The Color of Us

by Jessica Park

  Nothing.

  I took my childhood, my life, for granted.

  Not anymore.

  After my feet hit the cool water, I exhale for what feels like the first time in ages. A real exhale. One that isn’t solely about breathing to sustain life. One that might be about choosing to live life. It’s both blissful and disarming.

  I don’t know what to do with quiet.

  My emotional spinning becomes too much, and I force myself to focus. I’m here only to assess what work needs to be done and get that work in motion …

  Make a plan, I tell myself. Just make a plan.

  The plan is to call Paul. Coordinate with him. Let him tell me what to do. Well, and obviously thank him. He is probably the person who cleaned the house and the Pathfinder and provided me with food.

  The idea of getting in touch feels rather humiliating. I mean, I’m nothing but a conduit for my mother. It’s not as though I have any real skills in home repair. I’m here only because she isn’t. Not to mention that I haven’t reached out to him since my father’s memorial.

  He doesn’t pick up when I call. Hearing his voice, even in his short outgoing message, guts me. Paul was my dad’s best friend, and he’s yet another person I’ve actively avoided thinking about all these years for more reasons than I can count. It takes a lot for me to control my voice, to try to leave a casual message about how I’m now in Wake and I would love to set up a time to meet up. My hands are shaking when I hang up.

  Dammit.

  In an attempt to distract myself, I browse through the recipe cards and pull out ones that sound doable. Basic scrambled eggs, chef’s salad, and chicken with some weird name that I don’t understand but one that sounds easy enough. It’s apparently a whole chicken cut in half and cooked, all splayed out and seasoned with lemon and herbs. And I even pull ones that sound impossible to make, like eggs Benedict and poblano Bolognese. If I screw anything up, at least I’ll be the only one subjected to my failure.

  The shopping list on my phone grows rapidly, mostly because I’m panicked but partially because I’m curious about cooking for myself. It might be nice to eat something that a restaurant hasn’t cooked for once.

  Over and over, I soundly kick both feet in the water, spraying my body and face.

  Yep, it’s weird, being both hungover and clearheaded. Yet I carry on.

  When I finally stand, the dock cracks, nearly tripping me.

  Fabulous. I open my phone and add Fix tragic dock to my list.

  After I shower and dress, I grab the car key. Driving this showy rental car into town is not ideal, as I’m worried about who might see me, so I park at the end of the main street in town and make my way down the sidewalk.

  I am hit with how familiar everything is. This view, the charming series of shops, the feel of Wake. While I see some new things, this town is very much as I remembered it.

  Maybe I don’t belong here anymore. But I hope I do. God, more than anything, I hope I do.

  eight

  An enticing smell jars me from my melancholy, and I stop in front of a restaurant with a chalkboard sign out front, one that touts wonderful crepes. The specials of the day are written in cursive.

  #1 Bavarian Cream and Vanilla Custard, Folded Inside a Warm Crepe with Dark Chocolate and Whipped Cream

  #2 Scallion-Infused Crepe with Ham, Brie Cheese, Spinach, and Spicy Honey Dijon Mustard

  I look up and see the sign. Wake Crepes.

  Crepes? Why is there a crêperie in this little town?

  This spot was not here years ago—I know that—but obviously, I have to go in because crepes are everything.

  While it’s a dimly-lit room with dark wood floors and equally dark booths and tables, the unique art on the walls and the wonderfully fun and quirky light fixtures add great warmth and ambiance.

  I’m suddenly ravenous. I barely ate yesterday while traveling, and vodka isn’t exactly a meal. Or at least, it shouldn’t be.

  There’s a menu on the table, and before I can get through a portion of it, a heavyset woman wearing a stylish white pantsuit and shiny black heels approaches me.

  She plucks a pen from behind her ear and whips out a notepad. “You are tourist?” she asks in a heavy French accent while avoiding eye contact.

  “Tourist? Oh, er, no. I used to live here. A long time ago.”

  She glances up. “So, you are tourist now?”

  “No, no. I’m … my family still owns a house here. I haven’t been back in a long time. I’m Callie. My dad grew up here. I mean, I grew up here, too, and then he died—”

  Thankfully, she’s nonplussed by my blathering. “Okay, not tourist. You have a lunch then, yes?”

