“I’m serious. I’m going to study cooking when I finish school and learn how to make amazing desserts, just like you.”
Now it’s Grandma’s turn to tear up. “That’s the best news I’ve heard in weeks. How do your parents feel about it? I thought they wanted you to study dentistry?”
“Like you said, I have to find my own purpose. And cooking makes me happy.”
“Perfect. You’ll have to come and bake for me one day.”
“I would be honoured!”
She looks at me earnestly. “I know you’ll be a fantastic cook.”
I glance at my watch and reluctantly stand up. “I have to go, but it was really good seeing you today. Thank you.”
“Anytime. And just remember, it’s never too late to change something that doesn’t work in your life.”
“I will remember that.”
I leave her, feeling grateful that we got to have such a positive conversation. I’ve become even more inspired by the woman who already influenced my life so heavily.
She definitely deserves to be the role model she is.
NINETEEN
Despite Grandma Millie’s words of encouragement, I’m unsure whether I should be pursuing an evening out with Kurt. Besides the fact that I have less than an hour until I pass out, I didn’t come back to 1996 to find him. Except here he is, thrust in my face again. I never used to believe in fate, but I’m starting to now.
I get out my phone to call him, vowing not to let things get out of hand. This is just me spending some time with a nice guy in what is still essentially a dream.
He answers immediately. “City Morgue. How may we dispose of your loved one?”
I snort. “So classy.”
“Is that the delightful Anna?”
“It is,” I confirm.
“I’m so glad you called. Are you done with your appointment?”
He says it in such a way that I know he’s dying to find out where I’ve been. “Yes. I was visiting my grandma.”
“Aw, that’s so sweet. Well, now that you’re done, did you want to meet me at Sizzler?”
I laugh. “Sizzler? You really know how to make a girl feel special.”
“Hey, it’s Maroochydore on a Sunday afternoon. We don’t have a lot of choice here.”
“Okay. I’ll start walking now. See you soon.”
I walk the few minutes to Sizzler and find Kurt already there. There is a long line out the front, something I forgot was common with this franchise in the eighties and nineties.
He looks genuinely happy to see me. Which is weird, considering we only met briefly in this reality less than two hours ago.
“Hey! I wasn’t sure if you were going to get cold feet and chicken out,” he says.
“Never. I would have told you up front if I was going to cancel.”
“That’s good. I hate it when people play games.”
“Me too.”
He points up at the menu mounted on the wall. “We should figure out what we want to order. Are you hungry?”
“I am, actually.”
“I think I might get some seafood. You want steak?”
I wrinkle my nose. “No, thanks. I’m not a steak fan. The seafood sounds good.”
He beams. “None of my friends like seafood.”
“Now one of them does.”
“Is that what we are, Anna? Friends?” His eyes twinkle.
“I hope we can be.”
“Good. Me too.”
We order our food at the counter and sit down. A waiter brings us a slice of cheesy pan bread each and we eat that before talking further.
“So, Anna. What made you take up an invite from a random stranger on the side of the road?”
“Well, for a start, you’re not random. I’ve seen you at the record store before.”
“Really? I’m sure I would have remembered if I’d seen you.”
“What if you were out the back proving to someone that vinyl was better than CDs?”
He laughs. “I don’t do that!”
“Are you sure?”
“I promise you I have never done that in my life. Although, I might make an exception for you.”
“And what would you play for me?”
He leans back in his chair and thinks for a moment. “Probably something by Bob Dylan.”
“Sad-Eyed Lady of the Lowlands?” I ask.
His mouth drops open. “I would totally play that song for you. How did you know?”
“Lucky guess,” I say enigmatically.
“That’s not a lucky guess. That’s reading my brain. You’re not psychic, are you?”
I wonder how far I can push it. “I might be.”
“All right. Tell me something else about me.”
“Um…you hate sarsaparilla?”
He roars with laughter. “I do. But so do most people.”
“You…you’re named after Kurt Vonnegut.”
“I am! But then apart from Cobain, there aren’t many other Kurts around. And I was already born by the time he got famous. I’m impressed, though. Okay, tell me something else.”
“You’re a closet nerd. I bet you like games like The 7th Guest and The 11th Hour.”
“Well, that’s just getting creepy now. I think you actually might be psychic. All right, my turn. How about I try to guess a bit about you?”
“Sure. Go ahead.”
He studies me for a moment.
“You’re kind. Nice to your friends.”
I blush.
“You’re very observant.”
“Pfft. I think I just proved that to you. That doesn’t require any psychic ability.”
“You love your family.”
“As you would have deduced from me visiting my grandma just now.”
“You’re beautiful.”
My face feels even hotter. “Again, not something you predict. But I do appreciate you saying so.”
“And I feel like our lives are going to be intertwined for some time to come. Longer than you realise.”
I look away. I wish that was true. But I’m not so sure.
“I’m not freaking you out, am I?” he says, suddenly looking worried.
“No. I’m just thinking about whether that might actually be the case.”
“It will be if I have anything to do with it.”
