North of Happy
Page 24
Then, as the hospital goes back to normalcy—sickly people shuffling down the hallway; doctors trying to keep others alive; harmless houseflies buzzing about, attracted by the fluorescent lighting; a line forming at the coffee shop, relatives with bags beneath their eyes—Felix’s ghost stands up.
He wipes at his eyes. Gives me a grin. Raises his eyebrows and gives a little shoulder shrug, as if to say, What are you gonna do?
Kisses Dad’s forehead.
Disappears.
CHAPTER 32
NASHVILLE HOT CHICKEN SANDWICHES
2 pounds pounded chicken breasts
2 cups flour
2 large eggs
¼ cup buttermilk
4 tablespoons hot sauce
3 tablespoons brown sugar
6 tablespoons cayenne pepper
3 tablespoons garlic powder
For slaw:
1 purple cabbage
2 tomatoes, diced
½ cup cilantro, chopped
1 julienned red pepper
2 carrots, grated
¼ cup mayo
4 tablespoons olive oil
3 tablespoons apple cider vinegar
METHOD:
“Carlos, put the fryer down.”
“Mom, it’s one meal.”
“Your father just had a heart attack. We’re not having whatever crazy concoction you think we’re having.”
“It’s been long enough, no?” Dad chimes in. “Plus, it was all stress, you heard the doctor. I am no longer stressed, so I can have some fried chicken. In fact, it would probably help me relax.”
I carry the fryer to the counter, plug it in defiantly, sharing a wink with Dad. There are a handful of grocery bags on the kitchen island. Rosalba is fussing, trying to put things away and help out, but I tell her she can relax. I’ll handle everything.
I grab the cabbage, chop it roughly, set it in a bowl with water and the disinfectant drops, a step I was always happy to be able to skip in the US. I crack a few eggs, passing the yolk back and forth between the halves so that the whites drip down to a bowl beneath.
How many times did I do exactly this at the house on the island, with Emma sitting nearby on the counter? I’ve cooked every day since Dad was released from the hospital, and every time I picture her there with me, sitting on the counter, making jokes, running a finger through a bowl to taste something. Or I think: if you crack this egg perfectly, she’ll respond to an email. If this omelet turns out perfectly golden, without a tinge of brown, she’ll call.
Dad watches intently as I whisk the egg yolks with some oil and lime. “What are you doing there?”
“Making mayo for the coleslaw.”
“Making mayo? Don’t we have some in the fridge?”
“Yeah, but it’s tastier this way,” I say. “Plus, this is my show-off meal.”
“They’re all your show-off meals,” someone shouts. I turn around and see Danny, Nico and Poncho coming into the kitchen. They’re tanned, shaggy-haired. Nico’s got a new eyebrow ring and is carrying a case of beer with both hands. The three of them got back about a week after I did, and the overlap will last only a couple of days before they continue on to college. I’m staying.
They come around shaking hands, half hugging. The guys give cheek-kisses to Mom, gentle shoulder pats to Dad. “Una chela?” Nico says, cracking a beer open and offering one to my parents.
“Nico, the man just had a heart attack.”
“All the more reason,” Nico says. “Life is short!”
“You offer my husband another beer and I will shorten your life.”
I turn my attention back to the food. I grab a few more eggs, crack them into a bowl, turn on music that Emma might have chosen. Buttermilk was impossible to find, even at the fancy supermarket a few blocks away, so I use a mixture of whole milk and heavy cream. Danny steps over with a beer for me. “What are you making for us?”
“Nashville hot chicken sandwiches.”
“Whatever that is,” Danny says, looking at everything crowding the counter. “Anything we can do to help?”
“Call Emma. See if she wants to come over.”
Danny laughs. “Still?”
“Hasn’t been that long, man.”
“Yeah, I get you. A little offended that our company won’t suffice, but whatever.”
“What can I say? She takes a joke a lot better.” I smirk, walking over to rinse the egg from my hands. “Cuter too.”
“Yeah, I’d replace you with Siene in a heartbeat too,” Danny says, drinking from his beer, taking the opportunity to delve into the story of the Belgian girl he fell in love with overnight in Venice. How instead of joining the guys on a train to Munich, he just walked around the city with her, and ever since he hasn’t been able to get her out of his mind.
I julienne carrots and bell peppers for the slaw while Danny talks about her. It goes on for a few minutes. Meanwhile, Nico and Poncho regale Dad with Eurostories. Then Danny seems to have exhausted himself of the topic. He leans back against the counter, watches me dredge some pounded chicken breasts in flour. “Anyway. Everything okay with you?”
