by Lou Aronica
This new world provided new possibilities. New ways for Gage to imagine, to gift. Gage centered on the future of this world. It was expansive, defining, parameter evolving.
It was also clouded. The story here was not a simple one. Nor was it the one any of the participants fore-saw. Gage could only postulate the future, but all indications were that the story here was costly, grievous. Maybe too much so for those involved.
Yet it was a story that needed telling. There was a path here that only gained completion through this story. It was a story Gage had no power to influence. Gage could offer gifts, but the story was now in the hands of the participants.
They needed to overcome the pain. They needed to surmount the grief. They needed to embrace the significance.
They alone would decide the fate of a world of possibilities.
9
Becky was sleeping especially late this morning, missing the beginning of a luminous spring day. Chris thought about taking his coffee and newspaper to the building’s courtyard, but he decided to stick around and wait for his daughter instead. He spent a little time browsing an online plant encyclopedia, finding himself especially fascinated with the “known hazards” section of the site that likened eating a raw arum lily to the sensation of hundreds of needles pricking your mouth and also told him that dogs were especially susceptible to the toxins in the Aspen onion. After this, he downloaded a couple of songs and listened to them through the computer’s headphones. It was during this time that Becky tapped his shoulder to let him know she was awake.
“Something good?” she said when he took off the headphones.
“Something from the eighties.”
“Ah, Dad’s feeling a little nostalgic this morning.”
Chris chuckled and got up from his computer desk. “Actually, I’ve been working backward. I started with new stuff, but then, as you slept the entire morning away I wound up in the eighties.”
Becky smirked at him. “It’s not that late. It’s only—” she peered around toward the clock on the cable box —“wow, it’s after eleven o’clock.”
“Remember when we used to tell you that you had to stay in bed until seven?”
“I can’t believe it’s that late. What are we doing today?”
“The first thing we’re doing is eating breakfast. I’m starving.”
“You didn’t eat breakfast?”
“I was waiting for you.”
“You didn’t have to do that. I’m actually not super-hungry, but I’ll definitely eat something.”
They went into the kitchen and Chris opened the refrigerator and freezer simultaneously. He’d been planning to make an omelet, but if Becky wasn’t “super-hungry,” it wasn’t worth it. He looked at her over his shoulder. “Bagel?”
“Works for me.”
Chris took two foil-wrapped, sliced bagels out of the freezer and threw them in the toaster. He had a tendency to buy a dozen at a time at the bagel shop even if he was only going to eat a couple fresh. They were always good for days like these when he needed to change meal plans.
“So what are we going to do today?” he said as he took the cream cheese from the refrigerator.
“It’s really nice out?”
“It looks beautiful. I haven’t been outside yet.”
“Want to go for a drive?”
Chris stopped unwrapping the package of cream cheese and looked up at his daughter.
“That was sort of a joke,” she said. “Though we can if you want.”
“We’ll put it on our list of options.” Chris went back to the package and then sliced a tomato.
“Listen, I have something to tell you,” Becky said. There seemed to be a catch in her voice and this drew Chris’s attention. “It’s about Tamarisk.”
He’d waited a week for her to bring this up again. “You mean, ‘Tamarisk is real’?”
Becky rolled her eyes. “I can’t believe you didn’t ask me about that.”
“I was too busy trying to figure out what it meant. You wouldn’t believe some of the stuff I came up with.”
Becky leaned forward against the kitchen counter. “It means Tamarisk is real . What did you think I was doing, speaking in some kind of code?”
Chris hoped he didn’t look as embarrassed as he felt. “No, of course, I thought you meant Tamarisk was real,” he said sheepishly. “What, exactly, does that mean?”
Becky pushed off the counter and spun animatedly through the room. “I mean it’s really real. It truly exists. It’s not just something in our imaginations.”
Chris couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen his daughter acting with so much vitality in this apartment. Probably the last time Lonnie had been here. What in the world was she saying, though? “Do you think you could clarify that one for me?”
Becky walked over and put an arm around his shoulder. “Dad, Tamarisk is a real place. All of that stuff we made up—and a whole bunch of other stuff—actually exists. I know. I’ve been there.”
Chris screwed up his face. “You’ve been to Tama-risk?”
“Yep.”
“When?”
“Last night.”
Chris contorted his face into a mask of disbelief. “Last night? I guess I’d better get locks for the windows, huh?”
Becky pushed away from him. “I didn’t go through the windows. I went on some kind of super-dark bridge. It was kinda amazing, actually.”
“ Kinda amazing?”
“You’re right—it was totally amazing. Definitely the coolest thing I’ve ever done.”
The bagels popped out of the toaster and Chris went to get them. “Is there a punch line to this somewhere?”
Becky looked at him quizzically. “What do you mean?”
It dawned on Chris for the first time that Becky wasn’t engaging him in some elaborate joke or taking some nostalgic little trip of her own. She was actually talking about going to Tamarisk. It was certainly—at least probably certainly—one of those incredibly vivid dreams that you swear happened, but she seemed to be convinced.
