A Katherine Reay Collection

by Katherine Reay

  Near four o’clock the kids arrived home and chatted with Jane in the basement while Cecilia and I cleaned the kitchen and labeled the last dishes for the day. Stacks of sealed food containers, green for vegetables, red for main courses, and blue for starched sides, plus a box full of sealed pouches of smoothies, filled Jane’s refrigerator, freezers, and a couple ice-filled coolers.

  “I can’t believe we did it.” Cecilia labeled the last container.

  “I’ve only got a little left to do tomorrow; then I’ll deliver around eleven. Are they still there then?”

  “Usually. Tyler sees his doctor and then comes up to chat with me so I can help him interpret it. It’s remarkable how much patients don’t hear or even say to their doctors.” Cecilia shrugged. “Then I go to his doctor and tell him what’s really going on with Tyler.”

  “Isn’t that violating doctor-patient confidentiality?”

  “Not at all. Nine times out of ten, that’s how the doctors learn the soft stuff.” At my blank look, she continued. “You know . . . if a patient is depressed, sad, uncomfortable, anxious . . . Like all this.”

  “This?”

  “Isn’t that what you did here? You looked at Tyler and Jane’s totality. You’re creating more than a meal; you’re creating sustenance and meeting needs that are way beyond nutritional.”

  I dropped onto the kitchen stool. “You think?”

  Cecilia’s face lit up into a bright smile. It seemed incongruent with her harsh hair and coal-black eyeliner—but it also looked natural and radiant and perfectly Cecilia. “You don’t see it, do you?”

  “See what?”

  “The blessing you are.” She stepped around the island and stood in front of me for a heartbeat, smiling. Then she pulled me into a big hug, squeezing me tight. It was my first real hug in years—not like Dad’s pushing and pulling until your molars loosen and not like Jane’s perfunctory squeeze with an added obligatory back pat, but like my mom’s—who was the greatest, most thorough hugger in the world.

  “Thanks for letting me in on this. You’re wonderful.” She pulled back after a moment. “Now I am going to leave all this deep and meaningful work for something more frivolous . . . I’m going boot shopping.”

  “You are? I love boot shopping.”

  “You wanna come?” She looked down at my outfit. “We may have a different style, but I bet you know your way around a store.”

  “That I do.” I laughed. “What type of boots are you looking for?”

  “Brown.”

  I smiled. Jane would’ve said the same thing. Perhaps all Seattle would. “You know, as fun as that sounds, Peter comes home tonight. I want to help the kids with their homework, then bake a cake for him.”

  “That’s so nice. See? Blessing.” She lilted the last word as she walked toward the hallway and raised her hand in a half wave. “See you next Tuesday.”

  I lifted my hand to reply and stopped cold. I’ll be gone by then.

  Chapter 19

  PETER’S HOMECOMING DID NOT GO AS ANTICIPATED.

  The kids and I had made something special—cake and memories. Danny burst with energy as we grated coconut and chocolate, and Kate learned how to sift and fold and test the cakes with determination and fascination. We sang and danced around the kitchen.

  Peter’s flight landed on time, but he texted that he had a meeting with a colleague in the Admirals Club. The time grew late and Jane grew tense. He didn’t answer her text, and she eventually sent the kids to bed. After she tucked them in, she joined me in the kitchen.

  “Where is he?” she asked.

  “He said he was meeting with his coworker in the Admirals Club. Just text him again.”

  “Forget it.” She bit her lip. “Maybe he doesn’t want to come home . . . Maybe he’s having an affair.”

  “You can’t be serious.”

  “Maybe I am.” She sat at the counter and pressed her fingers to her lips.

  I stood in front of her, unable to move.

  Her fingers trembled. “You don’t understand. This is so hard. Maybe it’s too much. Maybe he’s given in.”

  “He has not given in. Peter adores you, and he said he was at the airport. Who makes that up?”

  She shrugged in protest.

  I opened my mouth to tell her she was ridiculous, but I caught her expression and stopped.

  “I’m going to bed.” She hurried off the stool as if going to bed would make it all go away.

