by Wendy Owens
I pull on the door handle and step out, lean down, and add, “Like I said, I doubt it. Sorry about hitting you.” He opens his mouth as if he is going to say something else, but before he can, I push the door shut, smile, and wave at him through the glass before crossing over to my car.
As I get in, put the car in reverse and pull away, I don’t dare look over at Christian, but I can feel his eyes on me. The rain is now just a light sprinkling and, without the tears, my vision is unobstructed. Carefully I make my way out of the parking lot, heading in the direction of my apartment, trying my best to ignore the crunched front end of my car and the opportunity that’s staring me in the face. An opportunity to be a chef—one I would have jumped at years ago.
I sit in my car, in a parking spot in front of my home, but I don’t get out. I’m not sure how long I’ve been sitting here. The rain has stopped completely, and the sun has found its way back into the world. The car has heated up under its rays, wrapping me in a cocoon of warmth. It’s paralyzing. My head is resting against the back of my seat, and I watch the small particles of dust dance in the sunlight. A ballet of the things so small, they often go unnoticed. A car horn blares to the left of me. A man angry at a woman who took too long to cross the street in front of him. I shake my head, wondering the question again that has haunted me for years. Why would Travis leave me alone in this world?
Pushing open the door, I climb out; suddenly I regret not purchasing the ice cream I had originally set out to buy. I ventured out into the world for a treat to drown my sorrows in and come home with a bashed up car. This was not how I envisioned my morning going. The trauma of the little girl’s comments has faded, and now all I want is to find comfort within the walls of my home and a gallon of ice cream, with Buttons on my lap. I don’t have it in me to try again, though. I’m already tired. I’m often tired these days.
I climb the stairs slowly, focusing on each one, using the iron railing to pull my weary body up to the next one. My chest feels tight and my eyes are burning. I tell myself I’ll be home soon, in my favorite chair, Katie’s blanket wrapped around me. Just a few more steps. Taking the last forward movement up to the landing, I spy a small yellow envelope peeking out from the corner of my welcome mat. Walking over, I retrieve it, and immediately recognize the handwriting on the front. It’s from Percy. Relief washes over me as I realize my trip was not a complete waste; I’d managed to avoid a visit from my stepmother. Of course, now that my father is dead, is she still my stepmother. If they parted at death, doesn’t that mean I get to part with her as well? She isn’t a horrible woman; in my heart I know that. I just choose to hate her, but I always have. I don’t really see the need for an explanation.
I slide my key into the door and make my way inside. Hanging the cluster on a hook near the entrance, all I can think about is the bliss of my chair. Rushing over, I collapse into the overstuffed goodness of the recliner that years ago I’d hated. The recliner was a purchase of Travis’s. I nagged him for the entire first year we were married to burn the damn thing. It was hideous. I hated it, and I was certain there was no possible way I could make it work with my furnishings. It wasn’t until my Travis was gone that I learned to appreciate that the beauty of the chair was in the comfort it held. I curled up the night after the funeral and didn’t leave its embrace for nearly the entire next day. Since that time, it has become my favorite spot.
The yellow envelope is still in my hand. I assume it has something to do with the meeting with the lawyer I chose not to attend. I can’t imagine the contents of the envelope affecting me in any direct way. My father always took care of me, at least financially. I know that wouldn’t change in his death. Sliding a finger along the lip of the envelope, I tear into it, revealing multiple pieces of paper hidden inside. One piece falls into my lap. Lifting up the rectangular shape, I see it’s a check made out to me for eight thousand dollars. Uncertain what I’m looking at, I proceed to unfold the letter that’s included as well. It’s Percy’s handwriting again.
MacKenzie,
I hope this letter finds you well.
That’s just like Percy. My father just died, and she is hoping a letter finds me well. Of course I’m not well!
We missed you at the meeting today. I hope you are feeling better, and since you’re not home, I assume you are.
What she really means is, if you were sick, you would be home so I know you’re a little liar.