I pause, think for a second. I still expect to see Felix showing up places. In the flour, in the condensation sweating off the beer bottle, in any corner of any room. “No, not everything,” I say with a shrug. Then I add a smile, wash my hands again.
Danny seems content with the answer. We turn our attention to the main conversation. I switch the deep fryer on, and while that’s heating up I cut the brioche buns in half and slide them into the oven. I make a quick dressing for the slaw, mix it with the mayo, a good amount of lime that I know will make the flavor of the chicken’s seasoning pop as well as dissipate its heat. Chopped cilantro, olive oil, a little apple cider vinegar. I picture Elias scooping a tiny bit of slaw into his palm, getting that approving look in his eye. I picture the lake at night, Emma kicking pebbles as she walks, arms folded, glasses resting on top of her head. I picture life unfolding. Not in any particular direction or manner but just the sheer fact of it, the steady unraveling of time. Outside, the summer storm is unusually late, patches of blue sky still visible out in the valley. I wipe the counter clean, carrying plates to the sink.
The thermometer on the fryer dings, and so I turn to it, setting up the chicken to go in in batches. I prepare a bowl with an absurd amount of cayenne pepper, some sugar, garlic powder, paprika. I pull the quick-pickled cucumbers from the fridge. This, I’ll always have. The joy of a dish come together.
We eat on the balcony, taking advantage of the weather. As best as we can over the sound of chewing, of drinking, of sharp intakes of breath when the spice is almost overwhelming, we talk. Of Europe and the island, of the guys going off to school in a few days, of my application to a culinary school in the city. We talk about Felix, how sweaty he got anytime he had spicy food but how he never shied away from it.
Later, when everyone has left, I walk by the kitchen, getting ready to do the dishes, a little conflicted about the fact that they’ve been washed and stored away. It is, of course, a relief. But I was looking forward to the nostalgia of it all. Which is insane. I was doing dishes for twelve hours a day only a couple of weeks ago. But I haven’t seen my fingers wrinkle in a while, and I somehow miss the sight. My lower back is relaxed, and I do not get to enjoy the relief of being done with the small, temporary pain of standing at the sink. There’s something to be said for discomfort that doesn’t last.
I go to my room, try to read. I still get too aware of life in those moments, see my fingers holding the book up, see my hands attached to my wrists, feel way too close to any of it. I grab my computer, set it atop my hamper as I search for some show or movie to fall asleep to. I end up reading through old emails Felix sent me, looking at pictures
from his travels. Just because I expect the pictures to move, to speak to me, there’s no reason they ever will again. I let the sadness crush me for a moment, then quickly click on the first movie my fingers find and lie back in bed, trying to calm my mind.
While the movie plays on, I grab my phone, looking up random recipes, just to see what people are trying out. I look up, again, stuff about the culinary school I’ll be attending. Then I move on to random pictures I took on the island. A bunch of the dishes I made. Emma in the meadow, eating a berry. The full moon from the top of that one hill, its impressiveness in the photograph a sad imitation of the real thing.
We haven’t talked since I left. Not a peep. She never answered any of my messages or calls, and once I got back home and was dealing with everything else, I didn’t know what could possibly be the point of continuing to reach out, other than self-inflicted torture. But because it’s three in the morning, and these things tend to happen at three, I open up my email. I type the first thing I can think of into the body of a new message and then immediately delete it because it was a soufflé-related joke which is intensely stupid. I go the exact opposite direction and tell her I love her. Then I delete the hell out of that.
Years of this, it feels like. The movie ends, credits roll. I still have my phone in my hand, the email perfectly blank. It feels like this will never go away.
I really wish you’d been in my life longer, I finally write. I wish you still were. I’m not entirely happy with all it does and does not say. It’s something, though. I look around my darkened room for a second to see if Felix is about to show up with some words of wisdom, and when it’s clear that’s not going to happen and that I should just go to sleep already, I type Emma’s name into the address line, send it off into the ether and rest my head on my pillow.
Food’s not on my mind. Neither is Felix. Neither is death. Just Emma. It won’t always be like this, I know.
Sleep finally takes me without my noticing, and in the morning, for a moment or two, I am unaware of anything at all except how it feels to be awake again. Then I reach for my phone, flick my fingers this way and that, tap the screen.
