by Adi Alsaid
Chef twirls the pen a little longer, taps it twice on the palm of her hand and then tosses it on to the desk. “You’ve got a rare thing going for you, that combination of hard work and talent. It’ll make you a great cook one day.”
I want to smile, but Chef’s tone is confusing me. She looks tenser than usual; her body language doesn’t match anything she’s saying. “I have no doubt about that,” she continues. “I see that potential in you, and I get pleasure in seeing potential realized. Give it some time and you’ll be able to do whatever you want in a kitchen. It just won’t be in mine.”
For a long moment, I’m sure I’ve misheard that last part.
“I told you to stay away from Emma not because I’m overprotective or territorial but because I know what happens when people like us love the kitchen.” She sighs again, slumps in her chair a little with her head leaned back so she’s looking straight up. “I don’t even care that you went against my wishes. I was willing to overlook your sneaking around because I wanted to see you do great things and because Emma seemed happy. But what you did last night was unforgivable.”
I start to stammer an excuse, or an apology, anything that’ll undo all of this. Chef promptly interrupts.
“You broke her heart, Carlos.” She says it loudly, like she wants it to sink in. She reaches for her pen again, starts tapping it against the palm of her hand. I swear I can see the words leave her mouth, and I have to fight not to pluck them out of the air and shove them back in, make them unspoken again. “I’ll be sad to see you go, because I really do believe you’ll do great things. But I care about my daughter more.”
A pause. And then:
“You’re fired.”
She sighs one last time, sits up straight, pushes away from the desk. Just like that, she’s done with me. Way before I’m ready to be done with her, with Emma, with this restaurant. I want to cling to this chair, to this island, to yesterday. Then Chef stands up, shakes my hand and, in that motion, pries my fingers away from all of it.
CHAPTER 29
ISLA FLOTANTE
4 eggs
2 tablespoons cornstarch
6 cups whole milk
1⅔ cup sugar
2 tablespoons rum
1 cinnamon stick
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
½ teaspoon salt
1 tablespoon lime juice
METHOD:
Another lonely walk across the island.
I think of the curious English term, silver lining. What shitty thing, exactly, was supposed to have been lined in silver? Again, I look for Felix to appear and enlighten me, since finding silver linings was pretty much his life philosophy. But he’s nowhere to be found.
Okay, possible silver lining: I am now free to date Emma. Out in the open, hand-in-hand kind of stuff. I could just work at another restaurant. Give it time, like Chef said. Keep practicing fancy shit at home, learn all of Emma’s favorites and cook them for her.
I pass by all the tourists. I walk through the familiar forest paths, hoping that if they regain some sort of glimmer it’ll mean there’s a chance for forgiveness. When I see no evidence of that, I look for my brother. In the trees, the wind, blades of grass, pebbles, insects, in the sunbeams that are cutting through the leaves.
It’s just me and the island, though. Crickets and cicadas, the occasional sound of wheels grinding against the pavement, on the way to the ferry or emerging from it. Horn blasts and the ocean gently lapping at the shore, locals at the lake.
I drag my feet across the road. Only now do I realize that I’ve felt like this before. In the months after Felix’s death, when I was marching my way toward a future Dad imagined for me. It was dread. I felt it then, and I feel it now as I shuffle across the road toward Emma’s house.
I sigh and step up to the door. I ring the doorbell. Why do these things always sound so normal when nothing else feels that way? The inanimate things in our lives should reflect our joys and sorrows, I think. They should act accordingly. I remember thinking this the day of Felix’s funeral too. In the elevator on the way back home. How normally it functioned, whirring and groaning and lighting up the way it always did, as if the world was no different.
The chime happily echoes throughout the house. My stomach turns to stone and settles in my gut. The rest of my insides take the hint and decide to calcify too. Nothing happens. No one answers. I call her again, but, useless fucking thing, it doesn’t get me anywhere closer to her.