  “Yes.”

  “I think spinach, mushroom, and Gruyere crepe for you, okay?” She whips the menu from my hand. “And white wine.”

  “No, thank you. I’m driving,” I say.

  “If you have a crepe, you have a wine too,” she says sternly. “Is okay.”

  “No, really, I’m fine.”

  Suddenly, she slams the menu against the table. “You no have the wine? I quit. I quit!”

  After I catch my breath, I nod. “Sure. Wine sounds super.”

  She begins to walk away and then stops. “I am called Nicole. Is my place here. Is like my restaurant in Dijon. You know, the mustard? I bring France here. You will like food.”

  She might be assertive, but she’s right. Soon, I am devouring the most delicious meal that I’ve ever eaten, and the wine she chose pairs perfectly with the crepe she insisted upon. If I can ever master my sad scrambled-egg goal, maybe she’d be willing to teach me about the world of cooking crepes.

  My phone starts alerting me to countless texts from my mother, but I’m saved from replying when Nicole swaps out my savory crepe for a sweet one.

  “Is special for today. Bavarian cream. You will like, oui.” It’s not a question.

  She’s right again. The filling is silken and rich with the right balance of sweet cream, intensely rich vanilla custard, and bitter chocolate, the mild whipped topping creating perfection.

  Later, I step up to the bar to pay my bill, but Nicole sternly waves away my credit card and barely makes eye contact.

  “Is fine. Is nothing. I know your father and mother.”

  She struts away before I can comment on that or rave about the food, but as I’m walking out the door, she calls behind her, “You do a shopping now, okay? You see the stores. Your friends, they miss you. I see you soon for more crepes. And plus, du vin.”

  While she’s got a freakishly good handle on my food and alcohol preferences—but who wouldn’t love everything on this menu?—she’s wrong to think that I have friends here. That I’m not entirely alone. It’s been ten years since my family has lived in Wake. Any help with the house or car is surely the result of my mother paying someone.

  But when I step outside and take in the exceedingly quaint view of the street in front of me, I cannot help but feel hopeful. I mean, my God, this street defines cuteness.

  I stop into Finley’s Minis, a shop that only sells treats in tiny sizes—mini cheesecakes, mini doughnuts and cookies, tiny scoops of ice cream in little cones, cupcakes the size of a shot glass, Nutella brownies that could fit on my thumb. I am so enchanted that I have the owner, Jackson Finley, fill a large mixed container for me. Even given these mini sizes, the amount that I leave with for one person is silly. But I couldn’t resist.

  After I walk back to the car and drop the pastries, I head back into the heart of Wake, resolving to make quick work of my grocery shopping so that my minis don’t fall apart in the heat of a sealed car. I mean, they’re minis, so I assume they have a short survival rate in any kind of heat. To be sure, I crack open a few windows as though I were keeping a golden retriever from overheating.

  When I get to the small grocery store, I snag a cart. For the first time in my life, I realize that I have never shopped to fill up a fridge.

  Oh God. What kind of adult am I?r />
  Well, fine, I’m a partial adult who has eaten takeout or a delivered meal for as long as I can remember, yet I barrel ahead and decide to wing it. I’ll just buy a bunch of food based on the index cards. It’ll be fine.

  Five pounds of vegetables later, I find myself at the meat counter. After spending ten minutes looking for a spatchcock chicken, per that recipe card, and only seeing whole chickens, I reluctantly ring the bell to flag down the butcher.

  A man with a name tag that reads Ray arrives moments later. “What can I get for you, new girl?” he asks with a smile before taking a step back. “Or return girl! You must be Callie. Heard you might be in. I’m Ray. Probably don’t remember me. But I remember you and the lopsided ponytails you used to have.”

  I’m so taken aback that I cannot make eye contact. I nervously look all over the place and blurt out, “I want to make a spatchcock chicken. Do you have those?” Smooth.

  He squints in confusion, leans over the counter, and asks loudly, “A spatch WHAT?”

