The Price of Desire

by PE Kavanagh

  Jeff and I had spent many hours plotting out our retirement in Sonoma - he would be the concierge doctor in a quaint little town, running our world-famous inn, and I would turn out the most fabulous food the world had ever seen, in very small scale.

  That dream had always brought a smile to my face, no matter how distant it seemed. I could have almost tasted it.

  But there were so many problems. First, I had no money to start a B&B and now that Jeff was starting a family with his nurse-girlfriend, he would have no interest in funding my little venture. And I was fairly certain that he no longer had any interest in moving out of the city. Since we shared custody of the girls, neither of us could go very far without the other's consent. How could this ever work?

  Despite the impossibility of it all, I eventually fell asleep. We woke up in age order with Nora a few steps ahead of me into the kitchen to make the coffee, and Lizzy sleeping till noon. I had a copy deadline that day, but had already completed the piece and could give myself a leisurely morning. It was nice to be with my sisters again. It had been such a long time since we’d had agenda-less time together.

  A pang from last night hit me. I hadn’t responded to what they said to me, just picked up and went along with the plan. Was it real? Did they really want to help me get back into cooking? It seemed like such a long shot, especially with their already full lives.

  As Lizzy rolled out of bed, we could hear her stumble into the bathroom and throw up. Disgust filled Nora’s expression. Excitement filled mine. I was going to be an auntie! After my oldest sister had declared she was living child-free, I’d given up hope. But now... there was a chance.

  “Should we go help her?” I asked.

  “That’s revolting. She’ll come out when she's ready.”

  “Aaaaahhh... the voice of compassion.”

  Lizzy came out and Nora handed her a tea that I hadn't even seen her make.

  “Thanks. Sorry about that,” she said, knowing Nora’s aversion to bodily functions. “It was worse for me, in case you were wondering.”

  I gave her a hug. “You know that means the baby is good and strong, right? It’s what you want. And it will pass, maybe even in the next week or so. My morning sickness went away right on my 12th week, each time. It was a miracle!”

  “Let's hope...”

  “Shall we go out for breakfast?” Nora asked.

  “Just toast for me, thanks,” said Lizzy, still slightly green.

  “Why don't I make something?” They both stared at me, open-jawed, not attempting to hide their disbelief.

  I blazed my evil eye at the both of them. “If you don't watch out, I just might poison you both, assuming that Nora actually has any food in her house.”

  “Feast your eyes on this, sis.” A flourishing sweep of the refrigerator door revealed a bounty of goodies.

  Lizzy and I were both incredulous. “Where did all that come from?” I asked.

  “Sam hired someone to fill my fridge. It’s nice. I like it.”

  My oldest sister had one of the oddest lives I knew, having followed in the footsteps of our father and become a scientist. A very successful one.

  With what appeared to be a conspicuous lack of effort, she had gotten tenure in one of the most prestigious universities in the country and was working her way up the ladder there, too. Nothing short of a Nobel would stop my sister.

  Her partner, whom she swore she would never marry, was in the philosophy department of the same university, and possessed the complete counterpoint to her obsessive logic. We all loved Sam, sometimes more than we loved Nora. We couldn’t believe that she had found this amazing man, who loved her more than life itself, and agreed to all her crazy demands.

  They were to keep separate houses, she demanded. And vacation separately at least once a year. No kids. That was an absolute. He was mesmerized by her, much like our father had been mesmerized by our mother.

  And now he was making sure she was fed. Unlike Lizzy or me, Nora had a tendency to get too skinny. She forgot to eat (imagine that!), sometimes for days at a time, hunkered down in the lab, afire with her research into the genetics of endangered species.

  Like the rest of us, she also held this soft, secret sadness, but hers was harder to diagnose. On the surface, she’d created the life of her dreams, including the perfect man and career. She was in excellent health, meal skipping aside, and didn’t want for anything financially. The sadness was nearly imperceptible, and reminded me of our mother.

  “You did mean breakfast today, right?” said a sarcastic Nora.

  I realized I’d been standing in front of the open refrigerator for minutes.

  “Extra poison in yours, darling,” I said with a wink.

  And then I began. Cooking to me felt like music did to the rest of the family. I didn’t have their musical skill (although I tried) but I could make a symphony on a plate or palate.

  Nora’s kitchen was stocked with the best of everything, as expected, and I was excited to create. Fancy food wasn’t my thing, but I was thrilled by absolutely delicious, simple food that made you feel like someone loved you, not just that someone was trying to impress you.

  I made eggs, French toast, fruit salad and smoothies as well as stir-fried greens, curry rice and ginger soup. I figured that Nora and Sam could enjoy any of the leftovers.

  Even Lizzy ate, in small tentative bites. I was filled with love for my sisters.

  That feeling of feeding my family, of coming together to share what nourishes us, of rediscovering our humanity and our neediness and our hunger, was like a deep breath. I wondered when I’d be fully ready to respond to my sisters’ plea to really live my authentic life. It would likely be some time.

  For now I had a plan to create.

