by Adi Alsaid
We cross the street beneath the overpass, head away from the water up a street that slopes upward at a ridiculous angle, one that I would imagine in San Francisco, not Seattle. The sun’s at our backs as we climb the hill. It glints off the myriad windows on the surrounding buildings and stretches our shadows out along the sidewalk.
The hours pass quickly with Emma. The nervous thought this is a date doesn’t even enter my mind. Usually, even with Isa, months into our thing, I never really felt completely at ease. I’d have to think of ways to be funny, talk nonstop to fill in the spaces between conversations. I was constantly aware of my hands, the not-white shade of my teeth, constantly wondering how our night together would end, whether we’d have sex. None of that happens with Emma.
We comment on the things we see (a guy speed walking past us in tiny shorts, a woman having a heated conversation with a customer service rep on the phone, two dogs walking side by side with no owners nearby), or the perfect evening weather, or the strange thoughts we’ve had that we’ve never voiced before. How Emma did mushrooms once and had a bad trip but was saved from freaking out because she was certain that her friend’s dog knew what was going on and stayed nearby to comfort her. I come close to admitting that I see Felix everywhere, but I end up sugarcoating it to keep myself from sounding insane. “It’s like he can still speak to me,” I say. “Like he never went away at all.”
Emma is quiet for a second. “This is going to sound awful, but, since we’re on confessionals, I want to say this. I’ve never allowed myself the full thought, because it’s awful. So if you think I’m awful, just stop me and I’ll shut up and we’ll only talk nice things from now on.”
“No,” I say. “Go ahead.’”
Emma moves her glasses from her head down to the bridge of her nose. The sun’s not quite setting but beginning its orange crawl toward the horizon. We’re walking back downtown, toward the restaurant. “Okay, so what I was going to say is that, well, I’ve never really experienced death. Not like you have. A couple of grandparents I wasn’t all that close to, some kid I kinda knew from elementary school. And I keep having this awful thought that I want to experience it. That I want it to happen to someone close to me, I want to feel that loss.”
I don’t tell her that no, no, she doesn’t. I nod, let her go on.
“Obviously I don’t want anyone to die. But I know I’m going to experience it sooner or later in my life. Of course I am. And part of me just thinks: let’s get it over with. And another part of me is just...” She hesitates, either trying to find the right word or making sure I’m not going to run off. The golden cinematic light of the sun catches on some fine hairs on her cheek, and I want to cup her face in my hand. “Curious. Morbidly curious at what it’s going to be like when it happens. How will I react? Will I be destroyed, or will I know how to celebrate their life? Will I get stuck in one of the steps of grieving you always hear about? Denial, sadness? I hate that I even think about it like this, that I devote any time at all to it. I shouldn’t worry, shouldn’t dwell. I shouldn’t want it to happen ever. I shouldn’t think about it. But I can’t help it.” She folds her arms over her chest, looks over at me. “Was that the most insensitive rant you’ve ever heard? Am I awful?”
“You’re not awful,” I say. “I kind of wish I’d thought about it more before Felix died. I don’t think it can really prepare you for how it feels, how much you miss them. But maybe it would have.”
“You seem to be doing okay, though. Did it, like, pass with time?”
I wish the answer was a straight-up yes, but it says something that my instinct is to look around to make sure that Felix isn’t around. “I still have my moments.”
Emma reaches out to me, hooks her arm around my elbow. I turn my neck and kiss the top of her head, and we walk the rest of the way in silence, death hovering around us.
The restaurant, when we finally reach it, is an unassuming place, laid out like most sushi restaurants. There’s a bar that seats maybe eight people, behind which three Japanese sushi chefs lean over their counters, blades in hand. There are a handful of tables, mostly business types or couples. I check in with the hostess, and she leads us to two seats at the bar.
The chef bows down and greets us in Japanese. “Can I start you with anything?” he asks, accented to the exact same level as Felix, the English fractured, not broken, though in a different way. As if each language has its little faults with which it cracks another.
