What Brings Me to You

by Loralee Abercrombie

  “Charley, I hope to see you again soon. Please make an appointment with Kathy at the front, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  *****

  I’m calling Collette back. She’s so predictable; she picks up on the third ring.

  “Hey, Charley,” she sounds happy to hear from me, I can hear it in her voice, but she is restraining herself a bit. “How…um…are you okay?”

  “That seems like a silly question Collette, don’t you think?” I am trying to be light and playful. She is my friend, and we’re typically light and playful but she’s using her therapist voice on me and it’s irritating, so it comes out kind of snappy. Dammit! Back pedal. “I’m teasing, girl. I’m good. Doing better every day,” this is a total lie. I’ve learned nothing from the years we’ve been friends because she sighs. She’s going to call me out.

  “Charley,” I know that tone. It’s her motherly, therapist-y, “I’m disappointed in you” tone. I should hate it, but I don’t. I love it because it means she cares and, even over the phone, she can knock down my defenses.

  “Okay, I’m not okay, okay, but I’m okay.”

  “Are you sleeping at night?” Now she’s really shrinking me. One of the drawbacks of being friends with Collette –she can’t turn off her inner therapist.

  “A little.”

  “Are you taking the pills?”

  “I can’t take that stuff, Collette. I don’t want to get hooked.” I hear her sigh again, this time resigned. She knows not to push me too hard. Especially now.

  “How about coming over tonight? It’s poker night and Rich is going out with the boys. We can sit around, drink wine, watch rom-coms. I haven’t seen you. I miss you.” I miss her too. But I can’t sit around and watch movies with my girlfriend like old times. Not yet.

  “Not yet, okay.”

  “Okay,” and though she tries to hide it, she’s disappointed in that too.

  “Okay. Listen, I better go. It was good to hear your voice, Collette.”

  “Yours too, Charley. Don’t be a stranger, okay?”

  “Okay,” I was about to hang up –so relieved to be done with that conversation when I hear her call my name.

  “Wait, Charley!”

  “Yea, what?”

  “I got a weird phone call today. I don’t want to talk about it over the phone, though. Can I come over tomorrow? Will you be home? Are you still on leave?”

  Weird phone call? What the hell is she talking about she can’t just tell me over the phone? “You’re freaking me out a little bit, Collette. Can you at least give me a hint so I don’t obsess over it all night?” Like obsessing over it is going to cut into the sleep I’m not having. Ha!

  “It’s just… we need to talk. Tomorrow?”

  “Yea. Okay. Tomorrow.”

  *****

  It was October on campus, but it was still sweltering outside. The only way any of us knew was our RA put cardboard cut outs of pumpkins on the first floor doors. The freshman-freak-out look that all the upperclassmen talked about seemed to vanish by that time. The undercurrent of palpable alacrity in the dorm the first few weeks had relaxed into easy, comfortable living. I’d fallen into a rhythm myself. The consistency and routine seemed to have a good effect on my mood.

  I’d been going to therapy twice a week for three weeks. Dr. Collette, or whatever I was supposed to call her, was a real pain in the ass. She was determined to have me come to my own conclusions about things so even when I directly asked her a question she wouldn’t answer. “What do you think?” was her most favorite and vexing answer. Occasionally she’d grace me with, what I deemed Collette-isms, and those were what helped me the most. Times when she dispensed these little precepts I felt like we were closer than patient and not-doctor. I think it was the confidence I was gaining in speaking to Collette and her advice that helped me to branch out. She encouraged me ad nauseam to be more social: “Isolating yourself is what caused you to feel out of control. If you have a safety net you’re less likely to have an episode or feel out of control.” It seemed logical enough, so I went out with Kelsey and Colin a couple of times which was, actually, more fun than I thought it would be. They were just so nice and so normal. It was refreshing but weird in a Stepford Wives kind of way. It was hard for me to feel like I truly belonged with them because I was so damaged and they were so…immaculate? I don’t know but it was just all wrong. They invited me to go to the beach with them, too, but I declined. The beach was still too painful.

