by Sasha Martin
My failure to reinvent myself ate away at me. Two months into the school year, I sunk into what felt like depression. At first I was listless in the early evening. Then my eyes glazed over during class. Pierre chalked it up to the move. “Take a shower, you’ll feel better,” he said.
But this was unlike any fatigue I’d ever experienced. Unable to concentrate, I excused myself from classes to sleep on the cool floor of the darkened auditorium until school let out. I crashed when I got home, only waking for dinner, generally eating little more than a crust of bread or thimble of stew. After a couple of weeks, I stopped waking up for dinner. I wondered, in passing, if this is what it felt like to be a bear—to hibernate.
With Pierre’s urging (he didn’t want me to fall behind), I continued going to school through fever and chills. And because I didn’t know how to stop, I also sleepwalked through my social life. One Friday afternoon, I drank half a pint of beer that came back up on the public bus. The next day my skin was yellow, and I couldn’t keep water down. Pierre and Patricia took me to the ER for a battery of tests. While the lab processed my blood work, the doctor did an ultrasound. He looked grim.
“We’re not sure what’s wrong with you. Your symptoms seem to point to hepatitis C, but it could also be a severe case of mononucleosis. Your liver is very damaged. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
He pointed to the ultrasound, a wash of incomprehensible black, white, and gray. He put down the image and took off his glasses. “Miss Lombardi, you might not make it,” he finally said, speaking English slowly, trying to make sure I understood. His eyes were clear and blue, soft but unblinking.
I nodded and closed my eyes. The illness had overwhelmed any desire for self-preservation. I wanted to tell him I knew why my liver was damaged, that I was stubborn and stupid and unable to control my drinking. I wanted to tell him I needed help.
Instead I retreated under the paper hospital bedding and slept. When the lab work came back, I learned I had mononucleosis. Though mine was the most severe case they’d ever seen, the doctor said that in time my liver would fully recover. For two weeks, nurses pumped fluids into me, took more ultrasounds, and monitored my white blood cell count. Color gradually returned to my cheeks, and I was moved out of intensive care.
One day a chipper redhead popped into my room.
“Hi, Sasha, how are you feeling?”
I looked at the girl blankly. She seemed familiar, but I couldn’t quite place her or her British accent.
“It’s me, Annie. Can I come in?”
Before I had a chance to object, she rushed into the room. Her ear-to-ear grin all but caught her freckles on fire. That’s when it hit me. This girl was in my class. We hadn’t spent time together; she was almost a year and a half younger than me, and didn’t smoke or drink. She deposited a tote full of homework and a signed card from classmates on the edge of the bed and then sat down at my side.
“Now onto the important stuff—let’s talk boys!”
None of the other kids I’d been hanging out with had come by. In fact, aside from Patricia and Pierre, Annie was my first visitor.
“How come you’re being so nice to me? Coming all the way out here, to the hospital?” I asked, overwhelmed.
“Why not?” She shrugged her shoulders.
“It’s just that it’s really far away—”
“Nonsense. I know what it’s like to move, and to be the new kid. Where are you from? Do your parents move a lot?”
“Nowhere, really.” I looked down, “Actually, they’re not my parents. I’m adopted. That’s why I don’t have red hair.”
I don’t know why I lied. I’d always said Patricia and Pierre were my guardians before.
She reached across the bed to pet my hand. “You and I are going to be good friends.” She smiled again. Her warmth immediately dissolved my defense mechanisms.
After I got out of the hospital, Annie and I were inseparable. With her friendship, I no longer felt the urge to sneak off campus and smoke. Instead I threw myself into my studies and activities. I joined the basketball and softball teams. I continued theater and choir. I was the yearbook editor. I made the honor society.
This is not to say I didn’t rebel anymore. Though I still stayed out late and socialized with some of the older kids in school, they were on a serious curfew. When I pushed the limits, I was only out until 2 a.m.
Patricia and Pierre let me be as long as my grades didn’t suffer. And they didn’t. For two years, I excelled in every subject and slowly built my confidence.
