Forget You Know Me

by Jessica Strawser

  23

  Hospitality management had its perks, but a forgiving schedule wasn’t among them—least of all when you were the newest hire. Liza had spent consecutive Thanksgivings catering to families who considered it a luxury to forgo home cooking. She’d worked the Fourth of July every one of her Chicago summers, never once seeing the fireworks light up the lake. She’d volunteered to run Valentine’s dinners and dances, grateful for the excuse to keep busy; she’d bartered for Christmas and New Year’s off; she’d reluctantly handed over coveted concert tickets on nights when she was called in to choreograph damage control. She accepted this as part of the life she’d chosen and rarely complained—though enduring the disappointment of her parents, significant others, and friends meant that she never missed an occasion without, at minimum, a twinge of guilt. Sometimes it actually made her glad of having so few attachments, and at that, she could appreciate her career even for its flaws.

  But when she looked over the week’s schedule on Monday and saw that she was the only one available to open the restaurant Tuesday morning, she minded. Luke and Steph would be headed to the hospital, to resolve the incarcerated uterus—Liza would never get used to thinking those awkward words, much less saying them—one way or the other. And she’d be able to offer them nothing but a good-bye and good luck.

  After Max had returned to Chicago, the drawn-out stillness of anticipation filled the house. They all moved quietly among each other, knowing these could be the last days with the baby, and while Liza knew this potential loss would never mean to her what it meant to Steph and Luke, she shared in their fear—while doing her best to behave as if she did not. She continued to do Steph’s “hope yoga” alongside her, and after dark downed without argument the stiff drinks her brother poured them both, so he wouldn’t have to steel his nerves alone.

  Liza planned to stay out of their way tonight, to let them have the final hours to themselves. But come tomorrow’s procedure, she’d hoped to be on call, on hand to celebrate or mourn, whatever the day would bring. She sat in the tiny back office off the Sky Galley kitchen, paging through the planner, looking to switch shifts, but could see no one available. A reluctant yet strong dread began to fill her, and she tried to put the emotion in check, to give it a swift kick. It wasn’t as if Luke and Steph asked her to be there, after all. It wasn’t as if they wouldn’t understand …

  And that’s when she realized the dread was not coming from the schedule.

  It was coming from the smoke.

  She smelled it nightly—the fatal scent of her worst dreams, accompanied by the terrible sound of crackling destruction. Sometimes she imagined screams. A baby crying. Distant sirens that would arrive too late. She’d wake and repeat over and over to herself that it wasn’t real, yet still she could smell it, hear it, even taste it.

  Just like now. Only she was wide awake.

  Shouting came from the kitchen, where the cooks had been prepping for lunch service, and a second after she registered the ashy air as real she could see it, thick and billowy, filling the doorway of her windowless office, blocking the exit. The smoke detectors began to bleat.

  Fear pinned Liza to her chair even as the blur of a white chef’s coat ran past the doorway, then back again, carrying a shiny glint of red. She heard the fire extinguisher discharging in several bursts, followed by masculine cheering. Liza should jump to her feet, get out, go check, take charge. But she couldn’t breathe.

  A young line cook appeared in the doorway. “Don’t worry, boss, it’s out. Sorry about that. Overheated the grease, then spilled it when I tried to clamp on the lid.”

  The earsplitting beeping of the alarms went on. She licked her lips, squinting at him through the smoky air. She couldn’t speak.

  “That alarm will have notified the fire department. We’re supposed to wait in the parking lot until they give the all clear.”

  Then the approaching siren was real, too—it was so like the one in her dream. The one that wouldn’t get there in time. The one that might as well not come at all.

  “Boss? We’d better go.”

  She got to her feet, numbly, and managed a nod.

  Henry found her in the parking lot, standing apart from the group, as far from the massive fire engine as she could reasonably be without drawing attention. He’d been in a meeting at the opposite end of the terminal, evacuated too. He looked from her to the flashing lights and back again and wrapped a silent arm around her shoulders. Don’t you cry, she commanded herself. Don’t you dare cry.

