“OK, I—” I catch myself just in time. “Yes, Chef.”
Placated by my answer, she continues on her way and I hurry to catch up. I’m sure my face is the usual impassive and untouchable mask that gives no indication of how I feel. On the inside, though, I am laughing and screaming and jumping up and down. I’ve never been this excited in my entire life, and I’ll allow my inner six-year-old to feel this joy, even if no one will ever know how much this job means to me.
Chapter Five
Five hours later I stumble back to my car in a daze. I spent all afternoon with Joey learning the intricacies of her job. Managing both the prep and general staff plus keeping the kitchen in working order, all within a massive hotel, requires a level of paperwork and politics on par with the Pentagon. Seriously, there are venture capital firms that don’t require this many spreadsheets.
In our time together I learned about payroll, expense reports, purchase orders, and security. I learned who to call if someone cuts off a finger, if someone comes to work drunk, or if Avis goes completely off the deep end.
Apparently all three have happened before, and when I asked Joey to clarify what exactly “going off the deep end” meant, she told me not to worry—that I’ll know it when I see it. We went over inventory, seasonal menus, and the hierarchy of the staff. We talked and worked so much that my brain turned to mush, and we hadn’t even baked anything yet!
The whole process was overwhelming, intense, and so, so exciting. Despite my frustration with the awkwardness of our relationship right now, there is only one person I want to tell. I pull out of the parking structure and turn my car towards home.
When I park in my usual spot on the far left side of the circular driveway, Mom has the front door open before I even have my seatbelt all the way off. She stands in the entryway, her blonde hair pulled up in a ponytail, wearing fancy loungewear that she likely changed into the second she walked in the door tonight. Even in casual wear with no makeup on, she’s still just as beautiful to me as she was when I was little. I’ve been avoiding her for the past few weeks because I’m tired of her hassling me about what I plan to do with my life now that I’m finished with school. But seeing the evident joy on her face because of something as simple as my dropping by unannounced actually makes me want to cry. I can be such a jerk sometimes, and usually it’s directed at the people who deserve it the least.
“Mackenzie, will you get in here? Daddy is about to take the fillets off the grill, so you’re just in time for dinner!” She sounds happy, like this was always part of our plan, like I haven’t been avoiding her for the last month, like our relationship hasn’t been strained for the last several.
I don’t even make it all the way through the door before she pulls me down for a hug and smooths my hair as if I’m six years old again.
“I’m so happy to see you,” she whispers into my hair. Then because she can’t seem to help herself, she adds, “You need to get in for a cut. Should I have Christy make an appointment for you?”
I can’t help but roll my eyes. Leave it to my mom to notice my split ends even without her contacts in. I shake my head.
Before I can say anything, she does.
“We’re not going to get into it. I’m sorry I’ve been pushy. You know how I am,” she tells me sardonically. “But please, don’t disappear like that again, OK?”
“OK,” I answer.
She smiles and touches my cheek once more.
“You look dead on your feet, which means you need food and probably alcohol, and I can supply both! Let’s go find your dad.”
We find Dad in the kitchen slathering melted Brie onto crostini.
“Well, this an unexpected treat,” he says when he sees me walk in.
“I was hungry, and you guys can always be counted on to have the good cheese,” I tell them by way of explanation.
I walk around the large center island in their massive kitchen to give him a hug, then he and I both start working our way through the cheese board in front of us.
Mom pours me a glass of pinot from the bottle they’ve opened and then starts making me a plate of food from the lineup on the counter. There are fillets cooked just a tad over medium, new potatoes in garlic and butter, and a green salad with a hodgepodge of likely every leftover vegetable they found in the fridge. She looks up at me when she comes to the last bowl.
“Do you want some fruit salad? Maria went to the farmers’ market yesterday, and the berries are incredible.”
On the surface the question seems completely innocuous; she’s just asking if I want fruit. But with my mother, and my condition, her questions are never so innocent. What she’s really asking is whether my blood levels can handle more sugar. I shake my head lightly.
“Better not.” I nod towards the wine glass, which is sugar enough, especially when I didn’t eat all that healthy today to begin with.
To her credit she plasters a smile on her face and casually sets my plate down at the table in the breakfast nook. I walk over and sit down in the same chair where I’ve eaten hundreds of meals throughout my life. At a holiday or a dinner with our whole family, we’d be more formal, likely sitting in the dining room eating a meal of perfectly prepared courses designed by their chef. But weekends are casual, a small reprieve for these socialites after a week filled with work, charity functions, and other formal events. I smile at the picture they make at the island as they work together to fill each other’s plates in a ballet choreographed over years of happy marriage. I’m too hungry to wait for them to finish, though, so I start eating before they’ve even finished plating their meals. I’ve polished off half my steak when Daddy sits down and asks me how Landon and Miko are doing. When I look up to answer him, I see my mom still at the counter, dishing up a bowl of fruit salad. It’s a simple task, but she looks as if she’s fighting the urge to scream at the collection of seasonal berries.
Damn it.
