The Secret Ingredient

by Stewart Lewis

  I silently laugh so hard I almost pee, and have to go inside to the bathroom. When I come back, Theo is, in fact, squeezing the shaman.

  “Soft?” I ask him.

  “You don’t even know.”

  We say our goodbyes and start heading down to Sunset. We get on the westbound bus and just sit in silence for a while. Suddenly exhausted, I lean my head against his shoulder and doze off. When we get to Santa Monica, we head out onto the pier and Theo buys me a twenty-five-cent poem from a guy on the street with an old typewriter. He types it on the spot. It says:

  Pulling petals for you

  One by one

  Coming nearer

  To the sun

  We have only

  just begun

  I fold it twice and put it in my pocket. We sit with our legs dangling over the dock and watch some of the sailboats coming and going in the harbor.

  “So,” he says. “Third date starts at a dog funeral–drum circle. Definitely different.”

  I smile. “That’s what you said you wanted. You seemed like you were really into it.”

  “I was trying not to laugh.”

  I punch him lightly on his shoulder.

  “Thanks again for going with me,” I say, growing serious.

  “Liv, I know you loved that dog. One time you brought him into the restaurant and I ended up walking him, remember?”

  “No.”

  Theo makes a noise and says, “You never really noticed me noticing you, did you?”

  “Not really. But I noticed you when I saw that picture you taped to the wall.”

  “And then you added the road—that was so cool.”

  A boat horn goes off and some little kids start running down the dock.

  “Did you ever get the bike?”

  “No. My dad was supposed to send me money.”

  “Where does he live?”

  “Vegas. He has a whole other family. It’s like he just traded us in for a less screwed-up one.”

  “And your mom?”

  “She’s okay, I guess, but she doesn’t have time for Timothy. She resents him for being retarded, like it’s his fault.”

  “That’s terrible.”

  “T’s got a big heart, though. He just takes a lot of patience, which I never had until I started taking care of him. I can’t really explain it, but it’s kind of like nothing else matters, or everything else seems insignificant. But it’s really nice hanging out with you. It feels like there’s finally something else to … like. And I don’t feel anything missing when I’m with you.”

  My stomach knots up, in a good way, but I turn the subject away from myself. “What is it about cycling for you? How did you get into it?”

  “When I was little, I used to watch the races in the Valley. My dad took me, actually. Aside from liking the outfits”—he blushes, realizing that might sound weird—“I couldn’t believe the power. I wanted to know what that felt like. Now, when I ride, the bike is like an eighteen-pound geared extension of me. You know? And I feel this surge of energy. It’s a fine line between speed and catastrophe, safety and danger.”

  “So you like living on the edge?”

  “I guess so.”

  Theo laces his fingers through mine, and we watch the sun fading behind the masts of the boats that stand tall as soldiers.

  “I found out my mother’s name,” I say. “Yesterday.” It feels so right to tell him this—and different from telling Lola.

  “Wow. Did you always wonder about her, or just recently?”

  “Well, I’d thought about it in a fleeting way, and in middle school a bunch, but after I met the psychic I felt like this seed was planted—I found this key, and it basically led me to discovering my mother’s name.”

  “Do you know anything about her?”

  “No, but I think she looks like Julie Andrews.”

  He laughs.

  “Her name’s Jane Armont. I’m getting used to saying it out loud.”

  “So what are you going to do now?” Theo asks.

  “Find her.”

  “Well, Liv, I’m totally here if you need me.”

  We look out at some seagulls soaring through the darkening sky.

  He leans over to kiss me, and even though he’s not riding his bike and I’m not cooking, everything bad slips away.

  CHAPTER 15

  I step into the elevator, thinking about the doors I have opened since I first stepped through these, and it’s starting to feel like a long time since I didn’t believe in connections. Janice isn’t in when I get to the office, so I take Rose’s cookbook out and flip to somewhere near the middle. Next to an illustration of a hand chopping what looks like celery, it reads SIMPLE SAUCE.