“You went to Tamarisk last night?”
“When was the last time you had your hearing checked?”
Chris was befuddled. How does one respond when your teenaged daughter tells you she’s traveled to an imaginary world? All he could think to say was, “Was it nice?”
Becky laughed loudly. “Yeah, it was really nice. It was like being in the middle of the most incredible movie you’ve ever seen. Except the best part was that we made a lot of this stuff ourselves. You won’t believe what the hofflers actually look like—I touched one and it crawled all the way up Miea’s arm.”
“Miea, the princess?”
“She’s queen now, but yes. Isn’t this all just un-believable?”
Chris nodded slowly. “Yes. Yes it is.”
Becky cocked her head to one side. “You believe me, though, right?”
This had to have been one hell of a vivid dream. Becky was touching hofflers and interacting with a fantasy princess who had become queen. On numerous occasions throughout his childhood and, if he was going to be honest, even in his adulthood, Chris had dreamed of finding himself in another world, whether it was an alien planet or some alternate universe where the laws of physics were somehow changed. It was a favorite way for him to let his mind wander. When he created Tamarisk with Becky, he even imagined going there. He had a feeling, though, that his imaginings were never as real or three-dimensional as what Becky had experienced in her sleep last night.
“Yes, of course I believe you,” Chris said, not wanting to diminish the gleam in his daughter’s eyes this morning. She’d come to realize soon enough that this was merely fancy. For now, they could both enjoy her giddiness.
Becky smiled at him. “I knew you would. I can’t wait to go back. There are a couple of hitches, though. I think I can only go for a certain length of time. Last night, I was in the middle of a conversation with Miea when I just got yanked back here. My first thought wa
s that I did something to lose the connection, but now I’m thinking that I only get to be there for a little while. The other thing is that I think I can only do it from here. I’m pretty sure it has something to do with the bed. We created the stories there and must have opened up some kind of, I don’t know, doorway or something.”
Becky’s analysis of the situation struck Chris as funny and he gave out a little chuckle.
“What?” she said.
“Nothing. It’s just a remarkable thing.”
Becky watched him skeptically for a moment and then brightened again. “Remarkable doesn’t begin to describe it. Anyway, this transportation issue is a little bit of a hassle. I’ve gotta be able to get there more than once a week. There’s way too much to see and do there. That’s why I’ve decided to talk Mom into letting me sleep over here on Tuesdays as well.”
This was the most startling thing Becky had said yet. “Now that’s a fantasy.”
Becky’s brows creased. “Why do you say that? Mom will do let me do it if I ask her the right way.”
“Have you met your mother?”
“Dad, I’ll take care of this.”
Chris had no idea what this thing with Tamarisk was and what was really going on in Becky’s mind to cause her to revisit it now. If she could somehow convince her mother to let her stay with him an extra night a week, though, Tamarisk would be real to him, too.
Becky was rarely uncomfortable speaking to her mother about anything. Mom could sometimes get snippy about certain things, but she never made Becky feel like she couldn’t talk to her. However, the more Becky thought about it, she realized she’d never talked to her about anything like this before.
Becky had had many conversations with her mother about the divorce over the years. Mom was good at letting her know what happened and about letting her explain how she felt. She turned out to be a much better listener than Dad, which Becky wouldn’t have guessed ahead of time. But the one thing Becky learned pretty quickly to avoid was any conversation about how much she missed her father or how she wished she had more time with him. Mom got a little harsh during those conversations, saying things about Dad that Becky didn’t want to hear, even if they might be true. Within months after the divorce, Becky learned that it was best to bring up Dad’s name as little as possible and never talk to her mom about how she felt about him, even if she was really angry with him. After a while, this just became second nature—which made what she wanted to talk to Mom about tonight a lot tougher than most of their conversations. Especially because she couldn’t tell her the real reason why she wanted to make this change.
Meanwhile, Mom had an entirely different agenda.
“I’m so glad your father brought you home on time today,” she said as soon as Dad had driven away.
“Dad always brings me home on time, doesn’t he?”
Mom shut her eyes and shrugged. “That’s not really the point. I’m making your great-great-grandmother’s chicken potpie tonight.”
Becky still felt full from the bagel she’d had at eleven thirty, but she said, “Yum” anyway. Mom was very proud of her chicken potpie.
“I know you love it, which is why I thought I’d make it. But what I really want to do is teach you to make it.”
Becky’s ears perked up. “Really? One of your time-honored recipes?” Mom had always been a really good cook and her secret was making dishes that had been passed down from the generations. She’d even gotten a few from Dad’s mother while they were married, including a killer pot roast.
“You’re old enough. I think you’re ready.”
“Cool.” This was actually pretty exciting to Becky. Mom often told her stories about learning to cook the classic family recipes from Grandma, how Grandma had learned from her mother, and so on. Becky knew she’d begin her “education” someday, but she figured Mom was planning to wait until she was a little older.