I thought she was doing better lately. When I first had my accident back in December, she hovered over me obsessively, wanting to know every single thing I was eating and how much sleep I’d had the night before. I had to battle with myself daily not to snap at her because of it, and several times we launched into full-on arguments that always ended with her storming off in tears and me feeling terrible. I understand how scared she must have been when Brody called her. I understand that she doesn’t ever want to see any of her kids sick. I understand that I nearly died that night, and that I likely would have if Landon hadn’t found me. But even knowing why she’s obsessing doesn’t make it OK. I can’t help but feel smothered and claustrophobic when she starts looking at me as if she’s trying to calculate exactly how to fix me. I’m broken in so many ways, and I wish she’d just stop trying to figure out how to mend me.
She finally sits down with us and begins making chitchat. I can see her trying to pull herself back together, and I’m sure she realizes that her tendency to hover is why I’ve been avoiding her in the first place. If it’s a battle between knowing my current insulin levels or having the kind of relationship where I drop by unannounced, she’ll choose having me in her life over playing doctor, but it’s a close thing.
As Daddy launches into the plans for a new high-end outdoor shopping center Barker-Ash is about to break ground on in the valley, Mom sends me a little wink to show me just how OK she is. She’s still upset about my accident, but she’s trying to show me that she can be respectful of my boundaries. What’s going to happen if I tell her that I just took on a second job, one that’s intense and stressful with long hours and little time for rest? How will she handle it if I try to explain that I can’t yet quit the job at Gander because I don’t know for sure if I’ll get to keep the job at Dolci? I don’t need to guess at the answer. That conversation would lead us back to her favorite argument of all: why I won’t just let them give me money.
I know most people would jump at the chance to exist off funds from wealthy parents, but I live perpetually in the shadows of th
ree golden siblings. My little sister, Malin, is blonde and sweet and beautiful, a near replica of my mother. The two Ashton boys both graduated college with honors and worked their way up to run Barker-Ash alongside my father. My brothers run a multimillion-dollar business with a combined staff in the thousands, and by the time they were my age, they each owned a home and an extensive stock portfolio. The most I have to show for my early twenties is the creation of muddled drinks and a handful of bar regulars who don’t even know my first name. I may fall short in a lot of ways, but just like my brothers, I’ve been financially independent since I was eighteen years old, and pride won’t let me go back now.
I take another bite of my food, though I’m not really hungry anymore. I force a smile as my mom laughs at a story my dad is telling and reaches out to squeeze his hand. This is the woman who taught me to cook, the one who gave me a love of baking, forged over a thousand sugar cookies. This is the person who showed me exactly what to eat so that I could enjoy at least one of those cookies we’d worked so hard to create without throwing off my insulin.
As a food lover, she’d understand my excitement and celebrate any accomplishment with me. But as my mother, she’d never accept a situation where I’m knowingly choosing to do something in direct opposition to what’s best for my health. It’s not even up for debate. I can’t tell her about Dolci.
I can’t tell her, or anyone else for that matter, because they’re all in cahoots with her. They’ll all worry and obsess and make my life hell, and I can’t handle that, because I’m going to need every ounce of energy I have to keep a job I had no business getting.
“I’m sorry, what?” I ask. I didn’t realize she was addressing me.
“I said”—she smiles sweetly across the table—“Kenzie, what’s new with you?”
I can’t remember how long it’s been since we made it through an entire meal without arguing. I don’t want to ruin this new truce, and I’m definitely not ready to tell them what’s really going on.
I plaster a smile on my face and let the necessary lie fall from my lips. “Oh, not much.”
It takes about a hundred cotton balls doused in acetone to remove every trace of polish from my nails.
My hands look sad and boring without the dark paint I’m used to, but I can’t give Joey another reason to call me out. Especially since I’m going to disobey a direct request she gave me. I know it’s stupid to take such a risk, especially since my job is in no way guaranteed, but I just can’t remove all of my bracelets. I take off all but two.
I unclasp the smaller bracelet and wrap it around the bigger one like a vine before closing it up again. Without inspecting it closely it would be impossible to tell that it’s two separate pieces.
One of the bracelets is the medical badge that identifies my condition. The other is a small inscribed piece that identifies my mistakes.
I won’t ever forget those mistakes, just like I won’t ever forget the day I knew I needed something to remind me of them.
I didn’t get the chance to tell her to come in, because she didn’t knock or ask for permission. She just barged into my room, and even across the dimly lit space, I could see her concern through my swollen eyes. Apparently the confirmation of my tears was enough to rein her in, though, because she closed the door behind her much more quietly than she’d opened it. She crossed the space to my bed carefully, as if landmines might be hidden under the hardwood. Each step just made me more emotional. At nineteen I was far too old to be crying to my mother about my problems, but I didn’t try to stop the tears; what was the point now that she’d seen them?
She sat down on the edge of my bed and reached out to turn the lamp up on my bedside table. The light wasn’t much stronger, but it must have been enough for her to get a good look at how ravaged my face was from another night of sobbing. It wasn’t the only time I’d cried myself to sleep since I came home; it was just the first time she’d walked in on me doing it.