So I sit. I wait. I wallow in the awful feeling I’ve brought upon myself. I think of nothing but what I can say to her. I go hungry, because I deserve it.
At midnight, I hear voices approaching. I’ve got my forehead resting on my knees; my lower back is so stiff it’s as if I’ve spent a couple of shifts at the sink. I look up, see shadows stretched out on the asphalt. They turn the corner, ten or so of them. When they get close, I spot Emma at the front. Some tourist-looking dude in khaki shorts and a striped polo has his arm around her shoulder. The whole group smells of booze and joy.
When our eyes meet, she doesn’t burst into tears or demand an explanation. She almost looks bored, like she’s been expecting me, and knows exactly what I’m going to say already. Brandy is with her, and she makes quick eye contact with me before leading the group inside.
Emma gives the tourist guy a hand squeeze, says something about seeing him in a bit. I wait until it’s just me and her on the porch.
I’ve familiarized myself with her mannerisms in the last couple months. The slight ways in which she moves her body, the way her facial features contort depending on what she’s feeling, the variations in her voice. But it’s still only been a couple months. I don’t know her well enough to know what she’s thinking. This is still so new.
Emma leans her arm against the door frame and her head against her arm and she raises her eyebrows, “Just fucking say it so we can move on with our lives,” she says.
“Never again,” I say. I wait for more to come bubbling out, but that seems like that’s it. I open my mouth, begging for more of an explanation to present itself. Nothing. It feels like I’m reaching to undo time. Emma, understandably, does not look impressed.
“‘Never again’ what?” Her voice doesn’t break at all. She’s solid, the exact opposite of me.
“I don’t know. I never want to feel this way again.”
“Great, a selfish sentiment to explain a selfish act.” She sighs, almost exactly like her mom did, wipes at her eyes. “Are we done here? Is that it?”
“No,” I say quickly. I feel like throwing up. I feel like entropy, like the toothpaste has been squeezed out of the tube and I’m trying to get it back in. “I mean, I never want to make you feel the way you probably felt last night. The way you must be feeling now. I never again want to...” I trail off lamely when I should be rattling off a list of my grievances. The whole silver-lining thing is not looking good.
“Look, Carlos, I appreciate you coming over here to try to ease your conscience, but you made your choice last night. You chose the kitchen.” She stands up a little straighter, looking over my shoulder. Inside the house, I can hear cupboards clattering, glass bottles rattling on granite countertops, people whooping.
“I just lost track of time,” I say, in a whimper.
Emma either doesn’t hear me or the comment means nothing to her. “My mom chose the kitchen instead of me. My dad chose the kitchen instead of me. You’re asking me to let someone else do that to me.” Now, finally, she does cross her arms. She definitely seems like she rehearsed some of this, like she gave this speech thought instead of hoping for silver linings, magically unearned happy endings. Her cheeks are flushed with booze and anger, but she knows what she wants to say. I’ve been sitting here for hours and am still struggling to figure out what my lines should be.
&nbs
p; How I wish Felix were around to whisper advice in my ear. “I’m not asking you to,” I say. “I know how that sounds. And I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. But last night was not a choice for me. It was just—” I gesture lamely “—a mistake. It’s been a crazy couple of months and I’m trying to juggle certain things and maybe my head isn’t taking everything well. But I’m trying to figure this new life out, trying to get over Felix, and I made a mistake.”
“Don’t do that,” she says. “Don’t blame this on your grief. It’s not fair to your brother. You being on Needle Eye? Sure. You spending time with me and the kitchen because it helped you feel better? Yeah, I get that. But last night was not that.”
“Okay,” I say, my voice breaking, tears gathering at the corners of my eyes. “You’re right. But it was still a mistake. A stupid mistake I won’t ever make again. You are not less than the kitchen for me.”
