Finding Yvonne

by Brandy Colbert

  Dad stumbles into the kitchen moments after I slide the pie dough into the oven. He nods hello, heading straight to the coffee maker.

  “Next assignment for Lou?” he asks after a couple of sips.

  “Yeah.” I’m cleaning up so I’ll have less to do after I make the pie filling. “He’s coming over for dessert tomorrow, remember?”

  “I remember.” Dad peers at the cookbook. “Huh. That meringue can be a real bitch.”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  He takes his coffee out to the sunroom, and today I follow him, making sure the timer is set on my phone for the piecrust. He looks up as I walk in, frowning.

  “Need something?”

  “No. It’s been a while since I was in here.”

  He shrugs as if it’s okay, but I know he doesn’t like me being in the sunroom. It’s become his dominion, a more cultured version of the man cave. He doesn’t watch TV—not even sports—so there’s no television set in here. It looks more like an old den or a study, except it doesn’t have that dark, mahogany-wood-and-cigars look because sun pours in through the two full walls of windows most of the day.

  He sits on the love seat, and I flop down onto the chaise, watching him pull out his weed box. It’s a nice wooden box with a gold clasp that I guess other people would use for keepsakes. It’s quite organized inside: the actual weed—or flowers, as he calls it—on the left side, a couple of Bic lighters on the top right, and his preferred pipes below those. I watch him crumble the herb onto the flipped-over top of the box, then pinch it methodically into the bowl of his pipe.

  “What?” he says, the pipe in one hand, a white lighter hovering in the other.

  “I didn’t say anything.”

  My father sighs. “You’re watching me.”

  “I’m just sitting here.”

  He shakes his head and lifts the pipe to his mouth, taking a long hit. He exhales away from me, the smoke pouring out in a slow, billowing stream. “You know, sometimes I wonder if you’re judging me.”

  “You’re aware that I’ve smoked before, right?” I decide to phrase it that way, rather than the present tense.

  “You’re a teenager living in L.A.,” he says drily. “I’m aware.”

  “Well, then I can’t really judge you. And I didn’t think you cared what other people thought, anyway.”

  “Why would you think that?”

  “Because that’s how you act?”

  He looks thoughtfully at his pipe. “It’s not an issue in my industry—it’s the people on the outside. I don’t want to seem like I’m perpetuating a stereotype of a black man. I shouldn’t have to explain myself to anyone when I’m getting along just fine.”

  “But it doesn’t really matter what those people think, right? They’re wrong for judging you.”

  “They may be wrong, but it’s my reputation on the line. I want to be known for my food, not my personal choices.”

  I nod. He’s always been so aware of appearances, this doesn’t surprise me. Even back when we had our two-second talk about sex, I got the idea that he was more concerned about me preventing pregnancy than diseases when he told me to use protection.

  “Why do you like it out here so much?”

  He flicks the lighter on again, passing it over the top of the bowl. He takes a moment after he exhales to look around the room—at his bookshelf of chef memoirs, the side table where he stores his laptop, the chess set gathering dust on the coffee table between us. “It’s comfortable out here. My own space.”

  “Did you come out here when Mom was still around?”

  He coughs so much I’d think his lungs were still filled with smoke if it weren’t all floating in the air above us. “Why are you so full of questions today?” His voice isn’t unkind, but he sounds genuinely surprised.

  “You don’t tell me anything unless I ask.”

  “This was your mom’s room…. You don’t remember?”

  Not at all. For as long as I’ve known, this room has been my father’s. I remember being around her all the time, but never here.

  “What did she do out here?”

  He’s silent for too long.

  The timer on my phone dings.

  I stand, but before I go to the kitchen, I look back at him.

  “I don’t know, Yvonne,” he finally says. “I wish I did.”

  Meringue is a bit of a bitch.

  The first one I made collapsed, and I had to start over. The second one came out perfect, and I’m even proud of the way I was able to brown the peaks on top.

  “Looks beautiful,” Lou says the next day, carefully turning the pie so he can admire it from all angles.

  It does look nice, but when he cuts into it, there’s a layer of liquid between the meringue and the filling. I sigh and look at him.

  “It’s okay,” he says, sliding a piece onto my plate first, then my father’s and then his. “It’s called weeping. Happens all the time. Was the filling hot when you layered on the meringue?”

  I can’t remember. I was so exhausted by the time I finally got the meringue right that I stopped paying attention to all the little details I’d read about before I started.

  “If you make sure the filling is hot, the meringue will cook all the way through and won’t weep,” he offers.

  I nod and hold my breath, and both Dad and I watch as he takes the first bite.

  Lou chews thoughtfully. Slides in another forkful and swallows before he looks at me. “This is an objectively good attempt at your first lemon meringue pie, Yvonne.”

  But.

  “It tastes great and I’m impressed with your meringue. This was the first time you’ve made it?”

  Across the table, my father finally bites into his piece, as if he needed Lou’s approval before he dug in. It hurts my feelings, but I try to ignore it and focus on Lou.

  “Yeah. The one you’re looking at is my second try, but this is my first time making it.”