But Patricia seemed to be sinking under the pressures of yet another move, another language barrier, another world. Though she’d grasped a fair amount of French when we lived in Paris, the shopkeepers of Luxembourg seemed to favor Luxembourgish and German. Whereas the expat community at school insulated me, Patricia kept more and more to herself, only connecting with the other mothers in passing.
She perked up when her girls came home for the holidays. Patricia and Pierre made a point of flying their daughters home every Christmas and Thanksgiving, often extending the invitation to their boyfriends, who’d be put up at a nearby hotel. For two precious weeks Patricia would bubble over, laughing and cooking the way she’d done when I first arrived in Atlanta: preparing roast chicken with tight, crackling skins, silken gravies, and cheese soufflés that never fell. One year she replaced our Christmas stockings with tights, which stretched to accommodate three times as many gifts.
But after she dropped the girls off at the airport, the gloom resurfaced. Patricia spent an increasing amount of time locked away in her bedroom. Sometimes I wouldn’t see her face for weeks, though dinner would be on the table when I got home from school, fresh and steaming.
I wondered if it was my fault that Patricia was so sad.
Every time I called her “Patricia” and Pierre “Papa,” I felt a twinge of guilt. But I couldn’t undo the past. When an unwitting parishioner at our church looked from me to Patricia and remarked, “Oh, I see the family resemblance!,” neither of us knew how to respond.
I hunkered down, head tucked firmly in my shell, waiting for Patricia’s smile and big laugh to echo through the house again. When she’d finally emerge from her room—and she always did—I tiptoed around the house in an effort to keep the peace as long as possible.
One day in the winter of 11th grade, I sat at the breakfast table, eating a bowl of cereal before a basketball game. It was 6, maybe 7 a.m. I hadn’t seen Patricia for days. Suddenly, in the early morning quiet I heard a rustling upstairs, and then a stomping. Someone was coming downstairs—fast.
Patricia thrust her head into the breakfast room, a scowl contorting her face. She opened her mouth, then thought better of it. When she stomped back upstairs and slammed her bedroom door, the whole house shook. A moment later, she was back. She looked at me, then fled back upstairs and slammed her door again.
Finally she was back. “Michael killed himself because of you,” she fumed. “It’s your fault, not mine. I picked up the phone when he was talking to a friend. He said you were driving him crazy.”
She turned on her heel and disappeared into her room.
I stared at the empty doorway in shock. Five years had passed since Michael had died. I’d never heard her say anything about his death, let alone whose fault it was. My mind swirled with anger, disbelief, and then doubt. The thought of being responsible for his death was too much. Adrenaline pushed into my veins, fingertips, and toes. A scream rose up inside my chest. But I shut my eyes and silenced my simmering emotions. There was no peace in this forced quiet, only stubborn survival. Slowly, I shouldered my gym bag and left.
Patricia’s words consumed me for the next days and weeks while I replayed them over and over: Could she be right? Was it my fault? Did he give up on life because I was a pain in the neck? It seemed ridiculous. My friend Annie assured me that it was. But since I hadn’t heard the conversation, I couldn’t be sure.
Annie said she thought Patricia bl
amed me because she had her own guilt to unload. “Think about it, Sasha. She took you kids in. He died on her watch. Everyone knows it wasn’t her fault, but that doesn’t mean she believes it. She had to make you the scapegoat, just to make the hurt ease up.”
I wasn’t sure, but I did know one thing: I didn’t want to upset Patricia again. I hollowed out my personality in an attempt to remove any potential source of conflict, real or imagined. Instead of telling her I didn’t like the Swiss cheese she put on our hamburgers, I simply said I was vegetarian—except for fish and chicken. I left the house as much as possible, finding solace in my friendships. I never told Pierre what had happened; he watched me come and go with a look of bewildered concern. I kept the conversation with Patricia to the essentials, like what time I had to be at school, or where my sport trips would take me.