I tell him we’ll be doing omakase, which is where the chef decides what to serve you depending on the freshest fish of the day along with the restaurant’s specialty. Emma says that he doesn’t have to bother serving on plates; he can just place the food directly in our mouths. The chef laughs and then reaches across the bar and sets a plate down in front of each of us. It’s a simple piece of nigiri, just the rice and a sizeable, expertly cut slice of fish on top. “Red snapper,” he says.
Emma raises her piece without any trouble holding her chopsticks and moves it toward me, as if she’s going to feed me. Then she stops halfway through, looking at me expectantly. I give her a puzzled look. “Cheers with me,” she says, smiling.
I raise my piece too, and we touch them together and then dip them slightly in the soy sauce and chew slowly. I usually love big, extravagant flavors, unapologetic spice and heat. But I respect the subtlety of this, how unencumbered the taste of one piece of fish can be.
“One of my goals in life is to always have a toast ready, for any occasion,” Emma says, when she’s done chewing. “I think Ireland is high on my list of places to travel to, ’cause I picture them just toasting everything, every moment of the day. It’s sunny! We have a toast for that. This coffee is particularly good! We have a toast for that.”
The plates get whisked away in an instant, and the chef is looking at the galore of fish in front of him, trying to decide what comes next.
“Do you know any?”
“Toasts?” She takes a sip of water, thinks about it. “Of course I can’t remember any on the spot, but I’ve definitely Googled the shit out of this.” Someone in the restaurant erupts in laughter, and I turn around to see who. Dudes in suits raise sake glasses, laugh with their mouths full. Two women watch as their friend tries what looks like sea urchin, eyebrows high, waiting for a reaction. Life between the cracks of everything. “Oh, I know!” Emma reaches into her purse and pulls out a flask.
“You carry around a flask with you?”
“Yeah, for exactly this sort of occasion.” She raises it up but not too high so as not to arouse suspicion. Then she continues in a pretty solid Irish accent. “‘There are several good reasons for drinking, and one has just entered my head. If a man can’t drink when he’s living, then how the hell can he drink when he’s dead?’” She takes a pull from the flask and then passes it on to me. “I figured it’d be appropriate, in a way. For your brother.”
She smiles, and I try to ignore the fact that the wasabi has just shaped itself into Felix and is trying to high-five me. “I like this girl,” the wasabi squeaks and then goes back to being a little green blob. I’ve been seeing so much less of him lately.
About seventeen dishes later, Emma and I have pushed our stools away from the bar, as if we’re begging for mercy and distance is the only way they can express it. We try to finish the green tea ice cream in front of us but have to moan each bite down.
When we leave the restaurant, Emma reaches out to squeeze my hand, and I feel like I’ve been fully forgiven, like the night has done what I wanted it to. “I wish more places were like this,” she says a moment later. “Like, forget what I want. You’re the expert. Shove a bunch of food in my face and then I’ll tell you what I liked best.”
I laugh, pull her closer to me. We’re not in a particularly pretty part of downtown Seattle, but the night feels perfect. It’s moments like these when people say stupid, rushed thin
gs to each other. Instead I bring our clasped hands up to my mouth and kiss each of her knuckles.
“So, my dad’s coming into town next weekend,” Emma says on the labored walk back to the harbor. “Some special event thing that he wants me to come to. He’s receiving an award, I think. Or maybe cooking for someone important. He’s the worst phone-mumbler, so I don’t actually have any idea what it’s for.”
I laugh. “That’s cool that he wants you to come, though. Do you get to see him much?”
“No, so it’s cool that he invited me. Except...” She sighs. “I know he’s just trying to apologize for last time, and he’s gonna be running around schmoozing. I’m gonna be left alone with a bunch of adults feeling uncomfortable and abandoned for three hours.”
“That doesn’t sound fun.”
“No,” she says. “It’s like my childhood all over again.” She’s looking down at her feet as she walks, kicking pebbles, running her thumb over mine while we hold hands. “Could you come with me?”
“To your dad’s thing?”