  In the margin, in Rose’s delicate handwriting, is a list, with no date:

  • bring this sauce to Mother to cheer her up

  • have someone fix the leak in the bathroom

  • buy a new dress

  • be happy

  My mind travels back to what Rose’s life may have been like at that time. Husband still gone at war; sad, but with a will to change, to be in good spirits in spite of it all. Still, there are some doodles that look like teardrops, as if she was lingering on the last word: happy.

  For the better part of the morning, I follow Rose’s lead and make my own list. Between answering phone calls and sending out some faxes for Janice, it slowly forms.

  • find jane

  • help bell

  • go to paris (with theo?)

  I look at it and almost crumple it up. Nearly all the items are basically unattainable. What now?

  Around lunchtime, Janice puts her hand on my shoulder and notices my list. I quickly cover it with some head shots that are on the desk.

  “Paris, huh?”

  How did she read it that quickly?

  She gives me a sweet, encouraging look, so I feel like I have to explain.

  “Remember my dream of going to Le Cordon Bleu?”

  “Yes. Who’s Jane?”

  “Jane Armont. Just someone I—”

  “Wait a second. Say that name again?”

  “Jane Armont.”

  I know the t is probably silent, but I pronounce it anyway. She looks like she might laugh or be sick, I can’t tell which, and then the door opens. It’s her one o’clock meeting, some writers for a pilot she’s casting.

  “Hold that thought,” she says, and greets the guys, motioning them into her office.

  Why did she freak out when I said that name?

  During her meeting, I email the Contact tab on the website for Le Cordon Bleu.

  To: paris@cordonbleu.edu

  From: shecooks@jtuckercsa.com

  Hi there—

  My name is Olivia Reese and I’m almost seventeen years old.

  I have been cooking since I was seven, and I actually create and serve a special in my dad’s L.A. restaurant, FOOD, once a week. Anyway, my dream is to study at CB. I was wondering what the requirements are to apply, and if there are any scholarship opportunities.

  Thanks,

  Olivia

  I downloaded the application a while ago, but it seemed so complicated I figured I’d just ask to get a straightforward answer. I hit Send and then Google my mother’s name again to see if Lola missed anything, but it’s still just the old painter woman in Santa Fe. I go to page three to see if something got buried, and sure enough, there’s one item. It’s all in French, but it clearly says Jane Armont, and the French word propriétaire, and something about Montreal. I try to uncover more, but there’s nothing. It doesn’t even seem to be related to the article that comes up. Is my mother in Canada? If that is the same Jane Armont, then she owns something in Montreal.

  After Janice’s meeting is over, she keeps her door closed for a while, then comes out with another weird look on her face.

  “Red, why don’t you come into my office?”

  For some reason, I feel like this is it. She’s going to fire me. I was wonderi
ng why she’d hired a teenager in the first place. Yes, I have done some of my own stuff while I’ve been here, but only if I’m done with everything she asked me to do. Should I have gone the extra mile and started cleaning the windows or something?

  “So, I was going back and forth in my mind during the meeting.”

  “You’re firing me.”

  She laughs, and I am momentarily appeased.

  “No, you’re not getting rid of me that easily. There was something I needed to confirm after they left, and after a few phone calls I did. You are not going to believe this.”

  Janice motions toward the other chair in her office, and I realize I’m still standing. I sit down slowly, half expecting the seat to explode. What is going on?

  “When you mentioned that name, something clicked in my head. I had heard it before but couldn’t place it. But then it came to me, in the middle of the meeting. And I confirmed it after—”

  “What is it, Janice? Do you know her?”

  “You could say that, yes.”

  I wonder why Janice doesn’t ask me who it is, but it looks like she has already guessed.

  “Oh my God.” My fingers are trembling. I can feel my heart knocking on my rib cage. If she doesn’t tell me the details right now, I’m going to spontaneously combust.

  “You know that I go to Laguna Beach occasionally, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, there’s a restaurant there, a little place called Five Feet. It’s Jane’s place.”