On those trips, my friends became my family—Annie more than any other. When she invited me to spend Christmas with her in Spain, we all welcomed the idea. Annie and I spent those two weeks eating paella, a traditional Spanish rice dish made with smoked paprika, saffron, and all manner of fish or meat. We wandered daily through the neat orange groves in the valley below her parents’ small villa. One afternoon, I plucked an orange from the branches but found that the center was more pith than pulp. When I asked Annie when the fruit would sweeten, she shook her head and said, “No telling.”
One evening in early spring, I came home from school to find Pierre in the kitchen holding a box of spaghetti, reading the label.
“What are you doing?” I asked, surprised to see him there. He was never in the kitchen, unless he was grabbing one of his daily apples from the fruit basket on the counter. “Where’s Patricia?”
“Patricia went to the States to take care of her dad for a few months.” He turned the box in his hand, tracing his finger along the ingredients label. “Hey, do you have any idea how to make this?”
“What do you mean, she went to the States?”
“She … she just had some things she needed to take care of.”
I waited for him to elaborate, but he kept staring at the spaghetti box.
“Did I do something wrong?” I asked. “Is she mad at me?”
“No.” He shook his head sadly, “She’s just mad at the whole world right now. She needs some time. And her father needs her.”
I considered Pierre’s expression, so tightly controlled, but so clearly brokenhearted. This string bean of a man had no idea what to do without his wife. For the first time, I noticed a few strands of gray in his brown hair.
I took the box from his hand and read the label: “Boil 2 quarts of water. Add pasta. Cook 8 to 10 minutes.”
Pierre got out a measuring cup and began to dump 8 cups of water into a pot, one by one.
“You really don’t need to do that,” I laughed. “Let me help.”
I filled the pot with a rush of water, stopping when it was three-quarters full. I cranked the heat to high, dumped a handful of salt in the water, and popped on the lid. Pierre reached for the tomato sauce, but I pried Patricia’s Joy of Cooking off the shelf and thumbed through the worn pages until I found the entry for homemade Alfredo sauce. I accidentally added the flour after the milk, so it came out lumpy, but a quick taste proved that the mash was still edible.
Next I chopped a salad. Pierre and I enjoyed our makeshift dinner at the breakfast table with mismatched plates and paper napkins. It was nowhere as beautiful as Patricia’s meals, but it was seasoned with the luscious sauce of accomplishment. While we ate, I asked Pierre if I could help cook dinner again sometime.
“You don’t need to worry about dinner—”
“But I want to.”
“Well, how about I make dinner during the week, and if you want to play on the weekends, go for it.” He looked over to the basket of potatoes. Their knobby eyes were sprouting white, slender roots. “What do you think about starting a garden? We could grow Brussels sprouts. And potatoes.”
I clapped my hands. “Let’s do it right now!”
So we went outside, beneath the sinking sun, and tilled the overgrown garden patch until the dry crust was replaced with moist, black soil.
The next day at school I rushed to my friends, thrilled with the prospect of cooking again. “Who wants to start a cooking club? We can all take turns hosting at our houses. I can go first!” I wanted to make sure I’d be able to get my night in before Patricia returned.
That Saturday, Annie came to the house with a basket of lettuce, tomato, red onion, feta cheese, and olives. A soft baguette was tucked under her arm, still warm from the bakery. We paraded solemnly into Patricia’s long dark kitchen.
“It feels so weird being in here,” I confided.
“I wouldn’t worry about it. Can’t let a perfectly good kitchen go to waste!” she said, flipping on the light switch.
We hunted through the cabinets, rummaging until we uncovered a green stoneware mixing bowl. Carefully I added some flour, four eggs, and a sprinkling of water to make homemade pasta. But the dough was a stiff knot, ravines cracking through the surface even as we tried to knead it together. I remembered how Mom used to say Grammie made hers with the strength of a hundred Italian sailors.
“I don’t know, maybe we should rest our arms for a minute,” I said.
Annie threw a damp cloth over the dough and we ran down to the liquor store. Ignoring the shop owner’s recommendations for a crisp white wine, we filled our arms with sangria mix. Back at the house, we poured it into a pitcher along with sliced oranges, limes, and lemons.
