Chapter 21
Tucker
Ava got spooked enough by an encounter with her mother that I immediately signed her up for self-defense.
I offered to take it with her, but she said I might be someone she needed to defend herself from, and if I learned it, she would never win.
While I was quite sure Ava could kick my butt, class or not, I understood her fear. I wouldn’t do anything that made things worse for her. So, I drove her to class and sat in the car to wait for her to be done.
During those hours, I took the time to read more about other amnesiacs’ recoveries. I already knew that the visual, auditory, and other sensory memories were all stored differently. What I wanted to know was the techniques that would help her reconnect her present circumstances to her old emotions.
Smells were the strongest, the research showed. A perfume, a favorite food, or the unique combination of scents of a specific place could evoke the feeling of a memory, even if the actual event could not be accessed.
It was important, though, that the smell be unique. If a cleaning fluid or a brand of cat litter or the whiff of the same lavender candle became commonplace, there was no way to access an emotion or even a sense of familiarity.
But I had ideas. If her brain couldn’t remember the life we’d built together, maybe her nose and stomach would.
The dates had gone well. But popcorn had gotten overused. And we’d been to most of the old places. Despite so much more time together, we were staying friendly. I couldn’t make any inroads into her heart. I might as well be Big Harry. Or Vinnie.
But I would work on it. On our next night together, I brought over a bag of groceries.
She let me into the house, her curiosity already urging her to peek at what was inside. “What’s all that?”
“I’m going to make us dinner,” I said.
“Good idea,” she said. “It costs less money, plus, we get leftovers.”
Survival Ava. We’d gone over our budget the week before, and she was aghast at how close we were cutting it. She redoubled her efforts to get her photography back to her old standard so she could earn more than she did at Harry’s.
“What are we having?” she asked.
“Lasagna.” This was once her favorite dish. It had served us well, getting us back together when she was nineteen. It had become shorthand for us over the years for when either of us wanted to get busy. Are we having lasagna tonight? Should we make lasagna? It’s been a while since we had lasagna.
“Have you made it for me before?” she asked. “We don’t serve that at Harry’s.”
This, I knew. And we hadn’t been to an Italian restaurant on a date. This would be new to her. “Not for a long time.” The lasagna I made from Gram’s recipe would evoke many good feelings, a true connection that ran deeper than friendship. It was the only ace in my hand.
She followed me to the kitchen. “I know the word lasagna, but I can’t picture it. Can you describe it to me?”
I began pulling the boxes and jars as I explained.
“It’s done in layers. First, you boil these long, flat noodles.” I held up the blue box. “And then you make the sauce.” I showed her the bag of tomatoes and began pulling spices from the rack on the wall.
“You’re using a lot of those,” she said. “I haven’t touched them.”
She’d been mainly reheating frozen meals or leftovers from Harry’s. “You’ll like how it all works together.” I pulled out packages of ricotta, mozzarella, and freshly grated Parmesan.
She examined the spread. “That’s a lot of cheese.”
“That’s what makes it so good. You layer the pasta, cheese, and meat sauce. Then you bake it. Would you like to make it with me, so you learn how?”
She glanced around the kitchen. So much of it was still foreign to her. She could pick up pots and pans and spoons and knives and know what they were, but the alchemy of cooking, remembering recipes, and portioning out the right amounts of ingredients were skills still well beyond her.
“All right,” she said. “I guess this is as good a day as any to learn how to feed myself properly.”
I pulled out the cutting board and a chef’s knife.
“That’s a big knife,” Ava said. “Want to see what I’ve learned?”
I turned to her, holding the knife.
She squatted, eyes on the blade, then suddenly her tennis shoe was flying at me, knocking the knife from my hand. It clattered to the floor.
She leaped into the hair and smacked her hands together. “I did it!”
“Nice moves,” I told her, bending to pick it up.
“I’ll wash it. I knocked it down.” She reached for the handle, and our hands collided.
The jolt of touching her rocked through me like it had since the first date. She seemed to have gotten used to the regularity of our holding hands, but this time, her eyes went wide.
“Cosmopolitan talked about this,” she said.
“The magazine?”
“Never mind.” She took the knife and moved to the sink.
Interesting. Cosmopolitan would certainly have given her a lot of ideas she may not have had before.
I piled the tomatoes next to the sink, and she washed those, too.
She lifted one to inspect it. “Working at Harry’s has taught me a few things. Mainly to make sure everything is clean.”
I moved the tomatoes to the cutting board and took the knife, cutting an X into the ends. Then I peeled the paper off a head of garlic and pulled out several cloves. I used the flat edge of the knife to crush it.
Ava leaned on the counter. “You’re good at that.”
“I’ve had a lot of practice. Gram said she’d rather roll over dead than use bottled sauce.”
“We have huge cans of it at Harry’s.”
“It’s a common shortcut.” I bent down to retrieve the big stew pot and dump the tomatoes in. I covered them with water and started the flame.
Ava opened the end of the pasta box, admiring the long, flat pieces. “Did we used to make lasagna together?”
“I would make it for you.”
“And I liked it?”
“It was one of our favorite meals.”
While the tomatoes boiled enough to be skinned, I found the bottle of olive oil in the cabinet next to the stove and swirled a couple of tablespoons along the bottom of a pan. When I dropped the garlic into the hot oil, the entire kitchen filled with the fragrant aroma.
“Ooooh,” Ava said. “That smells so good.” She scooted closer.
I sprinkled in all the other spices, each one adding to the unique smell of the sauce. I watched her as I went along.
“This is making me so hungry,” she said. “And happy!”
“Can you put some ice and water in a bowl?”
“Sure!” She pulled out a big mixing bowl and filled it. “What’s this for?”
