12. Who knows? Maybe I was even a good cook.
"Who knows? Maybe I was even a good cook."
Aria
I’m on my way to my first therapist appointment—feeling a lot better in my new clothes—and I’m excited to finally start my journey toward recovery.
Caleb offered to take me, but since it’s only a fifteen-minute walk, I insisted on going alone.
He’s already rearranged his life enough for my sake, and I don’t want to be a burden.
Last night was really nice. I enjoyed our talk, and surprisingly, we did eventually settle on a movie.
I can’t help but feel jealous o f the girl he’ll date when he’s finally open to it. Despite what he believes, I’m sure he’ll make some girl very happy in the future. I can’t imagine him bailing on his girlfriend when I see how kind and thoughtful he is to me, a total stranger—and kind of a weirdo.
I survey the house numbers until I finally find the office of Dr. Stuart. Inside the practice, there’s a small waiting room with magazines, so I pick one to page through while I wait.
Before long, the door of the office opens, and a fifty-something man with salt-and-pepper hair and kind eyes steps into the waiting room. “Good morning. I’m Dr. Stuart,” he says, offering his hand. “Welcome. Jane, is it?”
“Thank you. Nice to meet you.” I shake his hand. “I go by Aria now.”
His eyes shimmer with interest as he smiles. “Aria, come on in.”
His office is warm and inviting, boasting a large mahogany bookshelf that stretches across most of the far wall, its shelves filled with neatly arranged texts.
A brown leather couch and matching armchair sit facing each other in the center of the room, the soft light from a nearby lamp casting a cozy glow over the space.
I take a seat on the couch, and h e grabs a notebook before sitting down across from me.
“Dr. Silva wrote me a long note about your condition, and I’m here to take over your treatment. To help you navigate these difficult times. Can you start by telling me how you are doing? And what these last few days looked like for you?”
“I’m okay,” I say, wringing my hands. “I mean, I feel a little weird. And kind of . . . empty. Frustrated too. But I guess it could be worse.” A smile pulls at my lips. “I’ve been staying with Caleb Hawthorne, and he’s been truly wonderful.”
“Yes, I see that in your file. Do you have everything you need there?”
“More than I could ask for. He’s even introduced me to his friends, and they took me shopping yesterday.”
“Wow, so you’ve had a busy few days already. That’s good, really good. I was going to encourage you to find a name and start thinking about going out and making friends, but you’re already one step ahead.”
“It was his idea, actually. He thought some girl talk and fresh air would help.”
“And did it?”
“Not with my memory, but in terms of my mental health, I’d say so. I feel a lot better, like I have something to hold on to, rather than just ruminat ing about the things I don’t know.”
“I agree wholeheartedly,” he says, scribbling something in his notebook. “What you’re doing is very healthy. What about food? Have you been exploring different options?”
“I have,” I say, struggling to suppress a chuckle. “Actually, Caleb ordered about ten different pizzas yesterday so I could try them all. It helped. I learned that in my opinion, pineapple has no business on a pizza.”
He laughs softly. “I agree with you on that one. But this is good. I want you to keep doing that. Not ordering every dish on the menu, per se, but trying different foods instead of just sticking to what you know. At least for a while. I also would like you to listen to different styles of music, engage in different activities to see what resonates with you.”
I nod slowly. “Yeah, that makes sense. What kind of activities?”
“I always encourage routine tasks. Like grocery shopping, cleaning, cooking, doing laundry, et cetera. Engaging in things that most of us do on a daily basis, and the movements and smells that come with them, can help with recalling fragments of lost memory.”
I clasp my hands. “Yes, absolutely. Caleb has a big house, so there is plenty to do.”
“Don’t ex haust yourself, naturally. It’s also very important that you have a support system. Since you’ve already made friends, I’d encourage you to nurture those relationships. In a way that feels right to you, of course. When in doubt, always trust your gut.”
I draw a small breath, nodding. “Okay.”
“Last thing I’m going to ask you is to keep a journal to track your daily activities and emotions. This will build a sense of continuity and help your brain reorganize.”
