Chapter 9 #2
Sarah slurped hers enthusiastically across the table, completely oblivious to the undercurrent of my self-recrimination. "These are so salty. I love salty things."
"They're... efficient," I managed weakly.
Emma settled into her chair across from us with her meager plate, a sad little arrangement of raw carrot sticks and apple slices. She nibbled a carrot with determined cheerfulness, clearly committed to making this feel normal.
"So how are the bees handling the cold snap?" she asked conversationally. "It got pretty chilly last night."
"They're clustered tight. Staying warm together."
"Sarah told me about the bee sweater concept." Emma smiled warmly at my niece. "I absolutely love that image. A whole hive just snuggling."
"Uncle C says they get grumpy in winter," Sarah added through a mouthful of noodles. "Really grumpy. Like him."
"I'm not grumpy."
"You're a little grumpy sometimes, Uncle C."
"That's just my face."
"Your face is grumpy then."
Emma laughed softly, and the sound eased something tight in my chest even as the guilt continued gnawing at me. She was being gracious. Warm. Engaged. Never once making me feel worse about the noodles.
But her graciousness was a spotlight, illuminating the vast empty space where my competence should have been.
"These apples are really good," Emma said, offering a slice to Sarah. "Want to try one?"
"Yes please!" Sarah crunched the slice happily. "Way better than Uncle C's apples."
"I buy the exact same apples," I protested.
"Yours taste sad."
"How can apples taste sad?"
"I don't know. They just do. These ones taste happy."
Emma pressed her lips together, clearly suppressing a smile. "Maybe it's all about the presentation."
"The presentation of apples?"
"Everything tastes better when someone else prepares it with care." Her eyes met mine, warm with gentle teasing. "Scientific fact."
The meal was mercifully short. Emma couldn't eat much from her small plate, and my appetite had completely vanished under the weight of my guilt. Afterward, Sarah helped clear the dishes, they were mostly just forks and my empty shame cup.
"Thank you for staying," Emma said as we gathered by the front door. "The company really did help. I wasn't looking forward to a quiet evening alone with my thoughts."
"Thank you for having us," I said. My words felt desperately inadequate. I wanted to apologize again, to promise I'd do better. But I'd already said sorry. It hadn't filled her empty plate.
"Same time Monday morning?" I asked instead, a little disappointed that she had canceled tomorrow’s tutoring session with the kids. "For the pickup?"
"Same time. Thank you, Cole." She paused meaningfully. "For all of it. Really."
I helped Sarah into the truck. As we drove away down her dirt road, I watched Emma in the rearview mirror—a solitary figure on her porch, balanced on crutches, before she turned and hobbled back inside alone.
The silence in the truck as we climbed the mountain was heavy. Sarah, full of salty noodles, was drowsy and quiet. My mind was a roaring, self-critical storm.
I thought about Emma's cabin. Her real kitchen with spices, pots, and a cutting board that actually got used. She knew how to create warmth and nourishment effortlessly.
My cabin had a hot plate, a dented kettle, and a cupboard full of survival rations. I knew how to keep a body alive. I didn't know how to feed a soul.
Good intentions weren't enough. They were the currency of children and fools.
By the time I pulled up to my dark cabin, a decision had solidified into certainty. I wasn't just giving her rides anymore. That was the bare minimum.
Tomorrow was Saturday. I was going to figure out how to actually cook. Not just heat something up. Real food. Real breakfast. The kind Emma could eat without her stomach protesting.
I got Sarah ready for bed, my mind already racing through possibilities. I had eggs somewhere. Flour, maybe. What did people make for breakfast that wasn't from a box or a Styrofoam cup?
"Uncle C?" Sarah's voice was sleepy as I tucked the blanket carefully around her.
"Yeah, kiddo?"
"Ms. Reed’s apples really did look better than yours."
The simple observation twisted something in my chest. "Yeah. They really did."
"Why didn't she eat noodles with us?"
"Her stomach doesn't like them. Some people need different kinds of food."
Sarah considered this with six-year-old seriousness. "That's really sad. Noodles are so yummy."
"They are. But I should have remembered that she needs different things. I should have planned better."
"Are you going to cook real food now?"
The question, so direct and innocent, almost made me laugh. Almost. "Yeah, kiddo. I think I am going to learn."
"Good." She yawned enormously. "Ms. Reed needs real food. Not sad apples and carrots."
"She does," I agreed quietly. "She really does."
"You could make pancakes. Pancakes are real food."
"I'll look into pancakes."
"With bananas. She likes bananas."
"How do you know Emma likes bananas?"
"She told us in class. We talk about things." Another yawn. "Night, Uncle C."
"Night, sweetheart."
I walked out to the main room of my cabin and retrieved my phone from the kitchen drawer.
For the next hour, I did something I'd never done before in my entire adult life.
I searched with intense, focused determination: How to make pancakes from scratch.
Easy breakfast recipes. What to cook for someone with a sensitive stomach.
I watched videos of cheerful people whisking flour and cracking eggs like it was easy.
I read about baking powder versus baking soda.
I learned the difference between "fold" and "stir.
" I was a thirty-five-year-old man watching a teenager explain basic pancakes on the internet.
Rock Bottom had a basement, apparently, and I'd found it.
I made a list. A real shopping list. Not survival rations designed to last forever, but fresh things that actual humans ate: eggs, milk, ripe bananas, plain yogurt, real butter, whole wheat flour.
Three items became ten. Ten became fifteen. I'd started wars with less preparation than this.
It was a new kind of survival. Not surviving the wilderness, but surviving my own inadequacy. Not just being enough to keep someone safe, but being enough to help them actually thrive.
If Emma Reed was going to let me into her life, I couldn't offer instant noodles and good intentions and expect that to be enough.
The mountain had taught me resilience over fifteen hard years.
Now I had to teach myself tenderness.
One recipe at a time.