Your father’s attorney has reviewed the estate, and unfortunately it appears your father made some choices that left the finances in a less-than-desirable state.
Again, I can see what this actually means. She was never happy with the fact that after Travis died, my father stepped up and paid all of my bills. I knew this had particularly bothered her that he had taken on the expense for so long. I quit coming for Christmas a couple years ago when she suggested a year had been long enough for me to grieve, and perhaps I should think about what I wanted to do with my life. Something she would never understand was that I had already done what I wanted to do. I married Travis and had Katie, and now that they were gone, there was really nothing else I desired out of life.
The remainder of his liquid assets has been divided among his children, and this check reflects that amount.
As I read these words my stomach drops, my chest aches. My father had always made wise investments. We never wanted for anything. How can it be possible that it is all gone? But I know the answer to this. He paid for everything. Travis and I had been so young. We didn’t plan for what happened to us. After the accident, Daddy took care of the funeral and burial expenses. But it didn’t stop there; he knew I couldn’t bear the idea of living with them again. He bought me anything and everything I needed. He made sure my rent and bills were paid, that I always had money in my account. I am the reason there is nothing left. I feel like I’m going to be sick.
He paid cash for your car, and he wanted you to have it so I will have the title transferred to your name.
I think of the crumpled disaster in front of the apartment, heaving a heavy sigh.
I know this is probably a shock for you. Your father didn’t want to worry you, but his business had been off the past couple years. I love you as one of my own, dear, and I want to offer our home to you. You are always welcome, and I know your sisters would love to have you. Take some time to think about it and let me know what you want to do.
Much Love,
Priscilla
At least she knew better than to sign it ‘Mom.’ I drop the letter, and before I can even think about it, I am dialing Monica. She is always the one I can unload on. When I come unraveled, she has this amazing way of helping me hold it together.
“Hello,” Monica answers.
“It’s me.”
“Are you all right?”
“No.”
“What’s wrong? Do you need me to come over?”
“I don’t know. I can’t deal with this, Mon.” I’m shaking as I speak.
“Slow down,” she instructs me. “Deal with what?”
“I get back from the store and there’s a letter on my porch from Percy.”
“Okay? And?”
“And it says my dad was nearly broke when he died.”
“What?”
“Yeah? There’s a check for eight grand, and she says I can keep the car.”
“Wait, I don’t understand. How is that possible?”
“She said business was bad for a couple years, but Dad didn’t want to worry me,” I explain. “Why would he not tell me? He didn’t have to take care of me like he did. He should have kept that money.”
“Mac, you know him, and there was no way he wasn’t going to take care of you. He loved you so much.”
“I guess.”
“No guessing about it,” she corrects me. “He may not have known how to talk to you, but him taking care of you was a way he felt like he could show you how he felt about you.”
A silence hangs in the air between us befo
re Monica asks, “So what are you going to do now?”
“I don’t know. Percy offered to let me move in with her.”
“Oh God,” she quickly says, “that would not end well.”
“Ya think?” I chime sarcastically.
“I guess you could move in here, but my roommates will insist you pay. Maybe you could go back to culinary school.”
The idea of living with Monica’s uptight roomies makes me almost as sick as the idea of living with Percy. Then I remember… “Wait!”
“What?”
I dig through my pockets for the flyer from the parking lot guy earlier. “I was in an accident, and the guy had a flyer, if I can just find—”
“You were in an accident! Are you okay?” I can tell Monica would jump through the phone if she could.
“Yes, I promise it was nothing. It was raining, and I could barely see. I accidentally rear-ended someone in a parking lot.”
“Are you sure you’re all right?”
“Yes, but he wrote his…” I start to explain before finding the sheet in my inside pocket and pulling it out. “Here it is. He wrote his information for insurance down on this sheet, and I saw on the back it was an advertisement for a personal chef.”
“Really? What kind of personal chef?” she asks, her voice skeptical.
