A Katherine Reay Collection

by Katherine Reay

  “Put thin bread or tortillas on the list. He can get more calories by topping or wrapping almost anything we make.”

  “Great idea.”

  Jane sat up straighter. “What about a mole?”

  “Never found one in Hemingway; it’s more Mexican really. But what about a picada—it’s like a pesto. There’s a great one from the Cataluña region that uses roasted almonds and hazelnuts rather than pine nuts. And with only garlic, olive oil, and parsley, it should have great flavor and no real spice.”

  “Calories too.”

  “An added bonus.” I grinned. We were on to something. I could feel it and was completely exhilarated by it. Cecilia surprised us when she came to unhook Jane.

  “We’re done?” Jane jumped at her touch.

  “You two have been busy. The whole room changed over.”

  I looked around and realized that I recognized no one. I had become used to the “patrons” of my dystopian library and had enjoyed saying our farewells at the end of Jane’s sessions. “Hey, I never saw Andy today. I’d hoped we could play a hand or two. Did he come and go while we were working?”

  Cecilia stepped away and pulled her mask down. “Not today. He’s not doing so well.”

  I felt Jane grow still beside me, but I couldn’t turn to her. I kept my eyes on Cecilia. “He’ll be back, right?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Will you . . . will you let us know? You can do that, can’t you?”

  “Of course I can. Courtney asked me to keep you posted.” She looked around the room. “Donna and Tony are on break, and I need to go hook up a patient, but I promise to call if I learn anything about Andy.” She turned back to Jane. “You did great today. Welcome to Taxol.”

  Jane tried to smile. “One more down, huh?”

  Chapter 24

  THE NEWS OF ANDY QUIETED US BOTH, AND SOON AFTER we arrived home, Jane headed upstairs for a nap. I wondered if she was tired—after all, the steroids were still surging through her—or a little depressed. They can feel the same. I, too, felt sluggish and heavy. But Tyler’s food, the anticipation of making him something wholesome and sustaining, enticed me with a sense of hope and purpose. It was beyond food. It was that magic—that illusive magic—that turned a meal into a feast.

  As I was checking her kitchen for spices and supplies, Jane’s landline rang. I raced to catch it in case she’d fallen asleep. Health Services flashed across the caller ID.

  “Hello?”

  “I’m calling for Ms. Elizabeth Hughes?”

  “This is she. Are you calling from New York?” Surely Tabitha could handle inspections. My mind raced, calculating if any permits were due and wondering how anyone got Jane’s number.

  “From Seattle, Washington. We received a complaint that you are running a commercial food service from a private kitchen.”

  “No, I’m not.” Tyler’s meals. “I did . . .”

  “All food service businesses require a permit. Can you give me your permit number?”

  “I . . . I’m visiting my sister. I don’t live here.” My voice sank. Rules governing permits in New York were incredibly strict and carried severe penalties, especially for professionals working outside commercial kitchens.

  The man listed a series of permits I either needed or had possibly violated. I heard little of it. My head swam with the implications for me and for Feast.

  In the end he took pity on me and did not issue a citation. It was perhaps my high-pitched notes or the truth: I was leaving town, cooking for my ill sister, trying to help a new friend and he, too, was ill and isn’t cancer horrible . . . I won’t do it again.

  “Thank you. May I ask who complained?”

  “I can’t give you that information.”

  I hung up the phone and looked at all the ingredients I’d pulled out in preparation for Tyler’s meals. The effort felt silly and useless—a few simple meals for a guy I hardly knew, and I’d jeopardized Feast. What made me think any of this was going to work? Pairing books and food? Who’d ever heard of such a thing? And what had I truly accomplished? I’d upset Tyler and Brian, gotten Cecilia in trouble with Donna—and for what? So that I could feel fulfilled? Find some silly idea of magic I probably dreamed up in my own head?

  Without thinking I started to wipe down Jane’s counters and sharpen the knives, closing down the kitchen. Closing down hope. Kate’s sweet face as she sifted flour for Peter’s cake crossed my mind, as did Danny’s laughter as he watched the fine coconut shreddings fall like snowflakes across the icing. On the third knife I caught myself and laid it down. It did matter and it wasn’t about me.