  I feel like I could scream. I open my mouth but nothing comes out except “Jane Armont?”

  “Yes. She’s the chef and owner of the place. I remember talking to her a few times. Her name is French, but she’s American. She owned a place in Montreal before coming to Orange County.”

  Janice can see that I am shaking. She walks over and puts her hands on my arms, trying to hold me together.

  “She’s important to you?”

  I nod. And then I can’t hold it in any longer. “She’s my mother.”

  “I thought so.”

  “Laguna is less than two hours from here,” I say.

  Janice walks slowly back around to her chair, a smile slowly forming on her face. “She has your hair. And your eyes. That’s how I knew, really, from the minute I placed the name. But to be sure, I got in touch with the hostess, who’s also the pastry chef. She told me Jane grew up right here, in Studio City.”

  It’s a wonder my body is functioning, that I can even get air into my lungs. My mother is a chef in Laguna? Someone pinch me, please.

  “Did she confirm that she gave a child up for adoption?”

  “Well, I doubt Jane would give up something that personal, but trust me, Red, she’s the spitting image of you. It’s uncanny.”

  “Oh my God.”

  “I knew there was something familiar about you. Look what I have.” Janice holds up a photo. “It’s from my thirtieth birthday dinner, and you can’t really see her clearly, but …”

  She hands me the photograph. It’s her and what looks like three young surfer guys. She’s blowing out a candle. In the background there’s the profile of a woman, kind of blurry, as if she was walking quickly through the frame. I can’t really make out much of her face, but you can see her reddish hair. The exact same shade as mine.

  I finally lose control of my breath, and I start heaving a little. Then my eyes churn out tears, rolling down my face one after the other.

  * * *

  Lola picks me up to go for coffee after work, and I am still holding the photograph in my hand.

  “You’re not going to believe this. Look.”

  I show her the picture and point to the red-haired blur.

  “That’s my mother. That’s Jane Armont.”

  “What the bloody …”

  “My boss knows her. She’s known her for years. Isn’t that crazy?”

  “It’s heavy bananas! What are you going to do?”

  “Well, she told me to just chill out right now and not get too worked up about it. Yeah, right.”

  On the drive to the coffee shop Lola is unusually quiet. I know something is up, but I don’t want to pressure her. It isn’t until a few sips into our drinks that she starts talking.

  “Livie, I’m afraid I have some news as well.”

  I’m not sure how much more I can take today, but I’m her friend, so I have to listen. “What is it?”

  “Do you remember when I was worried about my mum cheating on Dad?”

  “Yes, and it turned out she was seeing the gay acupuncturist.”

  “Right, well. She’s been seeing loads and loads of people.”

  “What?”

  “Because she’s sick. The whole thing about the juice cleanses and the hydrotherapy and all of it, it’s because she’s sick. Very sick. And she wanted to try and cure herself in a natural way.”

  The word sits at the back of my throat, and somehow I say it out loud.

  “Cancer?”

  “Yes. I can’t believe it. The irony of it all. Miss Health Conscious. Miss Yoga Seven Times a Week and spirulina smoothies and colonics and …”

  In the three years that we’ve been best friends, I’ve never seen Lola cry. Now, her face contorts in an almost grotesque way, and she makes a slight moaning sound. I move my chair over to her and hold her as best I can. After a minute or two, she pulls herself together and says, “It’s fine, I’m fine.”

  I move my seat back to where it was. I’ve lost the taste for my chai. For a while, we just sit there as the world goes on around us. Lola sighs and wipes at her eyes with the little napkin that came with her mocha. She looks like someone who’s been clubbing all night, mascara running and hair a mess. I think about the fact that I could potentially be finding my mother while Lola is losing hers. Is this a law of the universe? Some sort of balancing out, where nothing is lost, just shuffled around?