I used a spoon to pull the tomatoes out of the boiling water and into the ice bath. “This will make them shrink so I can pull the skins off.”
“This sure is a lot of work.”
“It’s worth it.”
We peeled the tomatoes together, laughing at how slippery they were. The next time our hands collided in the bowl, her gaze snapped to mine. She wasn’t laughing now. Something had caught within her, and she was surprised at the feeling.
It was working. This was exactly how we used to be.
While the sauce cooked, I told her we should listen to some music.
“Yes!” Ava cried. “I found the music on my phone. Flo said my collection was ‘eclectic.’ I think she meant it as an insult.”
“We are all over the place.”
She pressed play, dancing around the room to Lizzo from the speaker on the phone.
But we had a better setup than that. I moved to a shelf near the back door, where a Bluetooth speaker was plugged into the wall.
When I powered it on, it automatically hooked into her phone, and the song poured from it, pure and loud.
“Yes!” Ava cried, waving her arms and turning in circles.
The music stayed upbeat for a few songs, then toned down. The smell of the sauce filled the space. We spun around the table for the fast songs, and finally, when a somber Taylor Swift ballad came on, Ava laid her arms on my shoulders. We moved together slowly through the kitchen.
She let everything come over her. The smells, the words, the ribbon of music winding its way through her senses.
“I like you, Tucker Giddings,” she said. “Cosmo said you were supposed to kiss me by the third date. This is like seven or eight.”
I did not waste any time. I drew her close against me, both my hands holding her head. I bent down and pressed my mouth to hers.
Sixth first kiss.
This part was the same. The fit of our lips. The tilt of her face. Her fingers gripped my shoulders. It was as though no time had passed since the last time I’d kissed her, since the morning of our wedding day.
She wasn’t tentative at all. There was no war in her head about things being too fast or too slow. She was completely in the moment, letting her body be her guide.
She pressed against me, chest to chest, hips to hips. I knew when she felt something different about me because she pulled back, her eyebrows lifted. “I read about that part. I have to make sure you know what’s in it for me.”
I laughed. So, maybe she did have a few things swirling in her head. “Ava, trust me, everything we do is all about you.”
“I’m supposed to play hard to get, at least a little.” She pushed on my chest to separate us. “What happens next with lasagna?”
I led her back to the stove to start the water for the noodles.
But this time, we worked on it together, arm in arm, kissing in between.
The terrible tension in my chest started to ease.
I was getting her back.
For the next few nights, we planned dishes and cooked them together. I loved this because it was a facet of our relationship that hadn’t existed before. We always took turns with the dinners, letting the other person work or relax.
Now, teamwork in the kitchen was our new normal.
Fresh vegetables and salads and ingredients turned a simple meal into memories for her.
We had more than just the food. We had research, conversations, and planning.
This simple act of setting out and achieving a goal with a new recipe boosted her confidence.
She relaxed more and worried less. We curled up on the sofa to eat and watch a movie, often old classics that weren’t too flashy or loud.
About two weeks into our new culinary relationship, I suggested we take a night off and let someone else cook for us. We hadn’t been to a nice restaurant since she’d lost her memory because she obsessed over every expenditure now that she had seen the budget.
But one of my buddies at the garage told me about this hole-in-the-wall Italian place that wasn’t too expensive, had good food, and had a very romantic vibe. He assured me it was quiet and small.
When we went out to the car to go, she asked to drive, another surprise. Her doctor told her it was okay if another adult was in the car.
She did a good job navigating the side streets and remembering when to signal and when to change lanes. I worked hard to make it fun and easy for her, suppressing any feelings I had of alarm if she braked too hard or passed a turn.
Her sense of accomplishment was written all over her face. “I’m back on the road! Six weeks until I can drive on my own!”
When we walked inside the restaurant, she loved the place immediately. “It’s like in Casablanca! We’re in the movie.”
I had to agree with her here. In the corner, a man played an upright piano. The music heightened the charming, old-fashioned feel of the place with its nestled tables and antique decor.
We sat near the music, and she asked the man at the piano to play “As Time Goes By.” He gave her a half-smile.
No doubt he was asked to play that song many times every night.
I dropped some cash in this tip jar, and we settled at our table, close together, tucked against a wall draped with red velvet.
We talked about the menu, and she settled on their lasagna so we could compare it to our own. I chose some things I thought she might like to try, and we talked easily about the photos she’d been taking with Vinnie, my job, and the meals we would likely make next week.
Our lives were very small. Without the breadth and depth of her history, we could only speak of things that had happened in the last month.
Just like the previous time she’d lost her memory, Ava had little interest in her forgotten past. She wanted to move forward, only focusing on the elements of her knowledge that she needed to help her with her present.
I ordered Baked Alaska for our dessert, and she clapped like a girl when the server lit the top on fire.
“I can’t believe it!” she said. “I’ve never had a dessert that caught on fire before!”
We had, more than once, but there was no need to tell her that. I smiled at her delight and dipped my spoon inside the ice cream to feed her a bite out of habit.
Her excitement about the new experience was high enough that she did not question me feeding her but leaned forward to accept it. I watched her swallow the bite, her eyes on me. Her comfort with me was growing.
“It’s really good,” she said. “It makes me feel funny inside.”
I knew the dessert wasn’t what was making her feel strange, but I simply nodded. I took a bite myself from the same spoon. She noticed, and her eyebrows lifted. But when I offered another bite to her on the same spoon again, she still took it.
This simple intimacy opened the door to get her closer to me. I pulled some notes from my adolescent playbook, turning on a scary movie after dinner so she would clutch my arm. I smiled when she grabbed hold of me but did not let go even when the frightening part had passed.
This was real progress.