  “My other critique is the crust,” he continues. “It should be flaky, but this is a little tough. Almost chewy. That usually means the butter you used wasn’t cold enough or you didn’t let the dough chill long enough before you put it into the oven.”

  I think back to yesterday, when I set out all the ingredients first—including the butter. Then I had my coffee. I push my plate away.

  “Don’t be so hard on yourself.” Lou smiles. “This is nothing to be embarrassed about. Right, Sinclair?”

  My father nods. “It’s a noble effort.”

  “Your father presented me with some less than impressive dishes when he was starting out,” Lou says. “It comes with the territory. Cooking isn’t easy, and baking is even more precise.”

  I am embarrassed, though. I didn’t think I was a baking prodigy, but it felt right—up until this point. Like maybe it would give me something to focus on besides violin. An activity I like and feel good about—something to occupy my time.

  “I want you to try this again,” Lou says after he’s finished his whole piece. My father cleans his plate, too, but neither of them goes back for seconds. “And then, when we’re satisfied with this, we’ll move on to something else. People think pastry chefs have it easy, but I thank my lucky stars for mine each day. She’s not perfect, but she works her butt off to make sure it looks like she is. It’s all about practice and knowledge.”

  Practice and knowledge didn’t serve me so well when it came to violin, even after all the years I’ve spent with it, also striving for perfectionism. What if Lou is wrong? What if I’m only good at baking a couple of things and I’m wasting everyone’s time? Maybe it’s exciting now because it’s something new, but I’ll eventually grow bored or frustrated with it.

  I wait until they’re caught up in a heated discussion about a new restaurant in West Hollywood before I taste the pie. Lou is right about everything. The pie is too wet and the crust too dense. One bite is all I need.

  I pretend that I’m clearing the table to be helpful, but on my second tr
ip to the kitchen, I bring the rest of the pie and throw it into the garbage.

  16.

  So, where are you applying?”

  It’s the question I’ve been wanting to avoid since my talk with Ortiz, but Kama Hobart finally asks. As soon as I sit down in orchestra on Monday. She’s genuinely sweet and one of the least competitive people in the orchestra. But she’s also very, very good.

  “Oh, I’m not sure. I’m a little behind,” I say with a faux-sheepish look as I snap open my case. I guess I should come up with a better answer than that, but I’m still staunchly avoiding my applications. “What about you?”

  Kama runs a hand through her red curls, looking toward the ceiling as she thinks. “Northwestern, USC, Rice, Michigan, and Curtis… I think that’s it.”

  “Wait—you’re not only applying to conservatories?”

  She laughs. “Are you kidding? Curtis is a long shot, but I couldn’t not apply. It’s my dream school.”

  “But you’ll totally get into all those others.” I remove my bow and rosin. “You’ll probably get into Curtis, too.”

  “That’s sweet of you, Yvonne, but it’s not true. It’s competitive as shit out there. I just started doing real competitions our freshman year. Some people have been at it since elementary.”

  I sweep my bow through the rosin. She sounds like Denis. Or maybe like any rational person who’s been playing violin as long as we have. I never did any of those competitions. Denis and I talked about it—or rather, he hinted many times that I would have to advance beyond the local contests if I wanted to keep working with him—but I never liked competing. There was so much pressure, so many people watching. And the thought of being judged and rated always seemed so cruel. Maybe that should have been my first sign that I wasn’t cut out for this.

  Ortiz comes in then, and I’m relieved because I don’t want to talk about this with Kama. As we warm up, I wonder if she can hear a difference in how I play now. I never feel like I’m quite in tune anymore, and my fingers are slow and heavy on the bow. I’d be surprised if anyone hasn’t noticed the change. But everyone is either too caught up in their own playing or too nice to say anything.

  In addition to practicing for the holiday program, we’re working on a Haydn concerto because Ortiz is obsessed with Haydn. I try to talk myself into putting energy behind it, into pushing myself to make my violin sing. I’ve done it before—I should be able to do it again if I really concentrate. I think of Omar and Keely the other night, how free they were but also how utterly engaged. How I could practically see the passion flowing through their veins. It was magical. This feels methodical. Boring.

  We’re all packing up our things when Ms. Ortiz says, “Come see me before you leave, Yvonne?”

  I nod, but I can feel Ortiz watching, as if she thinks I’m going to bail before she gets a chance to talk to me. Once the last person has exited the room, I walk up to the front, bag and violin hooked over my shoulders.

  “Am I in trouble?”

  Ortiz presses her lips together as she looks at me. “This time? Maybe. What’s going on with you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Ever since our talk, it’s like you’ve been replaced with a robot. It’s like all your fire is gone.”

  “I just feel… confused now. I wonder if I should even be playing.”

  “Haydn?”

  “All of it. It doesn’t feel right.”

  She studies me. “Do you still like the violin?”

  I nod.

  “What do you like about it?”

  “I don’t know…. It’s just something I’ve done forever.”

  “That’s not a good reason,” she says, shaking her head. “That’s when people get into trouble, doing something just because it’s what they’ve always done.”

  “I do like it.” I pause. I don’t want to admit that I’m afraid the loneliness would crush me if I gave it up altogether. “What about other careers in music?”