“Oh, that sounds fun,” I say, excited about that one.
“Great.” He offers a warm smile. “I know this is a lot of information for your first session, and you’re doing great.
Just know that if at any point you feel lost or overwhelmed, you can talk to me.
I’ll give you my card so you can call or text me, day or night, and I’ll do my best to get back to you as soon as possible. ”
“Thank you. That’s very kind, but I think I’m okay. It helps that I’m not alone. Staying at the hospital would have been a whole different ball game.”
“Yes, you were lucky. We do see better results in patients who are living at home or a homelike environment compared to patients staying in the hospital or a long-term care facility. Unfortunately, we don’t always have a choice.”
“Lucky” is the right word. I do feel fortunate that, given my circumstances, Caleb is the one who slammed into me in the first place, because I’m pretty sure most people wouldn’t have taken care of me the way he does.
“Before we finish our session, I want to do a couple of small games, activities that will challenge your brain and help you explore your likes and dislikes again. Then, I’ll give you the journal and let you rest for the day.”
We work through a few simple memory exercises, trying to piece together bits of my past. Each question feels like a small puzzle I can’t quite solve. The activities are light enough but mentally exhausting, and I can feel my brain straining to grasp on to whatever fragments it can.
After the exercises, the session comes to an end, and we say goodbye. I must say, this first therapy session was a great start. Dr. Stuart is understanding and calm, which I appreciate, and his advice was sound. I’m already feeling better about seeing him every day this week.
Ready to start my homework for the day, I grab my phone from my pocket and text Caleb.
Aria
Permission to do laundry?
My phone lights up with his call, and I sigh, picking up. “Hey, I didn’t want to bother you.”
“You’re not. But why are you asking me if you can do laundry? You know you’re welcome to use anything in the house.”
“I meant your laundry, ” I say, my cheeks burning.
“Oh, um, I have a cleaning lady. She’ll be stopping by tomorrow, actually. Can I ask where this came from?”
“It’s for my therapy. The doctor suggested I do everyday, routine activities to get my brain back in motion, or something like that. Cleaning, laundry, and other household tasks would be on the list.”
“Um, sure, yeah. Help yourself to laundry and anything else. How was therapy?”
“Great. I really like Dr. Stuart.” I breathe in the brisk air. “He’s going to help me make progress, I can feel it. He did give me quite a bit of homework, though, so I’m going to start as soon as I get home.”
Caleb chuckles. “Wow, you’re on fire. Glad to hear that. Feel free to do anything around the house that might help.”
After watching some videos on how to do laundry—who knew it was so complicated?
—I wash a load, then dust and sweep the entire lower floor and first floor.
I want to keep at it and do the remaining floors, but I’m exhausted, and my migraine is making an encore appearance.
So, I grab the journal and pen Dr. Stuart gave me, then lie on my bed to write down what I did today and the emotions I felt.
I didn’t think I’d have too much to say, but turns out, I ping-ponged between a myriad of emotions since this morning.
I also really like the way the pen feels on the paper.
It’s surprisingly soothing and freeing to unload it all on the page.
The pen does scratch through the paper sometimes, which is frustrating, but I’ll ask Caleb if he has other pens I can try.
I need one that glides better, with a more solid grip.
This one feels a bit too loose in my hand.
Still, writing seems to have helped with the migraine.
As I’m finishing my paragraph, I hear the front door opening, so I head back downstairs.
“Hey, you’re back,” I say when I spot Caleb in the living room. “How was your day?”
“Good. Practice stung at first, but it all fell into place. You?” His eyes widen as he glances around. “Whoa, this place looks spotless. Thank you for doing all that.”
“It’s the least I can do. Besides, I have to stay busy.”
“Did it help at all?”
I sigh, leaning against the handrail. “Yeah. It was good to focus on something outside of myself for a second, get out of my own head. And I’m now pretty sure I wasn’t a cleaning lady in my other life, or an exercise fanatic. I’m exhausted.” I chuckle, stretching my arms over my head.
“Well, I guess Janine won’t h ave much to do tomorrow.”