  I die a little inside. I might not be shy, but I’m not about to fill in the blank here. “Spatchcock,” I say weakly.

  “SpatchCOCK?” Ray practically screams.

  I nod slowly.

  He frowns and turns to the guy behind him. “Dougie? Have you ever heard of a spatchcock chicken?”

  I’m sure that all of Minnesota heard him.

  “A spatch WHAT?” the fellow butcher asks.

  “SpatchCOCK!” Ray hollers again.

  “SpatchCOCK? Nope. What in the hell is that?” Dougie throws up his hands.

  Ray leans across the counter. “We’re lost. What exactly is it that you want, sweetheart?”

  While blushing furiously, I fumble for my phone. “I can Google it. There are a million recipes for … spatchcock chicken.” A stomach-sinking mix of panic and desperation and horror increases inside of me. “I’m not making this up.” Shit, my voice is all wobbly and shrill, and I can feel myself blushing.

  No one has searched for anything faster than I am right now.

  “Aha! Google says spatchcock chicken is a thing!” I am way too victorious while waving my phone around. “Google says it’s a thing! See! It’s not me being all insane! I didn’t make up that spatch word. Nor, you know, that other word following it. That’s been around for ages.” Lord, why can I not stop talking? “Spatchcock! It’s a thing where, you know, you cut the chicken in half, and roast it flat, and get more flavor … and then …” I’m gonna die. Get me out of here.

  I weigh the benefits of leaving my full cart and bolting, but Ray leans in and squints at my phone.

  “OOOHHH!” He thumps the counter and devolves into laughter. “A butterflied chicken!”

  Good God. Yes. Butterflied. Dammit, I’ve seen this less salacious term in other recipes.

  “Yes,” I say calmly. “Yes, that’s it. Same thing.”

  “Yeah.” He’s still trying to breathe normally. “No problem, Miss Callie from Cali. One minute.”

  I casually fiddle with my bag of parsley while I wait. And sulk a bit. I’m not from Cali. I’m from Wake, Vermont.

  I look away and mumble, “Thanks,” when he hands me the chicken, and I rush through the aisles to get the rest of the things on my list.

  I grab a bunch more wine that I tell myself is for cooking purposes. At least I didn’t snatch up two bottles of vodka. Progress?

  For some reason, I can’t find eggs anywhere, but I pretend that I don’t care even though nearly every one of my recipes requires eggs. At this point, I need to get out of here.

  Because my heaping shopping cart would presumably alarm anyone, I’m not surprised when the cashier raises her eyebrows as she scans item after item. “Having a party, yes?”

  “Sure, a party.” I smile.

  “Celebrating being back home?”

  Rummaging through my purse for my wallet buys me a pause in responding. I listen to the beeps of the scanner as she runs my items through and try to think of a reply.

  “You’re Mike and Cindy’s kid, right?” she continues.

  This is the first time that anyone has said my father’s name out loud in years, and I try not to react. Mike. It’s always been husband, father, uncle. But never with a name attached. Nobody wanted to make it too real. But my dad’s name was Mike.

  Without comment, I look up and nod. She might be pushing seventy, but her sweet smile and Grace Kelly French twist make her look years younger. More importantly, she exudes kindness.

  “Callie, right?” She continues scanning my stupidly large pile of groceries. “I’m Amelia. I’m sure you don’t remember me, but I remember you. Heard you were coming back to Wake.” She squints at the tag on my tomatoes before punching in a code. “Could these numbers be any smaller? Christ almighty. Anyway, welcome back. Happy to see you.”

  “Thank you.”

  “And best of luck with that cock chicken thing.” Amelia hands me my receipt and whispers, “Sounds sexy AF.”

  nine

  After carrying four heavy loads of groceries into the house, I’m still not done. Worse, I’m an asshole for not having brought reusable shopping bags, like the ones my mom uses. So, now, I’m both a failed environmentalist and an active food hoarder. I stomp out to the car and retrieve the rest of my groceries, more of the ones that I have no real idea what to do with. So much food to place in a tiny kitchen with crap storage and all for a totally inexperienced cook to ruin.

  It’s fine, I tell myself. Because I am going to learn to feed myself real food, dammit.