  “You’re not waiting up? He’ll miss seeing you, just like you miss him.” I stumbled forward to cut her off.

  “It’s late.” Jane looked at the clock above the door. “And I’m tired. I’m too tired.”

  She pulled the sleeves of her sweater over her hands and tucked her arms across her body. There was no way she could have looked smaller or more vulnerable. She turned and shuffled out of the room.

  The cake and I faced each other—the last two elements of a discarded celebration. I covered it, shoved it into a corner, and started to wipe down the counters.

  An hour and two cups of chamomile tea later, Peter walked in the back door. “What are you doing up? Is Jane still awake?” His tone was soft and concerned.

  I sighed, knowing I’d been right. Jane wrong. I set my cup down. “She got too tired about ten thirty.”

  “I knew the meeting was going too long . . . Ben is headed to Malaysia, and we needed to cover some stuff.” He laid down his bag and shut the door.

  “She knew that, but she was still upset.”

  “But I often do that to wrap up business. That way, when I’m home, I’m home.” Peter narrowed his eyes fractionally. “What’s wrong? Why would that upset her?”

  “Because she’s not herself right now and she feels vulnerable.” I put my cup in the dishwasher. “The kids baked you a cake. Do you want to see it?”

  “Of course.”

  I slid out the cake and removed the lid.

  “What is it?”

  “Kind of a Devil’s food. I tweaked the recipe a bit.”

  “I love coconut. Can I have a slice? Or should we wait?”

  “Totally up to you.”

  “We’ll wait. Jane and the kids should share in it. We’ll have it at breakfast.” He started to walk out of the room, then turned back. “Thank you, Lizzy, for the cake . . . and for waiting up for me. I know it’s not easy, but thank you.” He flicked his gaze to the cake. “I bet they loved making that.” He sounded disappointed.

  “They did.”

  He nodded and left the room.

  CECILIA HAD ALREADY TEXTED ME THREE TIMES TO find out the transfer time. Now she wanted to know which parking lot. One would think we were swapping state secrets.

  As I watched Brian stalk across the parking lot, I texted her back and realized she understood him better than I did. He was trying to do the impossible—carry the weight of all that was unable to be held and pull his energy from sheer frustration and anger.

  I stepped out and waved. “Hi. I’ve got three boxes in the trunk. Do you want me to follow you to your car?”

  “I’m in the next row back. Let’s just grab them.”

  I popped the trunk and met him around back. He looked thunderstruck.

  “I had no idea. My cooler won’t fit all that.”

  “Let’s just get these in.” I pointed to the box of smoothie pouches. “These eight you can dig through this week. These I started to freeze for the future, but they’ll be fine out of your cooler until you get home.”

  “How much do I owe you?”

  “It was $240 in groceries and $120 for labor.”

  “And the containers?”

  “Forgot those. How about $60? I wanted something you could heat and reuse.”

  We carried the boxes over, and I sorted them between freezer and refrigerator piles.

  “Cecilia put labels on so you have cooking instructions for each, and I added suggestions about what pairs well together.” I handed him a sheet I’d typed out.

&n
bsp; “Cecilia? Tyler’s nurse?”

  I flicked a glance up to the window. “She offered to help.”

  “I don’t know how I feel about that. She’s Tyler’s nurse and knows private information.”

  “She doesn’t talk; she’s more professional than that. She wanted to help cook for you. I couldn’t have done all this without her.”

  “Well . . .”

  I stepped forward. “Well, nothing. She’s a super caring woman who has gone out of her way to help you. Don’t imply that she’s unprofessional.”

  Brian stepped back. “Okay.”

  I pressed my lips together to stop my next sentence. I couldn’t believe that I’d yelled at him, but I knew his type, ran into him every day—and was him on my worst days.

  Brian slammed his trunk and pulled out his wallet. It was stuffed with twenties. He peeled off twenty-one. “Can we get ten to fifteen more?”

  “You haven’t eaten these yet.”

  “Do you want the business or not?”

  His comment made me feel cheap.