“Yeah. He’ll be thrilled for the excuse to not actually spend time with me. I’ll be thrilled because I’ll actually enjoy myself with you there.”
I stop walking, step in front of her while hanging on to her hand. I may not have been Dad’s biggest fan since I left, but I can’t imagine what a whole lifetime of disappointment would feel. “Hell yes,” I say. We kiss, and again I’m completely aware of being exactly where I am: alive, with her.
That night, in my bed, Emma takes my shirt off. It’s an incredible feeling, nervousness in this situation. I thought I’d left that in the past. Nervousness was for someone who had not yet lived out fantasies, someone who hadn’t seen tragedy, or magic. I’m eager, of course, but anxious. Not just about the ways my body might betray me, but in how I might disappoint Emma, in ways I can’t even predict.
We don’t have too many more nights like this left. Emma won’t be here for long. But I don’t feel like rushing myself, and I don’t want to rush Emma at all. I let her advance things as she likes and am thankful that she seems to savor the steps in between one thing and the next. I’m thankful for time, however much of it she and I will have. The feel of flesh on flesh, every new part of it. The exquisite sensation of previously unexposed skin, seen for the first time, felt, kissed, held. Nakedness for the first time. Love, if that’s what this is.
There’s something here that’s unlike every other time. Something in her lips and how they fit into mine. The joy of someone who moves when you do. Who knows when to touch, and where, and how, even if there’s a lot of fumbling about.
A part of me is aware of my phone ringing somewhere nearby. But somewhere nearby probably means not on this mattress, which means it’s in a different world, a much less important and far-off one. I press myself harder against Emma, and she gives out a soft moan, beckoning me even closer.
CHAPTER 25
PAN DE MUERTO
4 cups flour
1 tablespoon active dry yeast
½ cup water
3 eggs
3 tablespoons orange zest
½ cup sugar
½ teaspoon salt
¼ cup orange blossom water
¼ cup butter
METHOD:
I wake up, disentangling myself from the bedsheets and my dreams. I get dressed and leave the house even earlier than I have to.
The island feels like it’s just for me. The fog, the dawn-hued water, the leaves stirring gently. I cut through the woods, across Emma’s meadow. There are considerably fewer fireflies, either because of the time of day or the fading summer. I run my fingers over the tall grass, the dandelions grown wild. Mom still calls every couple days, worried, but she wouldn’t if she saw this, if she felt how peaceful and beautiful this place is. I try to take a picture on my phone, but something gets lost in the process. On the screen, it just looks like an empty field. I don’t even expect Felix to show, and he doesn’t.
Popping back out on the road that leads downtown, I check the time, put my hands in my pockets and slow my pace. At the bakery, Anne the nose-ringed barista throws in a cardamom roll free with my coffee. (“Just came out!” she says.) A jogger smiles at me as I go down the block; a line cook from the diner recognizes me from The Crown and waves. I feel like I’m starting to forget what life in Mexico City was like, what it was like to be me, lost and confused, haunted, missing.
I knock on the side door, sip my coffee while I wait for Chef, look beyond the patio at the majestic view. Once inside, I head for the usual station we’ve been using for our sessions, but Chef tells me to follow her instead. We go into her office, where she’s got music playing softly. A huge coffee mug sits steaming next to the computer. She takes a seat and looks at me over the rim of the mug as she takes a sip. As always, she looks slightly villainous, but today there’s something not quite as intimidating about her. Softer, like she can see the same things about the island.
“How familiar are you with our menu?” Chef asks.
I hesitate. “I’ve looked at it a lot,” I say. “And I ate here once before getting hired. I’ve got the descriptions pretty well memorized.”
She leans over, grabs a clipboard and hands it over to me. “Take this, and go sit with a menu for a while. We’re gonna run a line check in a bit, so I want you to know what goes in each dish.”
“Yes, Chef,” I say, probably too enthusiastically. I take a seat on the counter of my dishwashing station, the way Emma does sometimes, poring over the itemized list and then comparing it to the menu. It feels like a backstage pass to meet my favorite musicians, like Chef just handed me a recipe.