  “Now or never.” I grabbed my notes from the trash and spread them across the counter. The meals were to be gifts—I’d told Tyler that already—so I wasn’t violating any rules or permits. I was going to prepare them. I was going to finish what I’d started. For him.

  I grabbed a bunch of parsley and started chopping. Soon my self-recrimination turned to anger as I realized that someone had tried to get me in trouble. Someone had purposely sought out a way to stop me. Brian? Donna? Another patient?

  The doorbell interrupted me. I stalked through the front hall and threw the door open. “Yes?”

  “Whoa. What’s that?” Nick took a step back.

  I looked down at the nine-inch chopping knife still clutched in my hand. “Sorry. Chopping parsley. Come on in.” I flicked the knife toward the kitchen.

  “I—”

  “Shut the door behind you.” I’d already turned back.

  Nick followed me. “What’s up?”

  “Someone called Heath Services and reported that I was running a commercial kitchen out of a private home. Tried to get me in trouble.”

  “Who?”

  “I have no idea. Who knew? Who cared? Do you think Brian did it because he was angry?”

  “Why was he angry?”

  I resumed chopping the parsley. “He said I got Tyler’s hopes up, then failed to deliver. Tyler didn’t eat . . . But maybe it wasn’t him. It could’ve been that Nurse Ratched. Cecilia said she was angry that Brian caused a scene. I guess some other patients got really upset.”

  “From One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest?”

  “Yes, but she works in the Infusion Center now.”

  “Can you stop and tell me what happened?”

  I slid the parsley off the cutting board and lined up the carrots. “I’m trying to, but I’ve got to get this done. It’s important, Nick.”

  “What are you doing?”

  “Chopping carrots, clearly. I’m making Tyler another batch of meals, on me.” I flew through the carrots and lined up another two. “I listened. I really listened—”

  “Elizabeth.”

  “I’m trying to explain if yo—”

  “No, Eliz—”

  Blood flooded the cutting board before I felt anything. The knife had stopped. It shouldn’t have stopped. I pulled and looked down. It had caught on bone. My bone. I yanked to wedge it free. “Nick?”

  “Stop.” He raced toward me, grabbing a wad of towels from the counter. I looked down and the world spun. Nick reached around my shoulder. “Don’t look. Come here. Sit. Hold your arm up.”

  “What are you doing?” I watched him frantically looking around the cutting board, the floor.

  “Do you have them?” he cried out.

  “What?”

  “All your fingers?”

  I blanched and pulled my hand down, ripping the towels from it. “I don’t know. I don’t—Yes, they’re here. Oh—”

  “Wrap it up. Don’t look.” Nick raced to the freezer and grabbed a handful of ice. “Come on.”

  “Where?”

  “The ER.”

  “Jane—”

  “I’ll call her after you get seen. Come on.” He pushed me out the front door and shoved me into his car. He buckled me in before running around to the driver’s seat. I sat numb.

  “Hold it up. Cradle the ice against it.”

 
; I started to cry. “I can’t feel it. It doesn’t hurt. That’s bad, Nick. That’s really, really bad.”

  “You don’t know that.” He reached over. “Hold it up.”

  “What have I—”

  “No crying.”

  “Why is that such a bad thing? Jane always says that too. Crying is not wrong! Do you see this?” I yelled and held up the deep-red-soaked towels.

  “Stop it. Cry all you want later. I’ve got to get you to the ER. Please. I need to think. I’m trying to drive.”

  Within minutes he pulled into the hospital’s emergency bay. “Come on. I’ll get you inside and then move the car.”

  He propelled me straight to the desk. “She sliced her hand. All the fingers. The knife caught on the bones.”

  The nurse took one look at me and dashed from her desk; within seconds two people came out and led me to triage. Nick followed.

  “Let’s set you up in here.” Another nurse pointed to the exam table. “Hop up there.”