“Mackenzie”—she reached out gentle fingers to push my hair back from my face— “sweetheart, I wish you’d speak to me about what’s going on.”
Another tear followed the well-worn track down my cheek. I didn’t answer her, but for the first time in weeks, I didn’t stop her from trying to comfort me.
“Did . . .” She searched my face. “Did something bad happen?”
I couldn’t help it. I snorted in response.
It was a disrespectful sound, one that mocked the question and the person who asked it—a reaction I never would have considered last year. There was something in me now, something hard and dark, that hadn’t existed before. I’d learned to latch onto the bitterness, the sarcasm, and even the anger. Any of those were better than the never-ending tears.
“You’re right.” My mother smiled sadly. “Of course something happened. You’re so”—she ran her fingers through my hair again—“different.”
Anger came then, flinty and swift. I sat up against the headboard to glare at her properly.
“And by ‘different’ you mean ‘not pretty,’ right?” I ran a hand roughly through my messy hair. “It must be so upsetting for you to see me like this! Because even a faded beauty queen can work her way into at least one good marriage, right, mother?” I ignored her wounded gasp. “I mean, not the first marriage, obviously, but you certainly knocked it out of the park the second time around. I doubt you can expect the same stellar results from me since this is what you’re working with!”
It was the ugliest thing I’d ever said to my mother, the ugliest thing I had ever even thought about her before. I hated myself so much in that moment that I could barely breathe. I didn’t look at her face, because I was too terrified to see her expression. I turned to lie on my side facing away from her and pulled my knees to my chest, waiting for her to leave. The bed shifted when she got up, but I didn’t move or say anything. It was better for both of us if she left now before I hurt her more. But then the mattress shifted again, and she was lying behind me. I felt her hand on my back. When she began making slow, gentle circles just as she used to at bedtime when I was little, I started to cry again. Only this time it was out of sheer gratitude. A deluge of emotion in response to the understanding and forgiveness in that touch.
“Mackenzie,” she finally whispered into the near darkness. “My sweet, intelligent, beautiful girl. I don’t know what this is you’re going through, but you’re so strong. Do you understand that? Do you remember what I used to tell you when you were little? You can do anything you set your mind to, and that includes overcoming any obstacle. You will get through this.” We sat in silence again with her vehement statement ringing in my ears. It resonated with me. Resonated enough that for the first time in a long while, I thought there might be a day when I didn’t wake up hating myself.
“Can I set up an appointment for you with Dr. Henry? Brianne said that he’s wonderful. She’s been going to him for—”
“No, mom,” I croaked. “I don’t want to see anybody. Please stop asking me to.”
I heard and felt her sigh.
“Kenzie, I need you to look at me,” she said then.
I rolled around to face her and watched her quietly while she seemed to be searching for words.
“Daddy told me to stop asking you about this. He thinks you’ll tell us when you’re ready.” She searched my eyes as if looking for confirmation, but I couldn’t give her any. “And I will stop talking about meeting with a therapist, because I know that makes you uncomfortable, OK?”
This time I nodded slowly.
“But Mackenzie, I need you to tell me—no, I need you to swear to me—that nobody did anything to hurt you. That you weren’t—”
Understanding dawned, and I realized what she was asking. This was one answer I could give her honestly, because no, nobody else had hurt me. I’d done it all on my own.
“No, Mom. I swear nobody hurt me.”
She closed her eyes, looking pained. When she opened them again they were glossy with tear
s.
“OK,” she said quietly. “OK.”
I could see the relief and the unconditional love in her eyes. For a moment I thought that maybe, just maybe, she’d be able to forgive me for what I’d done. I almost told her then, almost let it tumble out around me just so that the thoughts might stop eating away at my heart.
“Thank you,” I told her instead, “for always taking care of me.”
“Of course.” She smiled radiantly. “What kind of person would I be if I didn’t take care of you? You’re mine. That’s my most important job.”
I slammed my eyes shut, shattered by how earnest her statement was. That was my mother, someone who put everyone else’s needs above her own. She was unselfish, good down to her very core—the opposite of me in every way. Because of that, my current sadness wasn’t something she could absolve me of. I was responsible for my mistakes, and if there was any bright side in that at all, it was that I now understood exactly how the world worked. My own naïveté was responsible for this hurt; I wouldn’t allow myself to forget that. I wouldn’t allow myself to forget the biggest lesson I had learned in all of this. I’d carry it around on a sign if I had to, but I would not forget.
Chapter Six
“So these are the molds,” Joey says, handing me a stack of scalloped metal tart pans. “You get that butter there”—she points to a pile of European butter stacked to one side of the high metal worktable—“and use it to grease each one like this.” Her fingers reach out for a scoop of butter and quickly work it in and around each groove of the tart pan. “Then you roll out the dough that Ram made this morning. Use this cutter to make the circle and then press it down into the mold like this.” Her hands move as quickly as her words, shaping the dough as if she’s done this a million times before.
When I came in this morning, she announced that I’d learn prep today. It wouldn’t be part of my day-to-day work, but since I’m woefully unskilled for the job I’ve been hired for, I need to learn anything and everything she can teach me.
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