Actually, it’s probably more up to me.
Our food arrives—a massive platter of fried fish, calamari and chips. I contemplate going over to the salad bar, because that would be the sensible thing to do, except I remember I’m in my sixteen-year-old body. And even if this was reality, there are basically zero consequences from eating a big pile of fried food at this age.
I’d been having such a nice time that I totally forgot I’m about to pass out.
“What time is it?” I ask, panicking.
He glances at his watch. “A couple of minutes to six. Why?”
I jump up and go around to his side of the table. I kneel down and pull his face to mine, planting a gentle kiss on his mouth. His lips are warm and soft—and they feel right. More right than I could possibly ever have expected.
After I pull away, I smile at him. “Thank you.”
He looks bemused. “What for?”
“Just for reminding me that there are caring people out there.”
He pulls me in for another kiss. “I want to thank you then, for reminding me it’s possible to feel this way.”
I close my eyes and enjoy my last moments with this man. My brain starts to spin.
Here we go.
TWENTY
I don’t feel as guilty about that kiss as I should. Maybe it’s because it wasn’t in the real world. Or maybe it’s because I’m still mad at Ed for a) wanting Maddie more than me, and b) being kind of an ass in 1996. I suspect the real reason is because I know my marriage is already over, but that’s still a little hard to admit.
I spend the following week living on autopilot. I refuse to take any more of the compou
nd, because I know it’s not going to help my mental state—and I don’t want to be tempted to track down Kurt, especially since I inadvertently memorised his phone number when he put it in my phone. The fact that he probably exists somewhere in the present has obviously occurred to me, but I’m not even going to go there. I’m definitely not ready to pursue another relationship, and I also don’t want to be disappointed by what might be a boring, attached, or even dead Kurt in my own time.
Ed and I haven’t communicated again and I’m not sure what that means. From my end, I’m just waiting for him to show some sort of initiative, since I’ve been the one driving it all so far. I need him to take over and let me know what he’s planning. Getting a divorce is kind of a forgone conclusion, but he has to keep me in the loop.
By Friday, I am going round the twist. The house feels so empty on my own, and it keeps reminding me of our marriage. Around lunchtime, I text my mum and tell her I’m coming to stay for the weekend.
She writes back straight away.
Sure, honey. See you soon! Is Ed coming too?
No, just me. Ed’s busy at the moment.
Which is true. Busy with his true love.
I pack a bag with a few changes of clothes, along with my laptop so I can still do a bit of work if I need to, and embark on the almost two-hour drive up to Shell Beach.
I haven’t done this for ages. As I get past the outskirts of Brisbane and cruise up the highway, I begin to relax a little. It will be good to spend some time with Mum and Dad.
I resist the urge to turn off near Maroochydore and go hunting for Kurt. This isn’t my weird dream state of 1996 where he just appears at every turn. I didn’t bring the youth compound with me either. I’ve decided I need to stay in the present at least until everything is finalised with Ed, and even then, I’m not sure I’ll use it again. There’s not much to be gained from re-visiting the past, except for indulging a silly crush that the other person isn’t capable of returning in any meaningful way.
I reach Shell Beach just after lunch. I almost drive to Mum and Dad’s old place—the one I’ve been visiting in 1996—until I remember their current apartment in Noosaville. I continue on up the road a bit further. Both my parents are at home.
“This is a lovely surprise,” Mum says embracing me at the front door. She looks a little more lively than last time I saw her in this reality, but not much. And it’s definitely a shock to be reminded how much she has aged since 1996. Dad hangs back and waits for his turn to greet me.
“What’s the occasion?” Mum asks.
“I just needed a break from Brisbane,” I say vaguely. There will be plenty of time to tell them about Ed later.
“You know you don’t need a reason to visit us,” Dad says, finally hugging me. “Come in. I’ve just cooked a crab I caught down at the river.”
The mention of seafood triggers off the memory of my dinner with Kurt. Nope. I’m not going to go there.
“Yum. Is there enough to share?”
“Of course.”
I dump my bag just inside the door and follow my parents through to the kitchen.
I watch as Mum shuffles over to a big armchair and curls up in it. It’s so sad to see that even walking a few feet takes it out of her.
Dad breaks off a claw from the crab and hands it to me with a pair of nutcrackers. I expertly crack the shell and pull the flesh out.
“How’ve you guys been?” I ask, nibbling the sweet crabmeat.
“So-so,” Dad answers for the two of them. “The office has been understaffed lately, so I’ve been working more hours. Which is good financially, but not so great for your mother.”
“It’s okay. I’ve been managing,” she says.
“Would it make it easier if I stayed for longer?” I ask.
“No, no. You’ve got your own life. And also, we don’t really have the space for a semi-permanent guest.”
“Well, let me know. If it helps, I can come up more often during the week. Just for the day.”
“Thanks, honey. We appreciate the offer. Oh, before I forget, your sister’s driving up tomorrow too.”
“Really? For how long?”
“She said at least overnight. It’s been a while since we’ve had both daughters under the same roof without partners. I hope you don’t mind sharing a room.”