Twenty minutes later, I poked the mound of dough with my finger and was surprised to find that it dimpled softly. I cupped my hands around it and squeezed. The craggy surface yielded, mashing together smoothly. Annie and I laughed. Maybe what appeared to be strength was in truth a question of knowing when to work the dough and when to let it rest.
Pierre came in to see what we were doing. I handed him a half-glass of sangria and shooed him out of the kitchen.
“We’re fine. Thank you,” I said, smiling.
“OK!” he said, cheerfully.
“Really—thank you.” Suddenly tears were in my eyes, “I don’t think you’ll ever realize what this means to me.”
One by one the girls arrived. While Annie greeted them, I made the Alfredo sauce a second time, whisking whole milk and Parmesan into the pale roux until a velvety white sauce formed. This time there were no lumps. I ladled it over the hot pasta.
The seven of us sat around the dining table, candles lit, wineglasses filled with scarlet-washed fruit. We were only 17 and 18, but we felt like grown-ups. We were so engrossed in conversation that we didn’t even finish the sangria.
Our cooking club continued at everyone’s house, one each week. We ate Turkish food at Yonca’s house and Irish stew at Maeve’s house. Annie decided nothing would be better than to host a chocolate feast. It was one of my happiest high school experiences: building friendship while sharing the joy of communal dining and creation.
Homemade Pasta Dough
Homemade pasta has a mild, toothsome quality that dried pasta cannot match. Even after a good boil, the slippery noodles seem thirsty, soaking up the sauces and broths in which they swim. I, for one, believe all chicken noodle soups should contain such love.
Though most pasta recipes use semolina and omit water in favor of olive oil, mine is a good beginner recipe—easily workable. But it does need to rest. Twenty minutes in the beginning gives the water time to distribute evenly, smooth out the gluten strands, and soften the mix. If the dough springs back during rolling, two things can be done to relax the gluten further: Occasionally lift and slap it down onto the table—or walk away for a few minutes.
A note on salt: Mom taught me what her Grammie taught her—salt the water, not the dough. She says it keeps the dough from getting tough.
5 cups all-purpose flour
4 large eggs
A little water
Add the flour to a large bowl or mound
it onto a clean kitchen counter. Push one of the eggs into the center of the flour and swirl it around to make a crater. Crack the eggs into the crater and beat them into the flour. I like to use my fingertips, but a large fork works well, too.
When the eggs are evenly distributed, stream in the water. I typically use a half cup, but on a dry day, ¾ cup may be necessary. Work the shaggy mass into a rough ball; the dough should be stiff and knotty looking, almost craggy. Cover with a damp cloth and let rest about 20 minutes. This will give the water time to distribute evenly through the flour, making smoother and more pliable dough. Knead for 5 minutes.
From here, the dough can be rolled thinly and sliced with a pizza cutter to make fettuccine. Sheets of dough can also be filled to make several dozen ravioli. While rolling, remember to dust the pasta dough if needed, and slap it down once in a while to get the gluten to relax.
Gently boil until tender, keeping in mind fresh pasta typically cooks twice as fast as dried. Bite to test doneness. If any white remains in the center, keep cooking.
Makes 2¼ pounds
CHAPTER 11
On Borrowed Time
WHEN IS SHE COMING HOME?” I asked Pierre as I cut into the tender red skin of a newly harvested potato.
In Patricia’s absence, spring had given way to summer. Our potato sprouts had cracked through the dirt and formed leafy plants. For weeks, Pierre and I had piled soil around each tender stem, hilling them for the best yield. When the leaves yellowed and dropped, we’d pulled the tiny potatoes from the dirt and boiled them with a touch of salt. I had no idea if Patricia had called with an update, or if she and Pierre were even talking. But I couldn’t take the silence any more.
“I–I’m not sure,” Pierre said, staring at the mound of potatoes on his plate. Whenever I asked him about her, he stuttered, clearly heartbroken. So I stifled my questions, and we continued our meal in silence.