I peer at the flyer once again. “A band is in need of a cook to travel with them on tour.”
“Are you kidding me? You’ve barely left your home for three years, and now you’re going to go on tour with a band?”
“I doubt it,” I reply dismissively. “I’m sure I wouldn’t even get the job. But I have to do something. I can’t live with Percy.”
Monica is quiet; I know she is thinking about the idea. “All right, call about it, but if you get the creepy vibe at all, just hang up, promise?”
I laugh.
“Promise me!” she exclaims.
“Okay, I promise.”
“Call me later.”
“I will,” I reply before hanging up.
I try not to think too much about what I’m going to say. I know if I over think it, I will chicken out. I’m not even sure I want the job, but I figure it doesn’t hurt to call. The phone rings. Once, twice, and then I hear the familiar voice from earlier. I decide not to let him know it’s me.
“Hello, this is Christian.”
“Umm, yeah, I’m calling about the ad for a chef,” I answer, nervous.
“Great, if you’re interested, we’re having an open call tomorrow at one of the warehouses on Liberty. Do you know the area?”
“Yeah, I do. Should I bring anything?”
“Bring your résumé, along with any references, and come to the side door. From there someone can direct you. Interviews start at noon and go until they’re done with everyone.”
“Got it, thanks,” I reply.
“You’re welcome,” I hear, and then the phone clicks. My heart is racing. What am I doing? References? I dropped out of culinary school. How in the hell can I even compete? Reaching to my side, I grab Katie’s blanket. I pull it all around me and close my eyes. I can’t panic about this anymore. I need the silence of sleep to consume me. The comfort of a state where worry and sadness leave you alone. Closing my eyes, I welcome the darkness.
The new morning light hasn’t brought me a new perspective on my situation. If anything, the panic has taken a firm grip on me, wrapping its fingers tight around my throat. I can’t live with my stepmother; that much I know from our past. Monica seems like the next best option; however, I think our friendship will suffer if we are roommates. Her constant mothering and worrying would drive me absolutely mad. This means I have no other choice but to rely solely on myself.
I need work. There’s no way around that. My inheritance is meager at best, and might keep me going for a couple months, but then what? I need a plan. First, I think about my skills. Then I remember food is the only skill I ever had. I know I can cook, and I can even find a job at a local restaurant starting out, but in all honestly, I doubt I could hold the job. A kitchen is hectic. There’s a team there that relies on you, and I’m not exactly what one might call reliable right now. Even though it’s been three years since the accident, there are some days when my reality becomes too much, and I simply check out. A kitchen job won’t give me that.
The flyer from Christian keeps popping back into my head. How hard can it be to cook for a band? I would think the schedule isn’t insane, and without family and friends around me, prying into all the details of my life, maybe I can find a moment of peace. A moment to myself, without someone asking if I’m going to be okay. Without the people around me telling me to count my blessings, or worse, giving me those looks of pity. Growing up, I worked in the kitchen of my father’s restaurant, but he sold that some years after my mother passed away. Cooking is in my blood.
I’ve never applied for a job like this. I’m not sure where one would even begin or what qualifications they are looking for. I make a decision; I’m going to let my cooking speak for me. After all, it is a job as a chef, so what better way to win over an employer than with food. After an early morning trip to the grocery store, I’m now staring at all the ingredients to make Katie’s favorite dish: chicken and dumplings. I’ve decided to go with comfort food—men love comfort food.
I don’t recall the last time I truly cooked. That is, not opening up a can of soup and dumping the contents into a microwave-safe bowl. I used to love cooking. Now it seems I will put anything in my body; fatty fast food, fried take-out, antibiotic laced meat. Anything seems to go if it’s quick, easy, and gives me an immediate high.
Part of me misses it: choosing the right ingredients, the perfect spices, the aromas that would fill the air. I quickly learned that cooking isn’t as enjoyable for me when I don’t have people to share it with. Now, when I plan a meal, and I’m forced to reduce the calculations so the servings are for one, which is just a reminder that I’m alone. With a deep breath, the preparation begins.