Emma keeps her arms crossed. If she were wearing glasses I think she might push them up to her head, but she’s not wearing them at all. I can picture them folded on her nightstand, in between her glass of water and the lamp she uses to read before going to bed. The tears that have been gathering in my eyes spill now, and I’m not sure if it’s out of hope or resignation.
Emma opens her mouth to say something and then changes her mind and looks down at her feet. She combs a loose tress of hair back behind her ear, though the motion doesn’t accomplish much. Her arms uncross, fall limp at her sides. “Whatever the reason, Carlos, you chose the kitchen. And that’s fine. That’s fucking great, actually. You’re dedicated. You’re passionate. All great things for a chef. And I hope the kitchen helps you with your grief.
“But you made me feel so fucking lonely.” She wipes at her eyes again, tears that I’m responsible for. A quiet moment passes, and I know there’s still sounds coming from inside the house, but I can barely hear them. It’s just me and her. “In the end it doesn’t matter,” Emma says. “You want to stay here, and I’m leaving for school soon. This wasn’t going to last anyway.”
I want to argue, want to prove how much she means to me. This is a mistake we can overcome. But all I can do is stand here feeling so empty I’m surprised I’m not just floating away in the breeze. I should tell her I was fired, tell her we don’t have to sneak around anymore. I should tell her it was Felix who convinced me the kitchen was more important, tell her exactly what I’ve been dealing with.
Or I could stand at her door looking at her midsection because I can’t handle eye contact, because I know all of those things don’t matter and what she said does.
Behind Emma, fireflies light up, the moon shines in full, Felix says nothing.
“You’re not second fiddle to the kitchen for me,” I say finally, and the way the words leave my mouth it’s like they’re giving up on my behalf, like they don’t even believe in themselves. “You have no idea how much you mean to me.” Emma crosses her arms in front of her chest, kicks at a pebble at her feet. There’s not another single sound on the entire island. No magic, no ghosts, nothing at all.
Finally, Emma opens her mouth, and it take a long time for the sound to come out. “Take care, Carlos,” she says. Then she walks past me, shutting the door behind her.
CHAPTER 30
BOMBA
1 bolillo
1 generous scoop red or green chilaquiles
4 ounces cochinita pibil
1 breaded chicken breast (milanesa)
1 habanero, seeded and sliced
1 tablespoon Cotija cheese
1 tablespoon Mexican crema
METHOD:
This time, I stick to the roads. I can’t handle seeing any more magic drained out of this place. I’d kick at pebbles, but it would remind me too much of Emma, and so I just stare at them as I amble by.
What now? There’s nothing here for me anymore. There is no cake left, nothing to have or to eat. I could hang around the island and hope for Emma’s forgiveness; I could show the persistence that led Chef to hire me. Except Emma didn’t seem angry or even disappointed. She seemed like she’d simply moved on. She seemed like she was hurt, but it was as if she’d only nicked herself while chopping vegetables. It was a bit of pain that would pass. She seemed ready to leave the island and forget about me.
Even if I wanted to, I can’t return to the life Dad had planned out for me a) because I withdrew my name from the University of Chicago, and going back to Mexico will not undo that, will not just reinstate Dad’s plan, and b) how the hell could I, having tasted this life?
So, what now?
I can’t even think of where to go right this instant. All the spots I love on the island would just be painful reminders of what I’ve so quickly lost. It’d be like holding my hand over a fire. I loop around the island a couple of times, from the dock to the boardwalk to downtown, turning around right before I reach Provecho on one end, Emma’s street on the other.
An hour or so into this tired circuit, a stray dog starts following me. It’s got dark brown fur and is wearing one of those dog-sweaters, which is off-white and threadbare.
“Rough,” the dog says, dog-like but not.
“Dude.”
“Sorry. Didn’t know if you wanted me to try to make you laugh or if you’re in a wallowing kind of mood.”
“Definitely wallowing,” I say, shoving my heads in my pockets.