  “No, I don’t want the business. This wasn’t about that. I leave in a couple days anyway.”

  He shoved his wallet back into his pocket. “Got it.” He nodded and headed back toward the hospital.

  “You’re welcome,” I mumbled. Then I yelled, “I hope Tyler enjoys the meals.” I let my opinion of Brian fall between us.

  He stopped a few feet away and glanced back. I expected to catch an angry glare and was stunned by his fleeting expression of loss and despair. It vanished in a blink.

  He continued his walk, but I stood frozen. What I had thought was an angry stalk looked different now. It looked like a walk tinged with desperation—a suppressed, scared gait that was fast because slow would make him too vulnerable; he might get caught. I walked the same way through New York and around Jane, every day.

  I turned back to Jane’s car, ashamed that I’d yelled at him and had assumed that I knew him. My phone rang.

  “Were you watching us?”

  Cecilia laughed. “Maybe. Was he pleased?”

  “More surprised by the quantity than anything. Is he near you now?”

  “No, I took my cell phone to the staff room. Why?”

  “I sorta yelled at him. I thought he was being critical and needed to come down a peg. I was wrong.”

  “Is he okay?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  Cecilia was silent.

  “Now I feel bad. What should I do?”

  “Apologize if you need to. And pray for him.”

  “That’s not going to help.”

  “Really? I find it works best, especially when I screw up.”

  “Can you go talk to him?”

  “I can try, but Brian’s tough for me. There’s something so hurt and angry about him.”

  “Then he needs you. You can reach him. I know you can.” I knew I was pushing, but there was something in her manner that made me trust her.

  “I’m hanging up now,” she whispered. “Donna walked in.” The phone clicked off.

  There was one more call to make.

  “I just made $420!”

  “Elizabeth?”

  “Sorry. I wanted to let you know . . .” I felt like a fool.

  “I thought that was your number, New York. I just hadn’t put a contact in yet. Doing it right now.” Nick’s voice was bright and cheerful.

  “I made $420. Well, not really. Net $120, but it still feels good.”

  “As it should. I told you it’s a business.”

  “Stop trying to steal it.”

  “I’m messing with you . . . We should celebrate when we’re out tomorrow night. I’ll have to think up a new place you’ll love.”

  I grinned. “That sounds wonderful.”

  Chapter 20

  WHEN I GOT HOME, I FOUND PETER SITTING AT THE kitchen counter, eating yogurt mixed with granola.

  “I’ve got some strawberries if you want to add them.” I reached into the refrigerator. “I told the kids not to wake you this morning. Sorry if that was wrong. We’ve just gotten used to letting Jane sleep in.”

  “No, it’s good for her. We had a long talk, and then I went for a run. I needed to clear my head.”

  “Are you okay?” I rinsed the berries and, at his nod, tossed them into his bowl. He looked wan, his eyes puffy and his shoulders slumped.

  “I’m a little tired, but okay.” He stirred in the fruit. “Thank you again for being here.”

  “You’re welcome. You’ve got a great family. I’m going to miss you all.” I paused as my quiet apartment and solitary life rose in front of me. “Where’s Jane?”

  “Doing laundry.” Peter closed his eyes for a beat. “I have another trip.”

  “Where to?”

  “Shanghai.”

  “That’s far and long, Peter. They need you here.”

  “Don’t you think I know that? What can I do?” He swung his head around the room. I sensed he was not talking about his job. He glanced back and whatever he saw hardened his expression. “Don’t look at me like that.”

  “Whoa.” I threw up my hands. “That’s not fair; I don’t have any skin in this game. It’s all yours, but . . .”

  His eyebrows flattened straight as he narrowed his eyes, waiting for my next words. I held eye contact. “Peter, it’s your family, and I’m the one here.”

  He deflated and flickered his glance away. He laid both hands, held in fists, on the counter on either side of his yogurt. “I know.” He paused for a moment. “Sorry about that. You are the one here. It’s just . . . She hates me.”

  “She’s scared, and anger is her default mode. Always has been. You know that.”