I read for who knows how long, like I’m studying for an exam. Then Chef comes by and says, “Don’t sit on my counters, asshole. You ready?”
I hop off and follow her to the line. She holds in her hand a box of tiny plastic spoons. “We’re going to taste everything,” she says. “One spoon per taste and then you throw it out. Every sauce, every oil, every little bit of mise doesn’t see a plate until we taste it. A dish can get screwed up way before it hits the pan, and a line check is to make sure that doesn’t happen.”
Barely containing how much I’m geeking out at this, I nod, try to look serious. Chef grabs a spoon, motions for me to do the same. We start at the garde manger station, where it’s mostly veggies, salad dressings, different infused oils.
The cilantro oil is great, the champagne vinaigrette incredible. There’s some pickled veggies that maybe have another day or two in them, so Chef tells me to make a note. We go down the line like that, tasting every little thing, double-checking amounts and dates and flavors. Almost all of it tastes unbelievable to me, but Chef yells at me when I think the red wine aioli is good. “Jesus, kid, grow a palate,” she says, tossing the deli container in the sink, where I will have to clean it soon. Aside from a few of her outbursts, she’s actually really good at explaining what everything should taste like, and why, and how it’ll balance with the other components of the dish it belongs in. For once, I do not have to guess at how a dish is made, don’t have to guess at how I might be able to recreate it. I don’t even think about what changes I would make, because that feels like blasphemy.
A little while later people start showing up for shift. Elias sees right away what’s going on and gives me one of those Felixesque beaming grins. Memo, Lourdes, Isaiah, Vee, Morris—they barely bat an eye. Matt comes in, and I find myself hopeful that the tide has turned, that he’s done being a dick.
But the first thing he says is “What the hell, Chef? You’re taking the dishwasher on line checks? What’s with the special treatment?”
Everyone goes quiet, shares looks like they know shit’s about to go down again. Chef, though, doesn’t even look up. She chuckles. “When you have your own kitchen, you can decide how to run it, Mat
t. Until then, just do your job and don’t worry about my choices.”
“No offense, Chef, but the kid’s been here for, like, a month. I’ve been here for over a year.”
“And that entitles you to what, Matt?” Chef says, tossing another tasting spoon into a nearby trash bin.
Matt seems taken aback. He stammers, looks around at the kitchen as if asking for support, but everyone’s minding their own business. “I’m just saying, Chef...” He trails off.
“No, Matt, you’re just whining.” She turns to me and says, “We need another ten pounds of bacon—write it down,” effectively ending the conversation. When I finish writing the note, she grabs the clipboard from me and then walks away.
Matt’s already turned his back, but I can tell he’s fuming. Every move he makes is angry, even tying on his apron and washing his hands at the sink. It feels like I’ve got a noose around my neck again. I’m terrified that this is all he needs to give it a nice solid yank, watch me choke.
I keep going out during my shift to the floor, making excuses so I can see if he’s still pissed, if I’m in danger of getting told on. At one point I see him walk out the side door with a cigarette in his hand, so I run over to Roberto and tell him I’m going to take a break. When I push open the door, Matt’s smoking with his back against the wall. He sees me and exhales with a groan, a puff of smoke escaping in my direction. “What do you want?”
I hesitate, not knowing exactly why I came here chasing after him. Then I think of Felix, his unabashed honesty.
“Look, Matt, I don’t know why you hate me. I don’t know what I did to you. If what you wanted was to see me suffering, trust me, I’ve had my share.” I take a deep breath. Everything that I’ve escaped is coming back with these words, the mere acknowledgment of suffering bringing it back. I close my eyes, trying to find the rest of what I wanted to say. “I don’t know what you’ve been through, so I won’t pretend to know that I’ve lost more. If you want to keep giving me shit about being a Fake-xican or whatever, I won’t complain. But please don’t tell Chef about me and Emma. Don’t take this away from me.”