  “Well, there’s teaching. Of course, you’d still have to be present and dedicated. Maybe even more so, because you’d be shaping young minds.”

  I wrinkle my nose. “No offense, but I don’t think teaching is for me.”

  “None taken,” she says with a laugh. “It wasn’t the path I would have chosen for myself in high school.”

  “What did you want to do?”

  Ortiz raises her eyebrows. “You really want to hear about this?”

  “I need all the help I can get.”

  “Well, after I graduated from Berklee, I started auditioning for symphonies. I was willing to move almost anywhere that would let me play. I ended up in Iowa and became a section leader. It was fine for a while, but I wanted to be a conductor.”

  Now it’s my turn to raise my eyebrows. I never would have guessed Ortiz didn’t want to teach. She’s so good at what she does; she always seems so happy.

  “And I quickly found out that conducting was thought to be a man’s world. I couldn’t break in. Or maybe I should say I wasn’t willing to wait around and luck into an opportunity. I wasn’t happy in the orchestra, so I started teaching.”

  “Did you ever consider anything else?”

  “Consider, yes. I thought about trying almost everything, but I knew this was my best option to keep working in music. And there are more paths to take than teaching. You could try a music therapy program. I’ve had a few students go on to do that, and they find it so fulfilling.”

  I knew music therapy existed, but it never seemed like something people actually went to school to do.

  “And there are fields where you could combine other talents with your background. Like being a music critic or an orchestra manager. You could get into public relations for a symphony…. There’s so much you can do with the training you’ve had up to this point.”

  None of those careers ever occurred to me, and while they sound appealing enough in general, nothing stands out.

  “The bell’s about to ring, but please come see me with any more questions,” Ortiz says with a warm smile. “I’m happy to see you thinking about your choices, Yvonne. You’re a smart girl. You can go far, whatever you do.”

  When I get home from school, Warren is waiting for me.

  He stands up from his seat on the front steps and brushes his hands on the front of his jeans as I approach.

  “Hey,” I say, stopping in front of him. “What’s going on?”

  “How was your day?” I hate when people answer a question with a question. It never means they have anything good to say.

  “It was fine. Warren, what’s wrong?”

  “I need to talk to you.” His voice is strained, and that’s when I notice he doesn’t look much better than the last time I saw him, the day the article was published. Dark bags have settled in below his eyes, and his posture is awful, like he can barely hold himself up.

  “Let’s go inside.”

  I leave my violin and bag by the front door and lead Warren to the couch. I don’t press him to say anything once we’re sitting. He takes a couple of deep breaths.

  “Do you want water? Tea?” I offer, thinking maybe that will help him get the words out.

  “No. My…” His voice comes out thin. He clears his throat and starts over. “My dad emailed me.”

  “Oh my God, Warren. What did he say?”

  Warren twists his hands together so hard it makes me cringe. “He saw the article and now he wants to see me.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I don’t know.” He looks at me. “What would you do? If your mom showed up out of nowhere and wanted to meet up with you?”

  I’ve thought about this, of course. Maybe a million times. And I still don’t have an answer. Part of me would want to see her immediately, if only to confirm that she was real and not just a name linked to a collection of old, useless things and fragmented memories. But the other part would ignore her forever, wanting to punish her for leaving me without a mother and full of endless
questions about why she left.

  “Yvonne?” he prompts me when I take too long to respond.

  “I’d probably want to see her,” I say softly.

  “But you remember your mom. He took off when I was two.”

  “What does he do now?” I ask, wrapping Warren’s hands in mine. They’re cold and clammy, but it makes him stop wringing them and he seems to appreciate the comfort.

  “I don’t know. He didn’t say anything about himself. Just that he lives in the area and wants to see me. More like meet me. Why couldn’t he just come to the restaurant and spy on me?”

  “I don’t know, War. But I think this might be good.” His hands are slowly warming up in mine. “If he just came in and didn’t say anything, you’d never have to know he wanted to see you. It’s cowardly. This way, he doesn’t get to be let off the hook.”

  “Yeah… I guess you’re right.”

  “Of course I’m right.”

  The corner of his mouth briefly turns up in a half-smile, then fades. “I was also wondering… or hoping… if I do this, will you come with me? When I meet him? I don’t think I’m going to tell my mom. No need to put her through that, you know?”

  I can’t imagine not telling my father I was going to meet my mother, but it’s different with Warren. He doesn’t live with his mom anymore, and she’s remarried now. He once said she hadn’t mentioned his father in years.

  “I’ll come with you.” I squeeze his hand. “Just let me know when.”

  I wonder again if I should tell him about Omar. We’re going to the L.A. Philharmonic in just a few days. I don’t think Warren will care that I’m not taking him, but he will care that I’m using the extra ticket on a guy I can’t seem to stop thinking about. A guy that I think I could care about.

  It doesn’t feel like the right time. He’s relieved that I’m going with him to meet his dad—that much is clear—but he’s still visibly rattled. I can’t kick him when he’s down. Not like this.

  “I know I don’t deserve you,” he says after a long pause. “But thank you.”