  First I had to call Emile, my friend and mentor, who also happened to be the most well-connected person in the culinary world. He’d know where to start. Maybe even be happy that I wanted to go back. He’d always been my biggest fan, if not my best lover.

  I felt a tickle of excitement and a tremor of trepidation. What’s next for me?

  The reality of the day arrived suddenly. Phones started ringing, schedules became important and obligations came to call. The end of breakfast and the beginning of the rest of the day came so swiftly that it was almost as if the morning never happened. Now it was time to get on with our full lives.

  On my drive back to the city, I felt the urge to deal with the situation around my inflammatory article and the angry chef. Should I wait until I’ve re-established myself as a chef? Or would that take too long? The world (or the small part of the world that cared about such things) was waiting to hear from me and I’d been mostly unwilling to engage. But perhaps it was time to be heard.

  I arrived home a few hours before the girls, but spent most of the time staring at my computer screen. What to say to someone who’d thrown down the gauntlet that you weren’t ready to pick up? What to say to defend your honor against petulance, immaturity and unreasonable competition? I wasn’t interested in going after this guy. I knew he just felt attacked and was defending himself, no matter how excessive the response.

  I simply wanted to state my case, unapologetically, and let the matter die its inevitable death. But where to start? Slowly the words came to me, about the integrity of food and the subjectivity of taste and the power of free speech. Then I began to feel how much I loved food and cooking and the business of eating and the words began to pour from me.

  I‘d been obsessed with food most of my life. In a good way. I loved everything about it - the alchemy of bringing simple ingredients together to create something much greater than its parts, the understanding of how food formed culture and determined health. My sister Nora used to say that I would have made a great chemist, considering how similar the two activities are, but I had no interest in science. I wanted to make something that was beautiful and delicious. Her discoveries as a biologist might have been changing the world, but I wanted to feed people. To nourish them
.

  I could feel it in my body when I thought about my old life, as a chef. And not just any chef, but one whose rise to fame had been charmed. My family of artists and scientists hardly understood me, the one whose favorite room in the house was the kitchen, where magic was made. But it made perfect sense to me, because art, science and magic all lived in that room, where the simplest materials could become something that made people happy.

  My sisters were wrong. My work as a writer wasn’t merely obligation and the need to make a living. I really did find joy and value in it, and stood by my choice. At the time, trying to survive the implosion of my family, being a chef felt impractical. Certainly not what a single mom should be doing to support her family. I was going to survive the awful divorce and create stability for myself and my family. Soft dreams gave way to hard realities and I found a way to make it work. I walked away from the stove and into the office.

  The position at the magazine was a miracle find, after all. But it wasn’t my heart’s desire. That I had to agree. Did I feel it was sucking my soul dry? No, not at all. But was I just fooling myself? Had I moved so far from my authentic expression that I couldn’t even tell anymore?

  The shrill ring of my alarm surprised me. It was time for school pick-ups. I looked forward to giving my girls a loving squeeze. They were the light of my life, and even if I never did anything of value in my life I knew I achieved something by bringing these remarkable people into the world.

  The rest of the day unfolded into ordinariness. There were activities, dinner, homework, and then baths and bedtime.

  I spent extra time snuggling my girls and we said our grate-fulls. I let them know, as I did every night, that I was deeply grateful for them in my life. They talked about not having too much homework, doing well on surprise quizzes, and having parents who loved them.

  I couldn’t hold it in and told them about my plan to go back to cooking. Lola had known me back in those early days, but Claire didn’t really understand. We both explained to her that Mama used to be a famous cook (okay, we embellished a bit). She seemed to find it unbelievable.

  I sat back and watched as Lola described how she saw me, before the big change.

  “Mama was really popular. She worked in big and famous restaurants too, and sometimes famous people would come and eat there. She was a really good chef.”

  I couldn’t help but smile at my little girl, who never once mentioned my previous profession or indicated that she thought I did anything of interest or importance. Maybe this change wouldn’t be so hard after all.

  Chapter Five

  Rule Of Threes

  I barely recovered from ‘The Intervention’ and the ego battle at the magazine before the next storm hit. Or storm cluster, to be more precise.

  When I saw the middle school’s number flashing on my phone, I was sure it wasn’t not good. And I was right.

  My talented Claire had always had a song on her lips, and often forgot that she was singing or humming. The whole family, and all her friends, understood, and loved this quirky quality. Apparently one of the boys at school hadn’t found it quite as charming, and smacked her across the face – hard.

  By the time I got to her school, the pink marks had faded, covered now with the tracks of her tears. The school official was devastated about the alleged violence, but considering he couldn’t get a straight story out of the hysterical participants and bystanders, decided to make it a no-fault issue.

  I was furious, but thankfully thought better than exacting my own revenge on that little boy.

  “Are you okay, sweetie?” I asked as she sat quietly in the car.

  “Yeah, Mama. I’m fine. It doesn’t really sting anymore.”

  “Do you think your singing was bothering him for some reason?” I wasn’t sure where I was going with these questions, but my curiosity was killing me. “What exactly happened?”

