Chapter 5 #2
My body feels stiff from remaining in the same spot most of the day.
Andrea sometimes makes it home for dinner, so I decide to be a good housewife and make food.
Leaving the projects right where they lie, I scrounge the kitchen for ingredients.
Once I find what I need, I set to work on broccoli and cheese soup.
My brother taught me how to make it when we were young.
With him being five years older, our parents put him in charge when they were working or traveling.
My parents worked in real estate and dabbled in investments.
Their long list of clients meant late nights at the office and little time for family bonding.
As we grew older, they were gone even more, only retiring shortly after Theo died.
Now, with no ties to Boston or any responsibilities, they get to enjoy the finer things life has to offer. How nice for them.
I grab milk, butter, cheese, carrots, and broccoli from the fridge.
As well as an onion and garlic bulb from the macrame basket, hanging beside the kitchen sink.
The remaining ingredients sit atop a slightly unlevel shelf we have yet to get around to fixing, even though we’ve lived here for a number of years.
I set to work, chopping veggies, grating cheese, and melting butter on the stove.
“Pleeeaaase… I promise I’ll be careful!” I begged my brother to let me chop the veggies, while he worked the stove. “I’m the Susan chef and you're the head cook!” I instructed my big brother. Placing a chef’s hat on the counter for him to wear.
I loved making things. Whether it was out of paper or food, I desired to create something new. He looks back at me, and I see the corner of his lip pull up into a small smile.
“I think you mean sous-chef.” My brother signs, ‘second chef’ before beckoning me over to the cutting board beside him.
I place my paper hat upon my head, causing my bangs to push down slightly into my vision.
At least I could still see well enough if I tilted my chin slightly toward my chest. Standing on a stool, my brother hovered over me, holding my hand on the knife, while the other was positioned atop a carrot, curling my fingertips inward so they were out of harm's way.
He guided me through three cuts before letting go, allowing me to experience the force behind the slice.
I had to lean all my weight forward to make it through the root.
“Good. Keep going. Careful not to cut yourself.” He instructs, while he seared the meat and transferred the drippings to a Dutch oven, I wanted to make something special too.
I used the tip of the sharp knife to make the carrot slices into star shapes, by carving out little triangles around the edge.
I had six stars finished before I glanced up to tell him about it.
Not looking at my next cut, the circular veggie got away from me and my finger wasn’t clear of the knife.
Blood welled from the edge of my ring finger.
Ahead of my cry, Theo was by my side, kitchen towel in hand.
“Shhhh.” He cradled my hand, examining the finger to make sure it’s not too bad. “Look, it’s still there. Just a small cut.”
I was more upset with myself for making a mistake than I was about the pain. I used my free hand to pull the paper chef hat off my head, causing it to tumble to the floor.
Theo looked at me, not tenderly but with something different in his eyes. “Do you see this?”
My blurry vision attempted to focus on the orange shape in his hand.
“This couldn’t have happened without this.
” He held up my sheltered hand, next to the carrot.
The red complimented the orange, tragic, yet somehow beautiful.
“You can’t grow without some pain, Cindel.
” He looked mad, but I knew he wasn’t. “Don’t stop pursuing what you love because you’re scared of getting hurt. Use it as a lesson and keep going.”
I know now the look he gave me was one of determination. Someone who knew life could be ugly and cause discomfort but also knew not to take it for granted. He always understood life was precious.
The pad of my thumb rubs idly over the tiny, raised scar on my ring finger.
I couldn’t discern if it was the onions in the pan or the recollection of my brother behind my fresh wave of tears.
Regardless, I continue through the cooking steps, occasionally patting the corner of my eyes with my sleeve.
Before long, I had a pot full of cheesy goodness.
Turning the dial to low, I decide to hop in the shower since Andrea still isn’t home.
My stomach growls in protest, after I emerge dressed.
Still no, Andrea. I shouldn’t be surprised; she told me she had some big projects coming up.
I pulled out my phone to text my missing roommate.
Cindel: Hey, I made your fav! Broccoli and Cheese Soup. Are you on your way home?