  Just not tonight.

  I pour a bowl of cereal and milk and muse while I grab bites and put away my ridiculous mass of food. What I’m realistically going to do with these seemingly panicked purchases is beyond me—because I do not have an actual army to feed—but I stock the pantry and fridge and do my best not to cringe at my lunacy.

  What in the shit am I going to do with fennel? What even is fennel? Why a large bag of Mexican cheese? Six avocados? And why do I now have two pounds of flour and a jar of yeast? I’m a fucking baker all of a sudden?

  When I finally cram the last item into the fridge—a jar of capers that miraculously does not shatter—I am spent. Presumably, a week from now, I’ll be cleaning out a fridge full of rotten food.

  While I might have decided that vodka is not my pal, white wine could be a more docile friend. I pour a glass and chill it by swirling it in ice cubes for a minute—surely not a move a true wine drinker would make, but I’m a newbie. Even though fatigue has taken over, I’m scared that I won’t be able to sleep without my recent vodka-blackout method of passing out.

  My old room used to be so safe and comforting, so I’ll stay in there tonight. I cannot sleep in my parents’ room again—that’s for sure.

  After I’ve had my second full glass of wine and texted a ton with Marlena, I go upstairs and crawl into my twin bed. The freshly washed sheets smell of orange and basil, and while they’re lovely smells, they’re foreign to me. I wander into Erica’s room and drop against the floor. This used to be such a fun space, a safe space.

  Suddenly, I pull up her Instagram page, and I like a slew of her posts.

  Then, I text her a picture.

  Was wondering if you’d like to see your old room?

  Over twenty minutes later, she replies.

  Wow! I haven’t thought about that in years. Brings me back. Send more pics.

  Will do!

  But I cannot sleep here either.

  After I try crashing in my parents’ room with no luck and when I have been up for hours, I angrily throw back the bedding and wander downstairs and outside to my dad’s old Pathfinder.

  As always, the keys are behind the visor. It’s so cliché, but here, no one locks their cars or their houses, so I’m not at all surprised. But I am surprised when the engine turns over. This car didn’t sit here for years and start up this easily without help. The sound is soothing, and I root through the car, looking for … well, I don’t know what
. Something. Anything. Then, I laugh because I find CDs in the glove compartment with titles written in Sharpie. Driving Mix. Mellow Mix. Oldies Mix. Everything Mix.

  This is so my dad.

  Years ago, when burning mixed CDs was still a thing, he was a fan. I pop in his Everything Mix.

  Def Leppard’s “Photograph” and then Aerosmith’s “Dream On” scream through the speakers. Later, Sam Cooke’s rousing live version of “Bring It on Home to Me” plays, and I lean back the seat and close my eyes while I listen to one of my dad’s favorite songs. The crowd sings along and hollers, and I almost cry because my dad would never have chosen to, as Sam sings about, leave me behind.

  My musical fog is interrupted by brilliant headlights and the sound of a pickup truck that rumbles over the gravel driveway. It’s enough to rouse the dead, and I shield my eyes as I step from the car to see who is coming my way. This is not a normal time for visitors, and I can’t think of anyone who might even visit me here at any hour.

  So, clearly, someone is here to kill me.

  It’s past two in the morning, but I’m now wide awake. It’s good that I’ve rewatched all seasons of Alias ’cause I could channel Jennifer Garner right now. She might look all sweet and shit, but if her character, Sydney Bristow, can kill creatively, so can I. I’m sure something can be done with a mixed CD whipped to the neck. Casually, I slip a Best of the ’70s CD into my hand and exit the SUV.

  The mysterious truck comes to a halt, and the door opens, but the headlights stay on. At first, I can only make out a baseball hat and a sleeveless shirt on the guy who casually wanders my way.

  Given that he doesn’t seem to be wielding an ax or anything, it now seems unlikely that this person is here for murderous reasons, so I turn off the engine and walk toward him.

  “Sam Cooke is everything,” he says.

  Cautiously, I agree, “Yes.”

  “I heard you were back in town, Callie. Sexy BMW and all.” His wink is visible, even in the dark. “You probably don’t remember me. I’m Danny.”