  I knew I’d need to be out of the dorm over the winter holidays and didn’t know where I’d be staying. I needed to squirrel away as much money as possible until then. I picked up a couple of odd jobs –mostly tutoring or editing papers, but it was sporadic and I wasn’t making enough to support me staying in a hotel –even a cheap one for more than a day or so. I applied at all of the restaurants and food service venues on campus hoping to kill two birds with one stone. I could make extra cash, and maybe nab some extra food, you know, the stuff they would throw away anyway at the end of the night? The two meals I was allotted each day on my meal card just weren’t doing it for me, and I was tired of my extremities being swollen from all the Top Ramen.

  I landed a job at one of the more upscale eateries on campus, Fresh Eats. I was lucky, since it was literally nine point five steps from my dorm, I was never ever late. It was an exhibition style dining experience so my duties were getting and refilling drinks, cleaning tables, and replacing silverware. The mindless monotony of it helped me to stave off the anxiety. I’d be on my feet, running around for hours, and when I got back to the dorm I would be full from the left overs, and so bone tired I’d sleep heavily and dreamlessly through the night. More sleep helped my studies too, and though my grades weren’t awful before, they were nearing perfection.

  Markus, the head chef-slash-manager, took a liking to me and I to him, though that wasn’t immediate at all. Actually, we had a pretty rough start.. Markus intimidated the hell out of me; actually he intimidated the hell out of everyone. The man was massive, had to have been well over six and a half feet but he was just as wide. It took a lot not to cower in his presence because he was so physically imposing, and if that wasn’t enough, he was known to be a tyrant in the kitchen. He demanded perfection from the staff and anything less would earn you a severe tongue lashing of the veins bulging in the neck variety. I was grateful, at first he spent most of the time in the kitchen and I spent most of mine front of house, but then it happened.

  My fucking hair.

  I’d set drinks down for one of my tables and as I walked away I heard a loud shriek from the woman.

  “How disgusting,” she gasped. I walked back over and there she was, holding a long, black, spirally curled strand of hair. The hives on my chest burned and I felt my face get hot.

  “I’m so, so sorry, ma’am,” I didn’t know what to do. I wanted to simply take the hair out of her hands and run away screaming, but I needed the job. I hoped beyond hope she wouldn’t say the words that, unfortunately did come out of her mouth.

  “If you don’t mind, I’d like to speak with the manager, please.” Oh shit! I did the walk of shame back to the kitchen where Markus was dressing down one of the cooks for burning a batch of something or other. I waited patiently for him to finish, hearing nothing but the sound of my hyperventilating. When he was done I tapped lightly on his granite-hard bicep.

  “What?” apparently he was still seething from the other guy’s fuckup because his normally tanned face was beet red.

  “Um, some clients would like to talk to you.” Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.

  “Oh great! What did you do?” He didn’t give me time to answer before he was out of the kitchen and onto the floor. I took the opportunity to nab a set of wooden chopsticks, twisted my hair as high up on my head as it would go and secured it with the flimsy wooden rods. My hands were trembling so badly it took me several tries. I’m fired. I’m fired. I’m fired. Is all I could think. I was glad, for once, for Collet
te’s breathing exercises because I was feeling out of control. Minutes later he came storming back into the kitchen where I had been hiding.

  “You!” I knew the "you" he was addressing and didn’t want to piss him off any further so I snapped to attention. The redness had dissipated from his face, but he didn’t seem any less pissed. “My office. Now.” The entire kitchen staff looked at me with pity, like I was a puppy about to be put down. I breathed in through my nose and out through my mouth like Collette told me to and hastily made my way to the office.

  The office was more like a supply closet with a desk. I didn’t understand how Markus’ massive body could fit behind that desk which was why, I assumed, he was leaning against it instead. He leaned down far enough to be eye level with me, and I don’t think I’d ever been more scared in my life. Say something, idiot! Apologize!