1 new email, my phone reads. Emma St. Croix, it elaborates.
What a world, I think.
* * * * *
Acknowledgments:
First of all, I’d like to thank the chefs and cooks who read early drafts of the book and consulted on kitchen matters for authenticity. Agata Swinska, Sergio Rodriguez, Diego Valderrama and Kevin Todd, I’m indebted to you for your insight and time. Thank you to the staff at Cooper’s Hawk in Cincinnati for letting me observe a shift in the kitchen. Same goes for Alex Souza and Pixza in Mexico City. I’m also indebted to a few wonderful books: Blood, Bones and Butter: The Inadvertent Education of a Reluctant Chef by Gabrielle Hamilton; Yes, Chef: A Memoir by Marcus Samuelsson; Sous Chef: 24 Hours on the Line by Michael Gibney; Kitchen Confidential and Medium Raw by Anthony Bourdain. Also, the dishwasher forums I perused online and all those who posted in them, which helped me shape Carlos’s experiences in the kitchen.
A huge thanks and shout-out to my wonderful editorial team at Alloy, spearheaded by Annie Stone, who I’ll dearly miss working with. Sara Shandler and Josh Bank, and all the people there who do wonders for my books.
I’ve got the pleasure of having a second lovely group of people championing my books at Harlequin Teen. T.S., who makes my books better, even if he loves hard shell tacos. Tashya, Siena and everyone at the NYC offices, as well as Bryn, Michelle, Lisa, Amy and all those I had the pleasure to meet in Toronto the summer while writing this book. Thank you so much for all you do, for the countless hours you work on my behalf.
To all champions of books: librarians, booksellers, reviewers, publicists, sales reps, book club members, a bunch of titles I’m forgetting. Twitter users, Goodreads reviewers, anyone who can’t contain their love of books, whether they’re mine or not. Thank you for making this world a more bookish place.
Thanks to my family, their love. You should know my brother Shay almost derailed my interest in cooking by getting me angry one of the only times in my life, but he taught me plenty and probably fueled my interest more than either of us knows. I owe a great deal of my understanding about the world of restaurants to him. Many of my cooking skills come from my mom, and I’m eternally grateful to all the times she let me be her sous, and all the times she’s returned the favor. My sister, who spent a rainy summer in Mexico City with me watching Top Chef, the show which made me jealous of people who can cook and made me want to try to myself. My dad eats everything I cook and says it could be served at a restaurant, so that’s pretty sweet. Also, for being my constant cheerleader, and for being a probably severely underpaid business manager. Cat, for being the best reader in my family and maybe my biggest fan. Moms don’t count.
To Laura, of course, and her love. Of me, my writing, travel, food, balconies, sleeping, all of it.
I’ve been so thankful to find a wealth of friends in the YA author community. I wish I knew you all better. There are so many opportunities in a profession like ours to be envious or jealous of talent and success, but you’re such lovely people that I can only ever be jealous when you are hanging out without me. Come visit me in Mexico City. I’ll feed you. Ask Eric Smith and Zoraida Cordova. Whom I want to specially thank for coming to hang out with me in my hometown and making a few days of writing that much better.
A few other friends who’ve helped in a variety of ways I could list but I’ll save the space to list them instead: Chris Russell, Maggie Vazquez, Josh Zoller, Dave Rueb, Amy Olson, Bret Sikkink, Leslie Barnheizer, Perri Devon-Sand, The Dongers Crew for the travels and the meals (Laura Fairbank, Greg Fairbank, Steph Polvere, and Mackenzie Day), Jason and Mary Cornwell-Wright, John Powell, Dan Godshall, Jorge Brake, Federico “Bugs not Rico” Hernandez, Dawn Ryan, Leah Kreitz, Gonzala Scaglia, Claire Tinley, John McGrath. G and Berky, I wasn’t going to forget you this time. I’m sorry for the other two. I understand if you still hate me.
My agent, Pete Knapp. Thanks for believing in my writing. I’m excited for all that’s to come.
Lastly, and probably most importantly, thank you to my readers. I get to do what I do because of you, but your tweets, emails, Instagram posts, reviews and general support make it that much sweeter. Seriously, thank you for reading.
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Connect with us at www.HarlequinTEEN.com for info on our new releases, access to exclusive offers, free online reads and much more!
Other ways to keep in touch:
Facebook.com/HarlequinTEEN
Twitter.com/HarlequinTEEN
Instagram.com/HarlequinTEEN
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