They went into the kitchen and got to work. Becky hadn’t forgotten what she wanted to talk to her mother about, but she knew she could set it aside for later in the evening. This was much too special to complicate with something that could turn out to be tense.
The first step was poaching the chicken. Mom pulled out a piece of cheesecloth and then showed Becky how to fill it with different herbs and tie it with string.
“Congratulations,” Mom said proudly. “You’ve just made your first bouquet garni.”
“Wow,” Becky said, dangling the packet between two fingers. “What do I do with it?”
“Throw it into that pot.” Mom pointed to a pot of boiling water and Becky tossed the bouquet garni into it. Then they added the cut up chicken and left it to cook while they made the pastry for the crust. Mom pulled out the flour, salt, and butter and then filled a bowl with water and ice.
“We’ve been making pastry this way in the family forever. My grandmother used to make a big deal about using only butter. Lots of people put Crisco or some other kind of shortening—some people used to use lard—in their pastry, but we’ve always made ours with butter only and it always tastes the best.”
“No trans fats, either,” Becky said, recalling a conversation in health class.
“Right, no trans fats. Though your great-grandmother knew nothing about those. She just thought this made a delicious crust.”
Mom showed Becky how to cut the butter into the flour and how to add just enough ice water to pull the dough together. Becky had baked with her mom lots of times before—cakes and muffins and that sort of thing—but Mom had always resisted letting her get involved with pie dough, saying it was “too precise” for a kid. She felt another little thrill as her mother showed her how to test the consistency and then wrap the dough into a ball.
As the dough chilled, Mom started them on the filling. “It’s all about the roux.”
“What’s all about the roux?”
“The taste of the dish. Too light and it tastes pasty. Too dark and it’s overbearing. The color is everything.”
“Got it. What’s a roux?”
Mom laughed and touched her on the arm. “One of the little secrets I’m going to impart today.”
It turned out that a roux had something to do with flour and butter that you stirred for a very long time over low heat until it turned tan. Becky’s legs started to ache from standing over the stove so long, but she didn’t complain.
“Memorize that color,” Mom said, pointing to the pan. “That’s the color you want.”
Becky tried to do exactly that. After all, if the roux was the key to everything, knowing this color was major information. Becky did her best to lock it into her brain. She wondered what they would call this color in Tamarisk, though compared to the colors she saw last night, this one was rather ordinary, even if it was so crucial.
The roux and the chicken became ready about the same time. Was this one of the family secrets or was it just coincidence? Mom took the chicken out of the pot to cool and then added a ladle of the broth to the roux.
“Mix this in until it thickens.”
Becky did and then watched as Mom added two more ladles of broth. It was fascinating how the roux absorbed each. When this was done, Mom had her lower the mixture to a simmer and told her to let it cook for a little while.
“We have some chopping and peeling to do.”
Chopping the carrots and the chicken was easy. Peeling the little onions was a lot harder for Becky, though her mother tore through them without any trouble. This was obviously one of those things that you got better at over time.
“Am I doing something wrong here?”
“Nope, they’re a pain in the neck. When I was your age, I maybe got three done by the time your grandmother was finished with the rest. You’re ahead of the game.”
Becky looked down at the counter. There were five peeled onions in front of her. Gee, I’m nearly twice as advanced as my mother.
They threw the carrots, chicken, onions, and fresh peas into the soupy mixture on the stove and let this co
ok for a few minutes while they rolled out the dough and cut three circles to put over the individual casseroles.
“Now for just one more thing,” Mom said, going over to the liquor cabinet. She pulled out a bottle and held it up. “Marsala wine. My personal addition. Your grandmother would groan if she saw me do this—even though she loves my chicken potpie—but I think just a little bit gives it another dimension.”
Mom walked over to the pan, stirred it a couple of times, and then added a little of the wine. She grinned sneakily as she did it, like she was breaking the law or something.
“We’re ready to go. Here, taste.”
Becky took the offered spoonful from her mother and smiled at the flavor. There was something familiar about it. Nothing strange there, since she’d had this dish a million times. But that wasn’t it. The taste was a lot like . . . barritts. How cool was it that they had a drink in Tamarisk that tasted like mom’s chicken potpie? Of course, that would explain why the drink tasted so unusual to her at first. She’d keep that in mind the next time she drank something there.
Becky put the filling into the casseroles, topped the casseroles with the pastry, and put them in the oven.
When she turned around, Mom hugged her. “The long line of great family cooks continues.”
The potpie was as good as always, and Becky enjoyed knowing that she’d had a part in it. The conversation at dinner focused on the “rite of passage” that took place in the kitchen that day, though Al also did five minutes on his first taste of a new flavor of Doritos that came out that week. As he went off, Becky focused again on the conversation she wanted to have with her mother and decided she’d put it off until bedtime. Everyone—especially Mom—was in such a good mood.
After dinner, they went to the family room to watch “The Simpsons,” “King of the Hill,” and “Desperate Housewives” as they did every Sunday night. Then it was time for Becky to go to bed. When her mother came to kiss her good night, Becky screwed up her courage.
“Mom, I was thinking about something.”