I watch little dots appear. Disappear. Appear. Then a text comes through.
Andrea: Hey, sorry! I’m going to be a little longer. Go ahead and dig in. I’ll have a bowl when I get home. Thanks!
I text back a thumbs up emoji, before dishing myself a heaping serving, and cuddling up on the couch to enjoy my favorite show, The Sopranos.
Andrea doesn’t understand my appeal to the show; she says it’s unrealistic.
As if her preferred happy-ending genres are any better.
My eyes race along the words on the screen, absorbing every dramatic gangster scenario Tony finds himself in.
Somehow, I find the show cathartic, even though logically, I know it’s morally wrong.
I’m not about to become some sort of criminal.
The family stuck to a code which made it predictable when someone went astray.
I finish my bowl of soup and set it down beside my collection of stitched hoops.
Just as the next episode begins, I feel my eyes growing heavy.
I tell myself if I just rest my eyes, I can make it through one more episode.
I can’t fight it… losing track of time between scenes of ‘not being able to refuse a request on his daughter’s wedding day’ and Johnny being dragged out of the wedding reception.
I startle when I feel someone touching me. Opening my eyes, I find Andrea sitting just in front of me, rubbing my upper arm gently.
“Hey.” She smiles down at me.
“Hey,” I reply sleepily.
The sun is up, despite feeling as though no time had passed. I must have fallen asleep on the couch.
“Were you knitting all day and night?” She gestures toward the table that looks like a craft store threw up. Everything was as I left it last night. Even the pot of soup remained abandoned since I passed out mid episode.
Without being asked, she stands to tidy up. “Did you turn off the TV when you got in last night?” I ask as I rub the sleep from my eyes, stretching toward the ceiling.
In the kitchen sink, my roommate fills my bowl to soak. Likely containing cemented cheese from last night’s dinner.
“I… actually, I just got in.”
Just got in? Shouldn’t the DVD be stuck on the main menu? I was only on season six; it should still be playing. Shouldn’t it?
I make my way to the kitchen and put my hand over the top of the pot to find it still warm. “At least the soup is still edible.” I give a weak smile. “So, you were at work all night?” I lean against the fridge watching her serve herself a ladle full.
“Ahuh.” She nods, as she blows and samples from her spoon. “Okay… do you work nights now too?”
She shrugs, while cautiously slurping at the thick stew. It’s not like her to be so vague.
“Are you not telling me something?”
She stops eating all together, places her bowl down and walks over to me, taking my hands in hers.
“Cindel, I was just working. I promise.” She squeezes my hand slightly.
“If I get laid… you’d probably catch me in the act,” she teases, then becomes serious, leveling me with a look.
“I’m not doing drugs, and I promise you don’t need to worry about my safety. ” She can read me like a book.
I bite my bottom lip, causing a twinge of pain, as I fight off any sign of hurt that may be collecting along the corner of my eyes. “I know. I just. I worry.” I rub the tip of my tongue along the swollen part of my lip I just created. Andrea looks at me with sympathetic eyes.
“I’m right here. You won’t lose me.” She pulls me into a hug, and I feel the dam I’ve been holding back release.
She doesn’t say another word but starts to sway like a mother rocking an infant. I didn’t want to cry again. I thought I was past this. Moments become minutes as I regain my composure and slow my breathing. My sleeves still prove to be an adequate tissue. I’ll need to wash this now.
“It’s not knitting,” I finally say once I manage to collect myself.
She pushes back from me with a puzzled look. “What?”
“You called it knitting, I wasn’t knitting all night, it’s called embroidery. It’s different.”
She releases me, picking up her bowl of broccoli and cheese soup before striding off to her room.
“Whatever you say, dork.” She slams the door.
“I heard that!”
I swear, we fight like siblings more than my brother and I ever did.
The door opens a crack, and she puts her hand out with her pinky extended, middle and ring finger down, and her thumb and pointer out. Sign language letters: I, L, & Y. Together it’s, I love you, in sign language.
I yell through the door that separates us, “Love you too, wifey!”