Meg and Jo

by Virginia Kantra

  Even though I accepted the rightness of their decision, even though I was grateful for their expert medical care and the comfort of Daisy’s warm, swaddled weight against my breast, I felt the wrongness of his absence in my womb, in my bones. My body, after sheltering his for thirty-eight weeks, protesting his loss.

  Sitting in the emergency department waiting room, holding my mother’s purse, I felt the same. Bereft.

  I’d called Dad from the car—he was in a meeting at Fort Bragg, almost an hour away—and again as soon as we reached the hospital. He was on his way, he told me. Until he got here, my mother was my responsibility.

  I’d held her hand, sitting on the cold barn floor, waiting for the ambulance to arrive. In between spasms, when she could find breath, she kept telling me not to fuss, she was fine, everything was going to be all right. Trying to take care of me.

  I blinked back tears.

  “I’m sorry,” she repeated over and over. As if her weakness were something she needed to apologize for.

  “Ssh, it’s okay. Don’t move,” I told her.

  Stupid thing to say. She arched and writhed, trying to escape the pain.

  I covered her with my sweater, moistened her face with a diaper wipe from my giant bag, but it didn’t seem to help. Nothing helped. She lay where she fell until the paramedics showed up.

  I couldn’t ride with her in the ambulance. I loaded my babies into their car seats and followed the blinking lights, watching from the drop-off lane as the paramedics unloaded Mom’s gurney. As they wheeled her away through the sliding doors of the hospital, she said something that made one of them laugh. The ache in my chest intensified.

  When I returned from parking the car, the receptionist would not let me back to see her.

  “She’s in triage now. As soon as she’s settled in a cubicle, someone will be out to bring you back.” Her round, dark face was vaguely familiar. Her gaze dropped to the stroller. “Do you have someone to watch the children?”

  “What?”

  “Patients in the emergency department are only allowed two visitors at a time. And we discourage children under twelve.”

  “But they’re with me.”

  “I’m sorry. Hospital policy. Of course, if your mother is admitted, I can take you up to her room.” Her dark eyes were sympathetic.

  I wondered if she knew my mother. If she recognized her. From church, maybe, or the farmers’ market or the checkout line at the grocery store. Bunyan was a small town. Our mother ran errands for our neighbors when they were sick, took meals to mothers of new babies, volunteered in all our classrooms. “Do all the good you can, in all the places you can, to all the people you can,” our father liked to preach, quoting John Wesley. Everyone admired our father. Nobody praised our mother. Her goodness was the quieter sort. She just was there. Always.

  “What’s wrong with her?”

  But nobody would discuss Mom’s condition with me.

  “I brought her in,” I protested.

  “Are you her designated care partner?” one of the nurses asked.

  “I’m her daughter,” I said.

  “I know. I’m sorry. But HIPAA rules . . .”

  I had already spoken to Dr. Bangs’s office. Nothing to do now but wait. I retreated with the stroller to the row of scratchy chairs and sat, holding my mother’s purse like a talisman in my lap. DJ rubbed the satiny edge of his blanket against his face, a sure sign he was tired. Daisy struggled against the stroller strap.

  “Up, Mommy,” she insisted. “Want up.”

  I lifted her from the stroller, reassured by her wriggly warmth, her solid weight in my lap. Which meant DJ wanted up, too. I wedged him beside me.

  A mother and daughter sat in the chairs opposite mine, the little girl in shin guards and a ponytail, her wrist at an awkward angle. An elderly woman held her husband’s spotted hand. There was a dog-eared copy of Arthritis Today on the table beside me, along with a stack of medical pamphlets and a five-month-old issue of People. Nothing to distract tired two-year-olds. I rummaged in my bag for board books. For juice boxes.

  “Need potty, Mommy,” Daisy said a few minutes later.

  Of course.

  When we got back from the public restroom (“Mommy will hold you. Don’t touch anything.”), the mother with the soccer player sent me an understanding smile. “How did it happen?”

  “Excuse me?”

  She nodded to the bruise rising on Daisy’s face. “Did she fall?”