  * * *

  Henry’s apartment did not smell like smoke. It smelled like cinnamon and sugar.

  “Cinnamon rolls?” she asked as he took her jacket.

  “My weakness,” he admitted. “Most days breakfast is the only meal I cook at home, and there’s this great recipe I can’t resist—so my kitchen kind of permanently smells like them.”

  “Yum.” When she’d brushed off his concerned suggestion that she beg off work for the day—though she’d already known she would tremble through the entirety of her shift—he’d invited her over for dinner instead. “Helluva start to the week,” he’d said, not commenting further on her pallid state. “Give me a chance to help turn it around.” Before she could wonder if she should say no until she’d pulled herself together more tightly, she heard herself say yes.

  His one-bedroom in a high-rise on the edge of downtown was compact but clean. Almost too clean—but the signs of life she did see passed inspection. A bookcase so crammed full of thrillers and biographies, no amount of tidying would declutter it. A worn gray throw she could imagine a grandmother or an aunt laboring over, crochet hook in hand. A wine fridge that was, as revealed through the glass door, filled with an assortment of microbrew bottles. At that, she pointed and smiled. “So the date to the winery was just for show, huh?”

  “Not at all. That was for fun—a wine adventure!” She laughed. “But on a normal day, the wine I drink hardly needs its own fridge. My parents gifted me this, so I figured it would be of better use perfectly chilling my expensive beer.”

  She cocked her head at him. “Those are my exact spending proportions for adult beverages.”

  “Then next time I’ll take you to Taft’s Ale House. It’s gorgeous.” He opened the little glass door. “What’s your fancy? I have an early release of a summer lager.…”

  “Sold.” She crossed the room to examine a series of vintage aerial photos framed on the wall. They were all islands: some sandy, surrounded by turquoise waters, others lush and mountainous, and a few encrusted with snow.

  “Even paradise can look lonely from the sky, can’t it?” he said, coming to stand next to her. “Reminds me not to wish myself away too much.” He held out a pilsner glass, and she took a sip.

  “Perfectly chilled,” she said.

  “Right? Okay, so this isn’t a line, but you have to follow me into the bedroom.”

  She laughed. “How is that not a line?”

  “It’s the best place to check out the view. No funny business, I promise.” Never mind that she was already fantasizing, in spite of herself, about sticking around long enough to try the cinnamon rolls. She followed him in and stopped short. His view was panoramic, from the football-shaped stadium across the bridges to the levee. It did not make Cincinnati look like a backup plan, and this only endeared him to her more.

  “It’s a very Chicago apartment by Cincinnati standards,” she said approvingly.

  “You didn’t like Chicago,” he pointed out.

  “I liked the view.”

  “Well, so do I.” But he wasn’t looking out the window. His eyes were on her.

  * * *

  Liza did not stay the night, but she did stay long enough that Luke and Steph were asleep when she got home. Come morning, she followed them as far as the front porch, where she waved, trying not to look like she was sending them off to some make-or-break fate, though they all knew that’s exactly what she was doing. Their hugs were quick and tight; they prom
ised to call.

  Work, at least, was better. Nothing remained of yesterday’s smoke, and she was relieved to find she could start her shift with a steady hand—printing half sheets of the lunch specials, taking inventory behind the bar, brewing coffee and tea for the busser stations because the opener had called in sick. She distracted herself with flashes of Henry last night—how he’d somehow known to both keep a distance and stay close, down to holding her hand as he’d walked her to her car. Still, her stomach churned with a different worry, and she broke her own staff rule and kept her phone on hand, though she wasn’t supposed to hear anything until closer to lunch.

  At 9:30, though, it rang, Steph’s name flashing on the screen. Liza was in the office retrieving register drawers from the safe, and lunged to answer.

  “I’m not having it done.” Steph was talking so fast Liza could hardly process the words. “It worked! The yoga actually, finally worked! Talk about sliding in under the buzzer!”