  I attempted to climb up but couldn’t manage with my hands clasped together. I felt a hand wrap around my upper arm, steadying me, and looked up to find Nick’s face close to mine. I hadn’t noticed the lines around his mouth before. I liked them. They made him look real and reliable.

  “You’re pale,” he whispered and kissed the top of my head. “Paler than usual.”

  The nurse started unwrapping towels when an orderly entered. “Sir, you need to move your car.”

  “I forgot.” He turned back to me. “Are you going to be okay?”

  “I’ll be fine . . . but you’re coming back, right?”

  Nick stared at me a moment. “Yes.”

  I closed my eyes while the nurse examined my hand and another took my blood pressure and asked me questions. She wrapped it again and left. My mind drifted, not to my hand, but to the food I’d left on Jane’s counter and all that was wrapped up in it—my conversation with Tyler, hearing him, listening to him, and understanding him. And the hope I’d felt . . .

  A doctor walked in.

  “I’m Dr. Jackson.” He propped himself on a stool and rolled over to me. “What have you got here?” He reached for my hand and unwound the mass of towels. He looked up at me. “How’d this happen?”

  “I was chopping carrots. I always do that.” I glanced down to see the bones exposed across the tops of my four fingers. “Oh . . . not that.” The world turned blue.

  “Take a deep breath and lean back. Here.” He pressed a button, and the back of the exam table came up. “Rest while I examine this.”

  I obeyed and closed my eyes again, and then it started—the pain. Unbelievable throbbing, burning pain. I scrunched my eyes shut, squeezing out hot tears.

  “It hurts.”

  The doctor twisted my wrist back and forth. “I can imagine. This is significant.”

  “You can stitch it up, right?”

  “No.” Twist, twist. “This requires a little surgery.”

  I could hear him opening drawers, then I felt something cool across my skin that turned warm after the first touch. I opened my eyes to find my hand covered in gauze, black mixed with the red.

  “What is that?”

  “Iodine. Sit back and rest. I’m going to call the surgeon on staff, and we’ll get you taken care of.”

  “Thank you.” I ran my other hand across my nose and eyes, clearing the tears.

  “Here.” He handed me a tissue.

  “Thanks.” I sniffed.

  I closed my eyes and lay there. My hand felt separate from the rest of my body—as I felt separate from everything that mattered.

  “Hey.”

  Nick. I didn’t open my eyes as more tears welled up. “I hate hospitals. I’m always in hospitals.”

  Nick kissed my forehead. “I think only doctors like them.” He perched on the edge of the exam table and took my other hand. “You’re going to be fine.”

  “What have I done?” I whispered.

  Nick didn’t answer. He just sat there and held my hand. I’ll be there. I squeezed it tight, wondering if I could ever let go.

  Chapter 25

  I AWOKE IN A BRIGHT ROOM, DISORIENTED AND THIRSTY. My left hand lay across my chest, wrapped in white and the size of a football. Nick stared at me.

  “It’s about time you woke up.”

  “How’d it go?”

  “They stretched the skin across one finger and needed a small graft from the side of your hand for three, but everything went perfectly.” He brushed my hair off my forehead. “In fact, you can go home tonight if you want.”

  “I don’t have to stay?” My voice sounded like dried, flaky dough.

  Nick lifted a cup of water and ice chips to my lips. “Do you want to?”

  I sipped and tried to sit up. “Definitely not.”

  Nick steadied me. “Easy there, New York. Go slow. We have plenty of time.”

  “What time is it?”

  “Nine o’clock.”

  “You’ve been here all day? What about Matt?”

  “He’s with my parents. Jane’s been in constant contact. She wanted to come, but I told her no. She said your dad will be here in the morning.”

  “She shouldn’t have called him.” I leaned back. “Can we just go?”

  “As soon as the doctor checks you out.”

  The doctor came and described the graft. Uninteresting and basic to him, but to me it sounded complex and unbelievable.

  “Will it work?”