“Actually, I was thinking, maybe you could give her a few vacation days? The therapist said I have to do routine activities every day, and I only did the basement and the main floor today.”
He crosses his arms against his chest, his biceps bulging under his sweatshirt. “You’re not my cleaning lady, you know.”
“I know, but maybe we could try that, just for this week?”
He cocks his head to the side, then eventually nods. “Fine. I’ll give Janine some paid time off. I know she’d appreciate the chance to go visit her kids.”
“Great.” I clasp my hands. “I’m going to start on dinner, and then—”
“Hold on,” he says, raising his hands. “You’re making dinner now? Didn’t you just say you were exhausted? Let me cook. You haven’t lived until you’ve tried my mom’s lasagna recipe.”
My stomach gurgles at the thought. All this cleaning really worked up my appetite. “Lasagna does sound good. But I found this recipe online that’s been calling my name.”
“All right,” he says, dropping his arms. “Can I at least help?”
“No, no. You go rest, play—wh atever you usually do. I’ll take care of this,” I say with a lot more confidence than I actually have. But it should be easy enough, right? I just have to follow the recipe.
He protests a little, but eventually he retreats upstairs, telling me to call if I need him. Once I reach the kitchen, I start by gathering all the ingredients and utensils I’ll need, then I start cooking.
I hum as I stir the pan, feeling oddly pleased with myself.
Cooking is relaxing. Simple. Therapeutic, even. Just chop some stuff, throw it in a pan, and boom—food. No memory required. Who knows? Maybe I was even a good cook.
The aroma of sautéed onions and garlic permeates the kitchen. That seems like a good sign. Full disclosure—I don’t actually know what I’m making, but the recipe on my phone makes it sound easy enough. Something with chicken. Or maybe pasta? Whatever. It’ll be fine.
I check the directions again, squinting at the step I just completed. Wait. Did it say to sauté the garlic? Or burn it into oblivion?
I poke the garlic with a spoon. It’s . . . crispy. That seems wrong.
No big deal. I’ll just add more flavors to cover it up. Cooking is about balance, right? I dump in the next ingredients, stirring with enthusias m. Well, maybe a little too much enthusiasm, because a chunk of something flies out of the pan and lands on the floor.
Oops.
I glance at the recipe again. It says to deglaze the pan with wine. That sounds fancy. I grab the bottle Caleb keeps by the stove and pour a generous splash straight in the pan.
The metal hisses, sizzling violently.
I jump back. “Okay. That’s fine.”
I stir for a few more minutes. The liquid disappears way too fast, leaving behind a dark, sticky layer. That doesn’t seem right, but I don’t have time to work out that issue, because something else needs chopping.
By the time I finish, the smell has taken a notable turn. It’s . . . different. More pungent. I hesitate, then cautiously take a sniff. My nose scrunches up.
Oh. That’s not good.
I quickly scrape at the bottom of the pan, but nothing budges. The hissing turns into a crackling, and a wisp of smoke curls upward.
Okay. I can fix this. I lower the heat, then pour in another splash of wine, but as soon as the liquid hits the pan, a billow of black smoke erupts.
I hurry to open the large sliding window, then turn on the range hood. Not an easy task when you only have one eye and smoke is casting a thick haze over the kitchen.
“Aria!” Caleb calls from behind me, a hint of panic in his voice. I didn’t even hear him come in.
He strides forward, seemingly unbothered by the smoke that is threatening to consume his kitchen. In one smooth motion, he grabs an oven mitt, yanks the pan off the stove, and slams a lid on top, trapping the smoke. Then, he brings it out to the patio to cool down.
My throat tightens as he rushes back into the house. “I’m so sorry—”
“Are you okay?” he asks, his hands cradling my face, then holding my shoulders. “Gosh, that could have been really dangerous.”
“I’m fine,” I say, still a little shaken up.
Not so much because I almost burned his kitchen down, but because of the way his hands feel on my body and his eyes trap me, full of concern.
Like I’m this precious creature that matters to him.
And for the first time, I don’t just wish I had someone in my life waiting for me. I wish that someone was Caleb.