  “You fixed it on your own?” She pulled a clenched fist toward her and squeezed her eyes shut—yessssss!—and when she opened them, the head cook was in the doorway, eyebrows raised. He was a hulking, ponytailed kitchen lifer named Keith who, when she’d asked how long he’d worked there, had responded by counting managers, not years. Thank God he hadn’t witnessed her incompetence during the grease fire. Good news, she mouthed, pointing at the phone, grinning as if he’d been stopping in to check on her all along.

  “I did! Or the baby did. Either way, my uterus is free!”

  Liza did a little dance, and the cook’s mouth twitched in something between a smile and a smirk before he disappeared from view. Let him think her ridiculous. Something she really cared about had gone the right way, when it so easily could have gone the other. Sliding back into the groove of not censoring herself was an indescribable comfort.

  “We have to celebrate tonight,” Liza gushed. “Whatever you want!”

  “Luke and I are headed to Original Pancake House now,” Steph bubbled. “I’m going to order one of everything. I really might.” Liza laughed. “But tonight, you and I: sister celebration.”

  The word seized her. Sister. Molly had used it for her in affection; Luke had mainly said it in jest; she couldn’t remember the last time she’d heard it. “Thank you,” Steph whispered. “For everything. You’ve been great.”

  “I don’t know about that,” Liza said. “But I’ve been meaning to say the same to you. I chose such a bad time to show up at your door—”

  “How many times do I have to tell you I’m glad you’re here?” Steph interrupted. “But I’ll be gladder if you come home with really good chocolate. Champagne being off-limits and all.” No one had ever sounded so thrilled to be forbidden alcohol.

  “Done,” Liza said. It was nice to be needed. Maybe that was what she’d been missing these past few years. She’d been so accustomed to the way Molly relied on her, before she’d left. Maybe she hadn’t found her friend’s tagalong ways as cloying as she’d let herself believe.

  “What’s the good news?” Keith asked. He was back in the doorway. “Did you get a better job offer after all?”

  She laughed. “My brother is going to be a dad,” she said.

  And she was going to be a damn good aunt.

  * * *

  For the chocolate, Liza stopped at the Kenwood Graeter’s, not just because it was decadent, though it was, but also because it was conveniently located near a big-box baby store. Steph wouldn’t be the only one getting presents today. Liza had thought through the rest of her shift about the way she’d blurted Steph’s news to Keith as if she’d just heard it for the first time. All of them—their parents and friends included—had spoken of the pregnancy as a maybe ever since the complication had arisen, avoiding mention of the end result. She’d gone along with it to protect Steph as much as to guard against her own disappointment, but now she felt ashamed and wanted to make it up to her future niece or nephew.

  Liza hadn’t set foot in the store in years, but it was just as she remembered: fluorescently lit, primary colored, and plastic, with the overall feel of a sales circular that used too many exclamation points. She sidestepped the seasonal toy sale—inflatable floats and sand buckets already—and followed the signs past a dizzying array of formula and diapers to the real baby gear. The good stuff.

  Outfits were a no go, without knowing the gender, and stuffed animals seemed generic. She wanted something useful but also meaningful. Her first insurance check had arrived, and she had money to spend—but the more extravagant necessities, the car seats and strollers and swings, seemed like things Steph and Luke would want to choose themselves. The arrays of features were dizzying; pros and cons would need to be weighed, preferences specified. And of course Luke and Steph hadn’t registered yet; no one had made noises about a shower for a baby no one dared talk about.

  Finally, at the end of one of the aisles, she saw it. A tall display topped by a flowery sign that said simply: “Peace of Mind.” These were baby monitors, high-end ones: with video features, remote monitoring through smartphone apps, and two-way voice. She reached for one with a glittery twilit sky on the package and turned it over. This model tracked more than just sound. Breathing, movement: a safeguard against SIDS. So you can rest easy while your baby does, the box promised. It was perfect. As one of the most expensive options, it was one they might not buy for themselves. What better than some extra “peace of mind” to celebrate the weeks of worrying Steph now could put behind her?