  Her brother hit her in the face with a truck, I did not say. “She’s fine. I’m here with my mother,” I explained. “She came in earlier. In the ambulance?”

  “Oh.” The woman withdrew slightly, as if our tragedy was somehow catching. “I’m sorry.”

  I nodded, accepting her sympathy, and called John again at the dealership. This time he picked up.

  “Where are the twins?” he asked after I’d explained where I was.

  “With me.” Where did he think they would be? It was a Saturday. We never hired a babysitter, never left the twins with anyone but my mother. His mother was remarried and living in Florida. “I just wanted you to know.”

  “Okay,” John said. “I’m glad you called. Try not to worry.”

  Like not worrying was an option.

  There was a child-size table and chairs in one corner of the room, with one of those wire maze contraptions with sliding beads. I wiped everything down with diaper wipes and Purell—this was no time to fret over the long-term effects of hand sanitizer—and for a while that kept the twins occupied. But they were reaching their limit, poor babies. So was I.

  I checked in again with the receptionist and then called Jo.

  “Jesus,” my sister said, taking the name of the Lord in vain, and for once I didn’t correct her. Prayer or swear seemed equally appropriate. “Is she going to be okay?”

  Looking to me for answers, for reassurance, the way we’d always looked to our mother. I felt like I was five years old again, playing dress-up, teetering around in Momma’s Sunday shoes. Off-balance.

  “I think so,” I said. I don’t know. “Her blood pressure’s high, but the paramedics said that could be because of the pain.”

  “What’s wrong with her?”

  I tightened my grip on our mother’s purse. “That’s what they’re figuring out now. They’re running a bunch of tests.”

  “What kind of tests?”

  “Blood tests. An MRI.” Dr. Bangs’s nurse had told me that much, after I reminded her how long our family had been going to his practice.

  “I wish I could be there. What can I do?” Jo asked.

  “Nothing.” Which was true. “I just wanted to give you a heads-up.”

  In case I was wrong. In case the doctors were wrong. In case Jo needed to be here suddenly.

  “I’m glad you did,” Jo said. I could hear traffic rumbling in the background, the gust of a bus like a beast breathing. She must be on her way to work. “How are you doing?”

  “I’m fine.” This wasn’t about me. This was about Mom.

  “Fine isn’t good,” my sister observed. “Have you told the girls?”

  “Not yet. Not until I know what’s going on.”

  “Smart,” Jo said approvingly. “No point in scaring Beth into coming home.”

  “Or Amy.”

  “Oh, Amy,” Jo said dismissively.

  “Amy would come,” I said. Amy, the baby of the family, did tend to slide away from anything unpleasant. But she was more sensitive than Jo gave her credit for. “She has to work.”

  “I thought she didn’t leave for Paris until after Thanksgiving.”

  “She still has her job at the boutique,” I said. Amy worked retail in Raleigh, at some high-end women’s store near the NC State design school.

  The sliding doors opened. A man strode into
the waiting room. Not Dad. Tall and broad, with short blond hair that looked as if he’d dragged a hand through it recently. John.

  A warm relief washed over me.

  Daisy looked up from the wire maze. “Daddy!”

  “I have to go,” I gabbled into the phone. “John’s here.”

  “’Kay. Love you. Call me,” Jo said.

  “I will,” I promised.

  John straightened, his arms full of twins, DJ’s little head resting trustfully on his shoulder. He looked kind and calm and utterly trustworthy. Coach John.

  I swallowed. “Thanks for coming.”

  “Of course,” John said matter-of-factly.

  I wanted to hug him. I repacked the board books and DJ’s blanket. John watched as I wiped the kids’ hands again with Purell and buckled them into the stroller.

  He seemed to be waiting for something.

  “What?” I asked.

  “Are you okay? Do you need anything?”

  Darling John. He’d left work in the middle of the day to be here. How could I tell him how overwhelmed I felt? How scared?

  I shook my head. “I’m still waiting for Dad. I’ll be home as soon as I can.”

  “Don’t worry about it. I’m staying home.”