  “Jesus! I don’t know who hired you with all that fucking hair! You know it’s a really good thing you’re not in my kitchen because, I swear, that hair would end up in every one of my dishes.” He wasn’t yelling, but his tone wasn’t nice either. He raked his hands down his face wearily and it occurred to me how difficult it must be to be the head chef and manager. He was too young, mid to late twenties at the most, to look so tired.

  “Am I going to lose my job?” I blurted out. He seemed slightly stunned by it and his expression softened, if only marginally.

  “No, honey. But in the future, you need to keep your hair up. It’s company protocol.”

  “Absolutely sir. Won’t happen again.”

  “Good. I’ve assigned Kimberly to take over that table. Get back out there.” I turned and left but he stayed in the office, presumably to write me up. I was sure to keep my hair up from then on and extra careful not to cross paths with Markus until one night, after closing, I was folding up silverware in linen napkins, and smelled something divine coming from the kitchen. I tip-toed around the corner and saw Markus’ wall of a back standing over one of the counters with a delicate round dish in his hands.

  “I didn’t realize you were still here,” he said in a whisper that was incongruous with his form and with the only other time he’d spoken to me. He still had his back to me so in addition to an outrageously sized musculature and a wicked temper; he had the hearing of a dog or had eyes in the back of his head. Either way, the fact that he knew I was there made me jump.

  “I’m sorry…I…umm…,” God, Charley! Get it together! “I smelled food,” I blurted, which I seemed to do a lot of around him. When he smiled at me and my stupidity, cute little lines formed around his eyes that made him look a lot less scary.

  “Come on, why don’t you try some. Are you hungry?”

  “I’m always hungry,” which was not a lie. I hoisted myself up onto the counter and he handed me the delicate dish. “What is it?”

  “It’s something I created. It’s a dessert. Be honest and tell me what you think.” He seemed so vulnerable when he asked, like a little kid asking you to critique their art project. It was endearing and confusing.

  “Okay,” I was a little apprehensive but I knew better than to refuse free food, especially free dessert food, from a man whose fist was the size of a bowling ball and could probably inflict as much damage. Marcus described it as a peach, honey and rose petal tart, topped it with a star anise crème. I didn’t know what any of it meant but it tasted heavenly. I could feel his eyes on me as he watched me take bite after bite –each time I let out in involuntary moan because it was the most delicious thing I’d ever tasted. He smiled widely at me when I told him so.

  “Honey, you didn’t have to tell me that, it was written all over your face. Damn! You practically made love to it!” He didn’t give me any time to be self-conscious before he took the dish from me and held my hands in one of his. “Thank you for your honesty,” he said with a smile. We became fast friends after that. I made sure to stay late and he made sure to make double of his inventions.

  I learned soon that Markus was not the hard as nails tough guy that he projected to be. He was so young when he ascended the ranks in the kitchen that the only way he could get any respect was to rule by fear. He was actually like a giant teddy bear once I got to know him. Markus kept me around because I was so excited about his creations which were all simply celestial. Citrus crème Brule with cardamom; wood-grilled parmesan, eggplant and artichoke heart tartlets; lemon-tarragon sorbet, things I’d only read about in books, ingredients I never knew existed. I learned a lot about food preparation from watching Markus. I always knew I liked to eat –that was a given, but Markus helped me to see how a dish is created. How a meal is built. How flavors are layered to create complexity. The way he would describe each ingredient’s interaction with the other ingredients –like he was talking about beloved family members, reminded me of Mrs. Holmes’ description of the menu she designed. I wanted to learn more. I’d started showing up earlier and earlier for my shifts, sometimes when I wasn’t even scheduled to be on, to get these private lessons from Markus. I’d never used a stove or oven before –not even to boil water, but Markus was patient and I was eager. He even took me with him to the distributors to pick out ingredients. I started practicing in the kitchen on our floor and soon I had admirers from all over the dorm, not just from six, angling to get a taste of Markus’s recipes. The collaboration was a natural transition for us. We’d come up with dream menus –things we’d serve at lavish dinner parties for our friends or for the University President or the celebrity of the week.