  He laughed. “Of course it will. It’s all you. And it’s tiny. You’ll be stiff for a while, but you shouldn’t have any trouble. You’ll need to change the bandages every day. I’ve written out a prescription for some painkillers, and here’s a tube of antibiotic cream. Keep the suture lines moist with cream for the next several days, and call my office if there are any problems.” He handed Nick his card. “We’ll see you at the end of next week to remove the stitches.”

  After he left we sat for another couple hours as the staff discharged me. The questions, forms, information, protocol . . . It seemed endless. Finally an orderly came with a wheelchair to escort us to Nick’s car.

  “I can walk.”

  “Hospital policy,” he commented dryly.

  We reached the doors, and Nick helped me stand and wrapped me securely under his arm. I started to cry. Perhaps it was being tucked into his arm, or the general anesthesia, or the Health Services call, or the cooking, or Feast, or Jane . . .

  Nick pulled up in front of Jane’s house. “Do you want to sleep here or on my couch?”

  I slanted my eyes toward him and rubbed my nose with the back of my only working hand.

  “I’m not trying to seduce you.”

  I sniffed. “Are you sure? This is me at my most enticing.”

  Nick chuckled. “I told Jane if it was really late, I’d take you to my house and watch over you. I didn’t want to disturb her or the kids. Did I overstep?”

  “It was thoughtful of you.”

  He nodded to the house. “Do you want to go in?”

  “I’d rather go to your place.” I looked up at the dark windows. “They’re asleep, and they have enough on their plates.”

  “Don’t think like that.” Nick pulled his car out of the driveway. “You can lie on my couch and rest. Or we can watch a movie. Talk. Whatever you want.”

  “I’d like that.” I glanced over at him. “Will Matt be okay with that?”

  “He’s staying at my parents’.”

  “I think you said that. Sorry.”

  “Why? They adore him and he loves to stay there. It’s fine.”

  I held my arm up, like a surgeon who has just washed her hands, as Nick opened my car door. Every time it dropped, the throbbing pain sent it right back up. Nick unlocked his front door and then stood back, letting me enter.

  “What can I get you?” He started plumping the cushions on his couch. Even in pain, I couldn’t help but smile. “Water? Food?”

  “Nothing right now.”

>   “Let’s start with water.”

  The man needed to get me something. He came back with a glass and a cookie, and built a pyramid of pillows on which to prop my left hand. He then gently sat on my right side so as not to bounce the couch.

  “I won’t break.”

  “Not on my watch, you won’t.” He leaned back and clamped his eyes shut. “That was really scary. I saw you chopping and I knew. I tried to say something, but . . .” He scrubbed at his eyes.

  “I was stupid. I know better than that.” I looked at my hand. “I’ve been using knives since I was about five. I’ve never cut myself like this.” I chuckled. “Obviously.”

  He rolled his head across the back cushion. “What do you want to do? Talk? Watch a movie? Sleep?”

  “Can we watch Persuasion?” I heard my small voice and couldn’t believe I’d asked that. Suddenly I understood my mom and my sister—but not quite.

  “I’ll see if it’s on Netflix.”

  “Wait. Don’t.” I reached out to stay his hand on the remote. “It’s my favorite book, but it’s not me. It’s not what I want.”

  “What do you want?” Nick leaned over and tucked my hair gently behind my ear.

  I let myself absorb his question. I want to love what I’m doing. I want to not feel heavy all the time. I want to laugh like I used to—to be that kid in the picture on my nightstand with a smile so bright it could light the world or at least one heart. I want to heal and cook and be with Kate and Danny and actually enjoy my sister, the beautiful Jane, whom I’ve secretly adored and openly antagonized. I want to be whole. I want to be thankful . . .

  “Can you find Babette’s Feast?”

  Nick started scrolling through Netflix and Amazon, searching. “Is it a movie? A show?”

  “It’s a movie—a Danish movie about a small, remote village that gets caught up in petty squabbles. Then Babette, a formerly famous Parisian chef, comes to work for the two main characters. It’s about a glorious meal that brings forgiveness and . . . love. It brings love.”

  “That’s some food.”

  “It is the food—it’s quite a meal—but it’s more their hearts. The food is just a medium . . . You’ll love it.”