Generously, I sprinkle salt and pepper on the cut-up pieces of a whole chicken. Next, I dredge each piece in flour on a nearby paper plate. I spent the extra money for local, stone-milled flour, as I’m a strong believer in the finest and least processed ingredients in order to make the most delicious food. In a pan, a melted tablespoon of ghee and another of coconut oil is waiting for me.
Grabbing the set of tongs, the chicken goes into the oil with a crackle and pop. There is something comforting in the smell of the browning meat. Something that reminds me of a life before it was wrecked by grief. Browning all the sides, I pull out the pieces of crisped chicken and set them on a paper towel. A worry enters my mind. Is this too simplistic of a dish to win over my potential employers? Will they see right through it and realize I’m nothing more than a culinary school dropout, who is terrified of life or taking risks? I push down the crowding thoughts of doubt and try to focus on making the best damn chicken and dumplings I have ever made.
I dice the celery and carrots, and just as Katie liked, I choose to leave out the onions. With a dollop of ghee, I sauté the vegetables, adding in a bit more salt and pepper. I giggle when I sprinkle in the thyme, remembering Travis’s frequent joke in the kitchen. He would always throw me the bottle and say, ‘Look, thyme’s flying.’ Every single time he said it I would laugh, even when I didn’t think it was very funny.
In goes the chicken broth to the pan of veggies. I used to make my own broth, and when I would, Katie would complain that the house stunk like feet. But I haven’t done that since before everything changed. Carefully, I drop in the chicken and turn the heat to a simmer. Pulling out the biscuit dough I made earlier, I glance at the clock. I have one hour to finish the food, get ready, and drive to the interview. Panic washes over me as the looming deadline approaches.
Dropping in the balls of dough, I run to my closet. I don’t want to look like I’m trying too hard, but I also want to appear clean and professional. I don’t think my yoga pants are go
ing to cut it. I pull out a pair of black slacks I haven’t set eyes on in years. Dropping my pajama pants to the floor I slide one leg on and then the other. When I go to pull them up the thirty pounds I’ve gained is suddenly much more apparent. Stepping out of the pants, I quickly slide through the garments one after another. Nothing is going to fit me. This realization sets my mind spinning. Do I just forget it? If I do, that would mean living with Percy is almost a certainty. No. I need to do this.
The funeral! I remember. I had worn a knee-length black dress to my father’s funeral. The stretchy material was forgiving on my newly formed curves. I slide the dress over my head, fluff my hair, add a little powder to my face, and finish off with lip gloss. Pressing my lips together, I declare to myself ready.
In a few frantic moments of rushing around, I manage to package up my delicious meal, update and print my resume, which makes me feel like a complete fraud, and blow out the door with a couple seconds to spare. I’m doing my best to not let the anxiety creep in. I tell myself over and over, You’re fine, no big deal. You’ve got this. Now if only I can make myself believe it.
I sit in my car, staring at the other people walking by. As I see each one, I wonder if they are my competition—are they who will take away my opportunity for escape, take my chance to run from my ghosts. My heart is beating so hard I can feel my chest pounding in and out. I know I need this, a distraction, a way to distance myself from the reality that has tormented me for years. Yet I find myself unable to move.
“Travis,” I whisper. “If you’re looking down on me right now, I need you. I need you to help me be strong … God, I miss you so much.” I know I must force the thoughts from my mind before the tears come. The tears always come when the loneliness sets in.
Glancing in the rearview mirror, I confirm my chestnut hair is still in place, half pulled back to reveal my cheekbones, one of the few places on my body that has not been affected by my weight gain. There’s a knock on my window. Startled, I gasp as I peer up. The gorgeous man I had rear-ended in the parking lot is staring down at me. I smile at him, and he motions for me to roll down the window. Realizing what an idiot I must look like, I quickly press the button, the sound of the motor buzzing as the glass lowers.