“No, I’m fine with it if she is.”
While Amy and I haven’t been close in recent times, I hope she is as open to a reconciliation as I am.
“Did you want to stay in tonight?” Dad asks. “Or would you like to go out for dinner?”
“It would probably be easier for Mum if we stayed in. I can cook.”
“That would be lovely,” Mum says. “I’ve always liked your cooking. I never understood why you gave up such a good job at that restaurant in Brisbane to lock yourself away at home to play on the internet.”
The restaurant Mum is talking about was the last place I worked before pursuing my blog full-time. It was a silver service fine dining establishment down on Eagle Street, close to Ed’s office. I did enjoy it for a while, and as the executive chef, the money was pretty good—but the hours were horrible, and working in a kitchen during a Brisbane summer was like cooking on the surface of the sun.
I’m about to protest when my mum waves her hand dismissively. “I know, I know. You had your reasons. But then why didn’t you go and use that dietician degree or something? They make good money.”
“I make good money with my blog and I get to choose my own hours. You know, Mum, most people are envious of my job.”
“I’m proud of you, honey,” Dad cuts in. “Your mum’s just disappointed she never got to pursue a proper career.”
Mum frowns, but doesn’t correct him.
“What did you want to do?” I ask her. We’ve never ventured down this path before. I didn’t want to upset her when I knew she didn’t have the energy to waste.
“I always dreamt of being a dermatologist,” she says wistfully.
I blink. “Really?”
“Yes. It pays well and it’s meaningful work. But it also requires twelve years of study. And a body that can move around without getting tired all the time.”
“Is there anything else you could do that’s similar?” I ask. “Maybe something in alternative medicine that you could pursue at your own pace?”
“I’ve thought about it. I was actually looking into an acupuncture course recently, but I’m not sure I’m quite up to it right now.”
“Well, when you do feel ready, let me know. I’ll give you some study tips.”
She smiles gratefully before her eyes glaze over. I’m sure I’ve displayed that expression a lot lately too—a sign of wondering what might have been if life had turned out differently.
“What are you going to make tonight?” Dad asks.
“Um, maybe a cassoulet? I’d probably need to start prepping now, though.”
“That sounds delicious.”
“All right, I’ll see what you have in the cupboard and then I’ll do a grocery shop for anything else missing from the recipe.”
This is exactly what I needed. Well, not the mini career lecture, but a night with my parents and doing one of my favourite things in the world.
Cooking for people.
***
Dinner is a cruisy affair, made even cruiser by the copious amounts of red wine that Dad keeps pouring into my glass. The cassoulet turned out well, considering I couldn’t do the official long-hand version that involves soaking the beans and seasoning the ham hocks and pork shoulder overnight, as well as refrigerating the ragout for an additional twenty-four hours.
It occurs to me that it’s strange I married a man who was never home to cook for. And when I think about it, I realise I haven’t made a proper dish like this cassoulet for him in months. He didn’t seem to appreciate French cooking that much, and opted for Japanese or Mexican when he had the choice. He didn’t even really like Italian cooking, except for his beloved mushroom riso
tto, which I usually saved for birthdays and special occasions.
After dinner, Dad offers to wash up, so I relax in front of the TV with Mum and watch an episode of Cake Boss. I love seeing the contestants make those insane gravity-defying structures. I never learned how to do that kind of stuff, because classic French cakes and pastries all have a defined process and look. My job was to just prepare them to the best of my ability, but to be honest, I’m more about the taste than appearances anyway. French onion soup is one of my favourite dishes, but it certainly doesn’t look great.
Mum falls asleep less than ten minutes into the show, which leaves Dad and I to chat about what life was like when Amy and I were younger.
“What’s your favourite memory?” I ask him.
“The day your sister was born,” he says without hesitation. “I have this vivid image of you sitting on the edge of the hospital bed tucked into one of your mother’s arms, and Amy was all wrapped up in a blanket on the other side. I have a photo somewhere, but my favourite moment was when Eve and I shared this look, and we knew our family was perfect and complete.”
Tears well in my eyes, but I hold them in. I’ve done enough crying lately. I need to make sure all my memories are appreciated and looked back on with happiness rather than sadness. Just because the world is different now and I know life didn’t turn out the way my younger self expected, it shouldn’t taint the original events.
I need to remember that.
***
Amy arrives the next morning around 11am. When she sees I’m here too, she gives me a half-hearted nod of acknowledgement. We almost never catch up, and while I do look forward to seeing her, she makes it very clear she doesn’t feel the same.
To be fair, she doesn’t seem overly enthusiastic to see Mum and Dad either, and I wonder why she even bothered to make the drive.
I follow her to the guest room where she dumps her bag.
“Did you hit any traffic on the way up?” I ask to get her talking.
“Not much. Just the usual red lights on the north side.” She pulls a packet of potato chips from her bag and opens it. She crams a handful into her mouth and holds out the packet to me. I don’t take any.
1996 (90s Flashback Series) Page 15