  “Fall foods. Go!” I said excitedly one night while we gorged ourselves on fried zucchini blossoms dipped in a tangy, garlic-y dipping sauce.

  “Everyone does pumpkin soup this time of year. Boring! I’d want to do something different. What about a savory pumpkin sformato?”

  “You could add that aged balsamic vinegar that I loved so much –it would set it off so nicely!”

  “My dear, you’re a genius. What’s your major, again?”

  “I’m still undecided.”

  “Well, honey, if I didn’t want to crush your dreams I’d steal you away from here. You’re my food muse!”

  “Really?”

  “I’ve done some of my best work since we’ve started hanging out.”

  “And here I thought you were a genius all along.”

  “Oh, don’t get me wrong I am a genius. You’ve just brought the genius out in me,” we laughed.

  “So if you’re such a genius, what are you doing working here? I mean you can’t exactly spread your epicurean wings when all the head honchos want are burgers and fries.”

  “I’m biding my time. Saving every penny to open my own place.”

  “That’s so cool. Tell me about it.”

  “I’ll take you.”

  *****

  Markus took me to an old, dilapidated house with a worn “foreclosure” sign in front not too far from Mom and Paul’s place. The house was on prime real estate facing Tampa Bay, but it was obvious it needed work and with the economy the way it was, no one would even consider it. It was enormous, no doubt, and typically southern looking with a porch that wrapped around the entire first floor. Even though it was in bad shape it exuded charm and character, and I fell in love with it, as I’m sure he did, instantly.

  “I’m going to buy this. I’m going to fix it up and make it a restaurant.”

  “Markus! This place is phenomenal.”

  “You think?”

  “Ohmigod yea! I can see it all now!” I ran around the side of the building and peeked in. “You could knock down that wall for a more open seating plan. Each room could have a different theme. No more than four top tables. Upstairs could be really intimate –candles the whole works. You could even have an open flame out back to roast vegetables and mmm, racks of lamb, you could even wood fire your own pizzas.”

  “It’s like you’re reading my mind.”

  “I want to help,” it was sudden but I’d never been more sure of anything. Seeing the potential of the building and i
n Markus’s talent, it was like my future laid itself out for me. “Markus, I believe in you. I believe in your gifts –and trust me, they’re gifts. I’ve put on about ten pounds since meeting you. I’m going to help you. I happen to know someone who’d be very interested in your business and would be willing to invest. Even bring in high end clientele. You’ll be on the cover of Bon Appetit for sure.”

  “Do you really mean all of that, Charley?”

  “Are you kidding me? I’m going down to academic advising first thing in the morning to declare my major.”

  “You can’t major in culiary, Charley, not here anyway.”

  “You don’t need another cook, you’re the chef. Besides, I can’t be in the kitchen with all this hair; it’d get all in your beautiful creations.” At this we laughed, but then I got deathly serious: “You do need a business partner; someone to handle the paperwork and to hustle for you, so you can be free to express yourself creatively. I’m going to major in finance or marketing or both, whatever; I’ve got time to figure it out. The thing is I want to do this. I didn’t really have a purpose before you brought me here. Now it makes sense. We’re going to make this happen, Markus. Will you let me help?”

  I’d barely gotten out the last word when he enveloped me in his grizzly bear sized arms.

  *****

  “I’m so glad to see that you’re excited about something, Charley. That shows real progress,” Collette said warmly. She was still distant in that patient-doctor way but a small smile played at the corners of her mouth, so I knew she was genuinely happy for me. Happy that instead of isolating and withdrawing into myself, I was focusing on someone else. I had to agree with her, it was a big step for me. That made me happy, too. The bonus for me was I was making Collette proud. I had a distinct desire to please this woman like she was my older sister or something. The thought of disappointing her kept me coming back to the sessions. I rambled on about my plans with Markus while she scribbled in her little notebook.