what seems like a long time. “You know what? Mum or no mum, you will always be Olivia.”

  “Yeah. But right now Olivia feels like she just got hit by a truck.”

  “Well, you’ve got a date with Theo, right?”

  “Yes! I’m supposed to meet him at seven forty-five.” My heartbeat quickens and I look at my watch. I have a little over two hours.

  “Nothing like a boy to get your mind off it. Jane Armont isn’t going anywhere. So let’s pause until we decide our next move. Deal?”

  “Deal.”

  * * *

  When I get inside, I take Rose’s book out of my bag, close my eyes, and turn to another page. I open my eyes and see a drawing of an old man walking on a tightrope across a deep ravine. The recipe is FEARLESS FRICASSEE. From what I can tell, it’s basically chicken stew. There’s another note in the margin, this time in pencil:

  9/8/68

  Made for Mother and Eloise.

  Mother pretty quiet.

  Did she notice something?

  Kurt was the elephant in the room.

  In 1968, with her husband off to war and no sign of him returning, this woman put herself together and went to the store for chicken, red cabbage, and heavy cream. She made dinner for her reticent mother and the mysterious Eloise.… A housekeeper? A fling? It was the time of “free love.” We studied that in school. Experimentation was everywhere. What else would her mother have noticed? What was it like living so close to the person who gave birth to you? Is there an unspoken bond, maybe even a tension, between mother and daughter that is vital to becoming a woman?

  A few hours later, Bell comes home. He explains that the public defender is still gathering enough information to get Jeremy off. Bell is really stressed, so I toast some banana bread for him and spread butter on top, and he seems to be calmed by it as he chews. Again, I feel a rush of anger toward Jeremy. This is the last thing Bell needs. But I don’t let on. Instead, I reassure him.

  “Don’t worry, Dad, he’ll get out in no time.”

  “Yeah?” he asks me, like I’m the parent or something.

  I give him my most serious look. “Yes,” I say, trying desperately to believe it myself.

  CHAPTER 14

  When I was twelve, I basically had one friend. Her name was Jill, and she had a punk rock look but was shy if you tried to talk to her. Although I didn’t know the word at the time, she was all about duality. One morning she didn’t show up at school, and out of curiosity I went by her house on the way home. Not only was her whole family gone, there was a hippie couple moving in. They told me the family had moved to Wisconsin. When you’re twelve, I guess you believe your friends will always be there. Well, I did. I couldn’t fathom that she was gone, just like that. I sat on the curb for a while before getting up to leave. Everything—the sidewalk, the sky, the trees—looked a little different.

  When I got to my front door and walked in, something shifted inside me. It was like the doorway was literally a threshold and womanhood was on the other side. I felt sick to my stomach and looked down at the spreading stain on my thrift-store sweatpants. Of course I had heard that one day this was going to happen, but now that it had, I felt frozen in time, waiting for someone to help, to explain what was going to happen from here on out. It’s funny—health class explains stuff, but usually everyone is too busy joking around to really take in the facts. I knew I would get my period, and that would mean from then on I could get pregnant, but I didn’t know much else.

  Enrique came down the stairs, and his face was even more panic-stricken than mine. Gay men don’t really like to deal with “female parts,” and I could sense his apprehension, but he got it together. He brought me a roll of paper towels and said, “Hold on.” Then he called Bell, who didn’t seem to have much advice, and finally, he grabbed me and led me to Davida’s door.

  At that point, we didn’t really know Davida more than to say a quick hello on the street. So the word mortification does not begin to explain how I felt. But that was how it happened: one of my gay dads taking my bleeding self to a total stranger next door. When Davida answered the door, it was like she read the entire situation in the blink of an eye. She completely took charge, pulled me inside, and sent Enrique home. For some reason—I found out later that my senses, strong to begin with, had become intensified—I remember all the smells in her house: patchouli, some kind of lavender oil, ripe tangerines in a bowl on her living room table. All the smells permeated my head, making me feel faint. Davida took me into the bathroom, taught me how to use a tampon, and gave me a large box of them. Then she suggested making me hot chocolate. I wanted to tell her I wasn’t six years old, but Davida is the type of person who prefers impulse to common sense. I mean, technically I had just become a woman, and she was making me hot cocoa? But I went with it, and when we entered the kitchen I heard a few tiny little barks and saw, in his cage, an eight-week-old Hank, his cherubic face begging to be let out. Twenty minutes later I had completely forgotten about my period—all I wanted to do was
play with Hank. He was the cutest chocolate Lab puppy I had ever seen in real life, almost as if he had jumped out of one of those cheesy greeting cards.

  For a while, Hank replaced the loss of Jill. I would play with him every day for an hour after school. One time Davida had to leave, and Enrique came over and found me and Hank sleeping together on the couch. “You looked like two angels,” he said. I remember counting the hours for school to be over so I could go home and play with the puppy. He was everything to me, and at the time, the idea of him not being around was the farthest thing from my thoughts.

  Who had replaced Rose’s loss? This Eloise person? Could Matthew and Kurt be replaced? Now, looking at the flyer for Hank’s funeral, I suddenly feel helpless. I realize that as Hank had grown, I had taken him for granted. I even got mad at him and at times dreaded having to walk him. Now I would give my left arm to have him chew up my favorite slippers, or knock over my orange juice, or slobber on my jeans. I even miss the things that annoyed me about him. I hold the flyer to my chest and close my eyes.

  It’s not really a funeral. On the flyer it says Drum Circle, which unnerves me a little. But as long as it’s for Hank, I have to go. I’m glad Theo’s here with me, and that he was so understanding when I asked if we could go to this instead of going to Bean, after Davida stopped by with the flyer this morning. There are bowls of carrots and pretzels, and ginger ale. Theo picks up a carrot and smells it before taking a bite.

  “Why do you smell your food?” I ask, giggling.

  “I don’t know. I’m kind of animalistic that way,” Theo says. There are arrows drawn on paper, and we follow them out the back door.

  Someone who calls himself a shaman runs Hank’s “service.” There’s a fire pit in Davida’s backyard, and we are all in a big circle. The shaman holds a stick that’s supposed to represent Hank’s spirit. As we pass it around we’re supposed to give it good thoughts and energy. I am used to Davida and her New Age friends, but I think this is a little new to Theo. He seems really nervous. Still, at the end, when the shaman is going around hugging everyone, Theo whispers to me, “Be careful. Whatever you do, don’t squeeze the shaman.”