  I stared at him in mute gratitude. “What about work?”

  “The dealership can run without me for one afternoon. You should be here.” He bent and kissed my forehead. “With your mom.”

  Tears flooded my eyes. I blinked and looked away before I started bawling like Daisy.

  Somewhere beyond those steel doors was my mother, separated from me by cold hospital corridors and regulations. My entire life, our mother had been there for us girls, calm and sure, guiding and reassuring.

  Now I had to be there for her.

  CHAPTER 3

  Jo

  Thwack. I smacked the cleaver down. I was cleaning sardines for the appetizer special, bloody guts and pinbones all over my board.

  The Gusto kitchens looked like a casting call for Chopped, seasoned pros rubbing elbows with misfit stoners sporting mohawks. I was one of Chef’s charity cases, along with Frank-the-ex-felon and Constanza, single mother of four. Although they both pulled more weight in the kitchen than I did, my previous restaurant experience being limited to a couple years in campus food service. My occasional contributions to the What’s Cooking? column for the Empire City Weekly apparently didn’t count.

  I tossed a fish head into a stock pan.

  Technically, prepping the plats du jour was the sous chef’s responsibility. But the sous—who ranked right below Chef at Gusto, which in the kitchen hierarchy put him two steps below God—had delegated the task to me after I’d requested Thanksgiving off.

  Of course he’d said no. And then punished me anyway, for daring to ask.

  I didn’t mind doing the sous chef’s dirty work. But there was no way I could accept his decision.

  I thwacked the head off another sardine.

  The back door burst open on a blast of cold air from the loading dock, and Chef blew in, his big voice booming, electrifying the air. He moved down the line, greeting everyone from the sous chef, Ray, to Julio, the morning dishwasher, clapping shoulders, shaking hands, shaping us into a team. “Ray, my man, ¿va bien? Hey, Constanza, how’s your little girl? Julio, ¿que onda?”

  The replies echoed back. “All good, Chef.” “Much better, Chef.” “¿Todo bien contigo? Gracias, jefe.”

  In the kitchen, his authority was absolute. He was always jefe, “Chef,” never dude or dawg or bro. With his Michelin-star-studded résumé and James Beard Award, he could have been a consultant or celebrity chef anywhere. Paris. London. The Food Network. But here he still made food, cooking almost every day by choice. Gusto was his livelihood. His life. His mission.

  Which made what I was about to do really stupid.

  I wiped my hands on my apron, fingering the outline of my phone in my pocket. I hadn’t had a text from Meg in over an hour. “Chef?”

  He looked over from his discussion with the sous, one eyebrow lifting. A big, dark-skinned man closer to forty than thirty, totally in command of himself and his kitchen.

  My heart hammered under my white coat. “Could I talk to you a minute?”

  Ray, the sous, scowled.

  But, “Sure,” Chef said easily. “I’ve got the squab,” he said to Ray. “Get Lucas on the tagliatelle while you do the pork belly, yeah?”

  “Yes, Chef.”

  He approached, his keen gaze sweeping my bloody station. “What’s this?” he asked, indicating the flat stainless pan filled with the heads and bones of decapitated fish.

  “I’m prepping the sardines. With the carrot fennel slaw? I thought I’d make a fish stock later,” I added, proud of my initiative.

  Chef shook his head slowly, almost sadly. “Snapper and bass, March. Halibut, okay, or cod. But not sardines. Nothing dark or oily. Not for fumet.”

  His voice was kind, his rebuke audible throughout the kitchen.

  My face burned. I should have known. I should have tossed the scraps to the skinny black cat that lurked around the Dumpster outside. Ray smirked.

  Bite me, Ray, I thought.

  “Yes, Chef,” I said.

  “Was there anything else?” he asked gently.

  From across the kitchen, Lucas, one of the line cooks, shot me a sympathetic glance.

  I should say no. I needed this job. Not so much for the pay. I could have made more as a dog walker in Manhattan or working front of house almost anywhere. Although, as an out-of-work writer, I didn’t have the looks or the moves to command the kind of tips the auditioning dancers and aspiring actors could earn. But I didn’t want to lose my front-row seat to the food show, my chance to learn from an award-winning chef who didn’t throw tantrums or knives in the kitchen.