“You should call Mom. She’s good at cheering up people in these situations. She was the reason I didn’t try to run away to the woods for a month to record a mopey folk record after my first breakup.”
I can tell Felix is still trying to make me laugh, even if I can’t find it in me to. At least it does help quiet my thoughts for a moment.
“Well, look at this way, at least you’ve had the experience of getting fired and getting dumped on the same day,” Felix barks.
“Why the hell did you make it sound like a good thing?”
Felix seems to be thinking for a second. “It’s like what Emma was saying. How when you experience it at least you know what it feels like. Silver linings.”
I don’t respond to this. I can’t imagine going through the rest of my life (or even the next few days/weeks/whatever) feeling rattled in my gut at the sound of her name. Just like that I’m back in the thought circuit, feeling like an asshole, feeling lost, feeling aimless, feeling the irreversibility of time, how it stupidly just marches onward in one direction.
We reach the Provecho end of Main Street and turn back around. There’s a crowd outside the door, hoping for early lunch availability.
“How did everything go to shit so quickly?” Maybe the tourists can hear me talking to the dog, or maybe there is no dog at all. I don’t really care either way.
“What can I say? Life’s a bitch.”
“Felix, shut up with the puns already.”
We pass by the bookstore, but I don’t want to look at it because it reminds me of Emma. We pass that upper-middle-class-white-people store where I bought my knife; we pass the diner, the bakery, The Crown.
How the hell do people in small towns ever get away from the places that remind them of their sadness? In Mexico City, at least I could easily avoid the fourteen taco stands from the Night of the Perfect Taco. Here, every corner I turn there’s something new to remind me of either Emma or the kitchen. We keep walking in loops. A few times Felix goes into a trot or disappears to chase after nearby birds. But he keeps coming back, each time with that near-grin dogs often have and Felix always had.
“Listen,” he says one of those times, “I hate to sound like Dad, but I’ve got an unsolicited speech to deliver. Is that okay? While we’re still moping?”
I grunt. I don’t really want hear whatever Felix is about to say, but it’d be more difficult to get into an argument, so I just keep walking.
“This isn’t going
to help right away. I know that. But sometimes the things we hear when we’re not exactly open to hearing them sink in more than the advice we seek ever does.” He stares up meaningfully at me, which is a strange look for a chocolate Labrador. “Carlos, you are not dead yet. I know how your brain works. I know how you’ve been fighting to keep thoughts of death away. This time, it might help to keep it in mind.”
Strangely, that queasy existential feeling doesn’t sink in now. It’s still just gut-wrenching guilt and regret. The road turns darker as a cloud moves in front of the sun.
“This is part of life, brother. Not the best part, granted. But it’s part of it. The great thing is that it keeps going. Usually.” He offers another stupid Labrador grin, but I don’t bite. “Look, this is not the last good thing you will find and enjoy. I know you think I speak in clichés, so here’s a good one for you: there are other fish in the sea. There are more girls, more kitchens, more magical places in the world. There is more in store for you, as long as you’re alive.”
I’m exhausted, not from the walking but from thinking the same thoughts over and over again. I’m tired of the same fear and worry and regret and longing that are gripping my organs and shaking them.
“Remember what I said before you left Mexico? The world is a much bigger place than you realize. You’ve uncovered another beautiful corner of it. But there’s still more. You could go find it.”
“Fuck, man, is that your answer to everything?” I’m suddenly shouting. “Just run away?”
“I didn’t say ‘run away.’ I said move on to the next thing.”
“You know what, Felix, I think I get it now, why Dad was so pissed at you.” I stop walking. We’re at the edge of town, where few cars ever pass by. If it looks weird that I’m yelling at a dog, so be it. “You feel a little discomfort, and so you run. That’s your resolution, isn’t it? That’s why you kept moving from place to place? Just leave everything behind, wash your hands of it, move on to the next thing. There’s more joy out there, so if sadness comes along, why stick around? Didn’t you ever fight for anything?”