  “I don’t know, Mama. He just got so mad when he asked me to be quiet and I wouldn’t. I didn’t even realize I was humming, but I guess he could hear it.”

  “That must have been awful baby. I wish I could take it all away for you.” I did.

  “I think he just forgot I was a girl. I mean, that’s how all the boys act toward each other. They’re always hitting and wrestling, like bears or something. I think he just forgot for a second… that I wasn’t a bear.”

  My wise girl.

  “I really appreciate how you’re being so cool and fair about all this. I’m very proud of you.”

  “I know, Mama.”

  We decided to pick up Lola and get some ice cream. It was definitely a good day for ice cream.

  The visual of boys as bears was going to stay with me for some time. It reinforced everything I felt about men and betrayal: Expressing the song in your heart got you a smack across the face.

  It was less than a week later when I saw Jeff’s number on my phone in the middle of the day. It was unlike my ex-husband to call during his workday. I assumed he butt-dialed me.

  “Hi there. What’s up?” I asked, expecting silence on the other end.

  “Hi, Nik.”

  Something was wrong. His voice was off.

  “It’s my dad, Nik. He’s gone.” The breath left my body in a whoosh, punctuated by Jeff’s sobs. His father was one of my favorite people on the planet. He’d been there for me even through the worst of our divorce.

  “No… that can’t be right. No, Jeff.”

  “It’s true. Mom said he was feeling tired, and laid down for a nap, which he would never do. Then his heart stopped. Everyone thinks it was painless. I don’t know…”

  “Oh my God, Jeff. I can’t believe it. Can I do anything for you? Do you need me to take care of anything?” How quickly we fell into our old connection.

  “Patti’s getting our stuff together now.” Funny, I had forgotten all about her. “We’re flying out in a few hours. I just thought you’d want to know.”

  “Of course. Thanks for calling. Do you want me to tell the girls, or do you want to?”

  “Why don’t you do it, Nik? I just don’t think I could keep it together for them.”

  “Anything you need, Jeff. Will you let me know when the service is? Maybe we can come out.”

  “It’s so far, Nik.” They lived across the country. “You don’t have to. But I’ll let you know.”

  “Okay. Safe flight.”

  “Thanks. Talk soon.”

  The feeling of the chair around me made me realize that I’d sat down. My body had lost the ability to hold itself up, and the tears began to flow. The stream of grief began with Jeff’s father, but moved quickly to my own parents, and to Danny. So many people gone, it was too much to process.

  My heart broke for Jeff. I knew exactly what it was like to lose a parent unexpectedly. But he’d always been stronger than me.

  I could remember so clearly the first time I saw Jeff. It was my first week cooking at a prestigious restaurant, and getting paid, after having apprenticed for the hottest chef in the city. Of the four apprentices they selected from my cooking school, they chose me to continue on. It was nothing short of a miracle.

  Jeff’s arm was wrapped securely around a woman whose proportions made me wonder how she didn’t topple over. I had this natural mistrust of ‘breast men’, easily explained by my own lacking in that department - it was all legs and bottom for me – but he caught and kept my attention anyway.

  I couldn’t decide if he was handsome, or just so blatantly confident that I couldn’t help myself from staring as he walked toward me. They sat in front of the open kitchen, in the most prized seats in the restaurant, only given to very special customers, so I knew he was either important or rich. Probably both.

  He oozed cool flawlessness. I was a nervous wreck, convinced that any wrong move, no matter how slight, would get me kicked out on my butt. I have never experienced anywhere more competitive than a fine dining kitchen, and all eyes were on the new girl.

  His eyes were certainly on me
as well, to the dismay of his pouting date. He asked about all the dishes I was working on, and then wanted to know about how I started cooking. Speaking was limited, as everything was so busy, but he stayed attentive.

  As soon as his date headed toward the bathroom, he slipped me his card, making some excuse about the possibility of my needing a good surgeon should one of those knives slip. I wasn’t sure how cardiac surgeon would re-attach one of my severed digits, but thankfully it never came to that.

  Of course, so consumed with my new job, working 12-15 hour days, I never called him. And there was the complication that he had been with a woman when we met. Then he started coming to the restaurant regularly, by himself, and sitting at the counter. The fourth time I saw him, he asked me out.

  As soon as he arrived at my apartment to pick me up that night, I knew I would have to up my game. This guy was super smooth, and I was an awkward mess. The only love in my life to that point had been my career, and I had never before met anyone who understood what it meant to be passionately in love with your job.

  He felt the same way about medicine as I did about food, and could talk about surgery like a child talking about candy. It was his life’s dream to be a doctor, and I could only guess how talented he was. He treated me like a grown-up. Not like a new chef, or an inexperienced girl, but like a grown woman whose opinions mattered and whose dreams were as important as his own.

  Our courtship was slowed down by our busy schedules, but the commitment was clear, nearly from the beginning. Despite the romance of the early days, Jeff never actually proposed. We just sat down one day and started planning our wedding. As obvious and expected as our summer vacations in France.