  “Amy would come,” my sister had said. “She has to work.”

  I stuck out my chin. “If we could . . . I only need a minute.”

  A long pause, measured in heartbeats.

  “Sure,” he said at last. “Let me see the reservation book,” he said to Ray, and turned on his heel.

  I trailed after Chef toward his office, resisting the urge to poke at my hair, bundled for work on top of my head.

  The room was the size of a closet, cramped, cool, and dim. Chef tossed his leather jacket on top of the desk, which was already spilling over with invoices, menus, and samples.

  “Talk to me,” he ordered.

  Unlike a lot of top male chefs, Chef didn’t treat his staff as though having a dick entitled him to act like one. I took a breath. “I can’t work Thanksgiving.”

  He grabbed the neck of his sweater, tugging it one-handed over his head. “Tell Ray.”

  “I did.”

  His face emerged from the pullover. His gaze met mine. “Ah.”

  I stood my ground. “I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.”

  The sweater joined the jacket on his desk. Stripped, his shoulders and arms were broad and hard, his belly slightly soft. A chef’s body, sculpted by years of commanding the pass, hefting and hauling, tasting and testing, marked by full-sleeve tattoos.

  I averted my gaze, uncomfortable seeing him out of his professional whites. At the same time, my hands itched for a camera to capture those tattoos: kitchen knives, a flying pig, and a single word, soigné. I recognized the reference from Julia Child. It meant good cooking or elegance in preparation. Something like that. I was already framing shots, writing captions in my head. Under the white coat? No, too medical. Chef, Exposed. Ick. That sounded like a porn flick.

  “Who died?” Chef asked.

  What? Momma wasn’t dead, she couldn’t die, she was just . . . And then I realized he was being sardonic. “Nobody.”

  He maneuvered around me to the locker stuffed with
white jackets and houndstooth pants. Years of working at top speed in tight kitchens had made him as agile as a boxer. But this proximity, off the line, felt different. Awkward. Intimate.

  He shrugged. “Then . . .”

  “It’s my mother,” I blurted before he could tell me no. “She went into the hospital today.”

  “Ah. I’m sorry. She will get better?”

  “Yes. I think so.”

  Meg said so. My poor, capable sister, dealing with everything by herself.

  “Good.”

  He pulled on his white coat. Unlike my anonymous polyblend, his chef’s jacket was fresh-pressed, high-thread-count cotton, vented in the armpits, his name embroidered above the pocket.

  “The thing is . . . After she gets out, she’ll need help. I need to go home. Just for a few days.”

  He looked at me sideways. “How old are you, March?”

  Why did he want to know?

  “Twenty-eight.” I tried not to sound defensive. At least I hadn’t moved back home to live with my parents. Yet.

  “College graduate?” he asked in the tone of somebody back home. Kind. Dismissive.

  But I was in New York now, free to be whatever I made of myself.

  “English major.” I added, deadpan, “My faculty advisor told me it would be good preparation for any career.” I didn’t mention my MFA in creative writing, a two-year investment that had produced a handful of sentimental stories and put me more deeply in debt.

  His eyes crinkled at the corners. Not a smile, but a sign that he found me amusing, at least. “And you chose . . . this.”

  I hesitated, wondering how much I should tell him. Nodded.

  “You think when I was training that I went home to my mother every night?” he asked. “That I asked for weekends and holidays off?”

  “No, Chef.”

  “I was sixteen when I dropped out of high school to work in my first kitchen,” he said. “No Le Cordon Bleu for me, no culinary degree. I begged jobs from anyone who would teach me.”

  I knew all this already. I’d researched him online. Eric Bhaer, the son of an American serviceman and a German mother, had risen through the culinary ranks in Italy and France, working eighteen-hour days in two- and three-star kitchens in exchange for food and a cot. A hint of Old Europe still rolled around his voice like butter melting in a pan.