  “But it’s not usually directed at me. She hasn’t been like this since your mom died. Take cover when your sister gets scared or can’t control something.” He looked at me, and his eyes lost their fight. “She accused me of having an affair. Did she tell you that?”

  I stood perfectly still. It was too intimate a topic and not one I thought I could survive if I stepped into the middle.

  “It doesn’t matter if she voiced it or not. She thought it.” He ran his hands through his short hair, the tips barely reaching over his fingers. “I’m not. But something’s got to change.”

  “What does that mean?” My voice sounded high and panicked.

  “It means I have a favor to ask.” Peter reached his hand across the island to grab mine.

  “Oh no.”

  “There’s no one else. I don’t think Jim can handle this. You know your father.”

  My heart dropped.

  “I agreed to this trip, so I have to go, but my assistant is working this morning to reshuffle my schedule for the next several months. This is the last one.” He reached for my arm. “Please? Then I’m home. Just give me two more weeks.”

  “Peter, I’ve got a restaurant, a job, a life . . .” I clamped my mouth shut. It sounded petty, and to be fair, I didn’t have those things—not really.

  “She starts Taxol next week. It could be easy or it could be tough on her. Some of the stuff I’ve read says it’s worse than Adriamycin, if you can believe it. Please?” He let go of my hand and crossed the kitchen to dig around in his briefcase. “Here, I did some research. Some side effects are pretty bad.” He shoved them into my hands.

  I looked down at the pages and pages of handwritten notes, typed notes, spreadsheets, and hand-drawn pictures. “More?”

  “I do it on the plane when I’m not working. It’s all there. She should get through this fine, but keep an eye on her hands and feet. Keep asking her if they tingle.”

  “Peter.” I wasn’t angry. I wanted to cry. “What if I don’t have two weeks? What if my boss says no? And did you tell her you did all this? Did you show her?” I grasped the pages.

  “Please ask. And she doesn’t need to know about all this”—he motioned to the papers. “Most of it would worry her, but you need to read them so you can watch her.”
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br />   “She needs to know. She thinks you’re having an affair, but instead this is how you spend your free time.”

  “Just say yes, Lizzy, please?”

  I sighed. “I’ve never been able to figure you out.”

  “I’m a problem solver. This is my problem.”

  I leaned against the counter, considering the pages and what I might say to Paul. “I’ll ask, but this is big, Peter. I don’t mean to sound petty, but I’m risking Feast here.”

  “I know. This is huge. Feast revolves around you.”

  “I can ask.” I felt the edge of the knife again: he thought I risked Feast because they couldn’t survive without me; I knew it was a risk because they could.

  I carried the pages up to my room and sat on the bed. I couldn’t believe the mass of scribbles, notes, and diagrams. This wasn’t the work of a seasoned business professional; this was heart stuff—an attempt to make the unthinkable manageable, an attempt to help, heal, relate, and empathize. And he refused to show her or discuss it with her . . . How was I to survive in the middle?

  I pulled out my phone and texted Tabitha: JANE ISN’T GREAT. HOW ARE THINGS THERE? I paused and then typed my real question. AM I NEEDED?

  I started pacing. It was three p.m. in New York. Tabitha would be prepping at the restaurant. It wouldn’t be hectic yet, and if she heard her phone she’d text back. Nothing.

  I decided to call.

  She picked up on the first ring. “I was just reading your text.”

  “What do you think?”

  “Things are good here.” She took a deep breath. “I’ll be honest—business is up. Trent has moved into the kitchen well.” She paused, and when I didn’t say anything, she continued, “But it’s not his kitchen. He makes that clear. You’d like him. Every time we have a great night, he says, ‘Thanks, guys, you made Chef Hughes proud tonight.’ ”

  “He does?” That floored me. “What’s his angle?”

  “I’ve been trying to figure it out. I don’t think he has one.”

  “Impossible.”

  “Regardless, you should be thrilled, especially if you’re extending your vacation.”

  “It hardly feels like vacation, but you’re right and I’m grateful. I didn’t expect that much respect.” My turn to pause. “I could leave here, Tabitha. I could fly home Saturday as planned.”