  Liza smiled the whole way home, the box gift bagged beside her next to the ribbon-tied chocolate-covered pretzels and buttery buckeyes. Henry was right—it did help, in a weird way, to prepare for the worst. Like how she always tried to have an umbrella along, because that way, it wouldn’t rain—sudden downpours preferred catching her unawares. She’d gotten up the nerve to give the fire ladders to Luke, and he’d simply sized her up for a moment before admitting they were probably something every house should have. No big deal; nothing to read into.

  She burst through the front door clumsily, her rustling bags and jingling keys disturbing the peace as she maneuvered inside. She’d expected—well, noise. Music. Laughing. Everything that had been missing as they’d tiptoed around the complication. But though the lights were on, the house was quiet and looked just as it had when she’d left that morning. Steph’s yoga mat was still unrolled in front of the couch in tribute to the awkward poses she would no longer have to assume.

  Liza found Luke upstairs, sitting on her bed in the guest room, looking sadder than she’d expected. When she stepped into the doorway, he looked up and pressed a finger to his lips. “She’s taking a nap,” he said, his voice low. “I think it’s the first good sleep she’s had in weeks.”

  Liza nodded and shut the door behind her. “What are you doing in here?” she asked. “Have I violated house rules?”

  When they were growing up, their father had proclaimed things “house rules” willy-nilly, too often for anyone to keep track of them, and usually only after they’d been broken. If Luke came home from one of Dad’s favorite restaurants without offering to bring takeout, he’d tsk, “Come on, kid. House rules,” and then help himself to Luke’s Styrofoamed leftovers. If Liza bought a Madonna concert on pay-per-view without asking, he’d say, “Damn it, Liza. House rules!” and then hover around, mimicking the backup dancers until she wasn’t sure which of them looked sillier.

  Luke, too, would be a great father: funny, good-natured, and just this side of embarrassing in public. She realized she wasn’t the only one who hadn’t been herself these past weeks. Luke had traded his irreverent side for a more guarded one. It’d be nice to have him back.

  “Oh, my.” He laughed. “How did I almost forget about house rules?”

  “You’ve had a few other things on your mind.” She plopped onto the bed across from him, dropping the bags to the floor, and gave him a smile. “I’m so relieved, I can’t even imagine how you must feel.” They hadn’t had mu
ch time just the two of them since she’d arrived, and the familiarity of Luke without the still newness of Steph was nice. She breathed it in.

  He nodded. “I walked down to Pipkin’s Market to grab some flowers for Steph and got some for you, too.” He gestured at the vase of pink tulips on the nightstand and tapped his index finger on the miniature notepad she’d left sitting on the edge. “I wasn’t snooping,” he continued. “Just putting them here. But I couldn’t help but see…”

  He took the pad into his hands and raised an eyebrow. How careless of her to leave it out.

  “‘Deer struck on overpass fell on car passing below,’” he read. “‘Fall on basement stairs with laundry basket. Baby pool after a rainstorm.’” His eyes returned to hers. “What are you listing, exactly?”

  She looked down at her hands, self-conscious. He wouldn’t like this. But she could think of no explanation but the truth. She cleared her throat. “I keep checking the Chicago news sites for some update on the fire—the cause, the litigation, whatever. But there’s never any news.” She shrugged. “This stuff jumps out at me instead.”

  “These are ways actual people have actually died?” She nodded. “Jesus, Liza.”

  “Yeah, well. Turns out he doesn’t always take the wheel.”

  He blinked at her. “You know fear is a defensive response, right? You’re going to render it useless if you make yourself afraid of everything.”

  “Who said I was afraid?”

  “You’re keeping a list of odd, random ways to die.”

  If he turned the page, he’d find the scribbled backstory she’d imagined for the woman who’d fallen—how it had been years since she’d gone through a day without doing some household chore that had gone unnoticed by everyone else, and how they sure as hell were going to notice now. She hoped suddenly and intensely that he wouldn’t. Best to keep him talking.