  We go to my house and I make Lola the Simple Sauce from Rose’s cookbook and serve it with some chicken and vegetables. I try to bring up some of our funny history to lighten the mood. Like the time I tried to pretend I was British too, in front of a couple of boys, and how my accent was so bad but they fell for it. Or the time her taco fell apart and covered her sweater, right in front of Jin. It works for a little while, but then we start talking about what we’re avoiding: the prognosis, the chemo, and the fact that her father is a mess.

  I make her help me with the vegetables, and it seems to soothe her. “They say it’s therapeutic, the repetitive motion of chopping,” I tell her. “Like a painter getting lost in the colors, or a singer getting lulled by a melody.”

  “Well, I’ll take any therapy I can get.”

  “Remember, every piece is a part of a whole.”

  We eat the meal at the kitchen table, listening to the distant cars and the chirping of the cicadas.

  “I wonder if this life, our life, here in Silver Lake, is just a phase. If there are bigger things ahead for us.”

  “I do hope so,” Lola says. “What about your brother?”

  “They haven’t gotten him out yet. I’m really angry at him for being so careless. It sounds harsh, but I think a few days in jail will be good for him.”

  After we’re done, we share a cookie. No matter what crap is going on in life, a cookie will make it go away—just for a minute. The aroma encircles us in an invisible bubble of safety.

  Lola and I say goodbye casually, knowing we will see each other tomorrow, but also knowing that nothing will ever be the same. We have no idea what will happen from now on. All we can do is try to get some sleep, and brace ourselves.

  CHAPTER 16

  My special tonight at FOOD is prosciutto-wrapped salmon. It’s a simple dish that was inspired by Rose. She made a somewhat similar one and wrote only the name Eloise in the margin. I put the cookbook, open to that page, on the counter for inspiration.

  I start to brush the salmon fillets with olive oil. Sometimes cooking makes my mind just go blank, but today
it allows me to imagine …

  Rose, coming in from the cold to her friend sitting at the kitchen table, smoking. It’s 1968 and they don’t really know it’s bad for you, so it’s somehow more glamorous. Eloise is dark-skinned, with almond eyes and cropped black hair, and she’s wearing a cashmere sweater and a pencil skirt. They’re only twenty. They’ve known each other all their lives, and now they both have husbands at war. The difference is, Eloise wasn’t in love with hers. He was just someone who was there, and that’s what you did in the sixties. So she married at eighteen, without ever exploring her true sexuality, which she is only understanding now.… In fact, she’s realizing she’s in love with Rose, and probably always has been.

  Rose puts the ingredients on the table and they exchange pleasantries, but there’s something different about Eloise. She’s smoking rather slowly, and holding her lips open a little longer after exhaling, watching keenly as Rose pulls the items from the bag.…

  I sprinkle the fillets with fresh black pepper and wrap each one delicately with a piece of prosciutto.

  By the time the meal is cooked and served, they’ve each had two martinis. They start to feel like they’re on a heightened plane, like all the sorrow that has crowded their world is disintegrating at the edges, leaving them giddy and light-headed. They laugh like they’re kids again. When Rose goes to the bathroom, she thinks … Could it be? Why haven’t I thought of that before? The real reason Eloise’s marriage is a wreck? But Kurt, always there, an old friend, a warm body in the night, the love of my life. I could never betray him. Or could I?

  One of the chefs comes up behind me and says, “Can’t go wrong. You could wrap a shoe in prosciutto and it would taste good.”

  My special addition is a touch of Gorgonzola cheese sprinkled on top; by the time it gets to the table it’s slightly melted. This dish is easy to bake, because when the prosciutto is crispy, you know the salmon’s done. I place the three racks in the oven and start to clean up my station.

  When Rose returns from the bathroom, there’s music on. She can’t remember the last time she played music in the house, and everything suddenly looks foreign to her, like she has walked into a movie about someone else’s life. Eloise dances elegantly in the corner, a record in her hand, facing the phonograph. Rose walks slowly toward her, and when Eloise turns around she is frightened for a moment, but then calmed by Rose’s smile. As if it was the most natural thing in the world, they kiss.