Chapter 5 Truthfully
S craping the last drizzle from the bowl, I slid back the chair and stood to leave. The ice cream was as good as I remembered, but as I tossed the bowl in the trash, I tried to forget the memories it had drudged up.
Exiting the parlor, I refrained from looking back and concentrated on what lay ahead. Admittedly, I was considering the thoughts of Lauren and how brash I had acted. Contrary to my initial thoughts, I realized perhaps I was making too bold an assumption. Seeing how Brooke and I were so alike, maybe I needed someone who was different.
During the walk home, I pondered what dating Lauren might look like. I had messed up, and having a second chance might very well be out of the question. However, there was a glimmer of hope that remained ahead. Lauren, like me, was curious about Ms. Debbie. We had planned to meet again the next day, and if she showed up, I wanted to be ready to make amends.
“Jay’s Grocery and Deli” was one block from my house. My normal shopping day was on Saturday, but I needed some fresh produce for what I had in mind. Pulling open the door, I was met with an aromatic blast of fresh, sizzling meats. As I moved through the store, a fan blowing over the fruits, blasting away flies, replaced the sizzling scent of grease with the early harvest of strawberries.
Seeing the owner out of the corner of my eye, I offered a wave before continuing down the aisle. Only when I landed at the back of the store did I pause. Jay stocked a variety of freshly sourced foods, but one of my favorites that seemed to catch on was black bean bread. This unusual assortment had been something Ms. Debbie had convinced the owner to order for a certain delicacy she named “cold, cold burritos.”
The initial idea stemmed from what Ms. Debbie called her connection to New Mexico. She never would clarify whether her roots were grounded in the state or if she lived there for a certain amount of time, but instead, she would forgo the explanation by shoving the sandwich in my hand and insisting I eat more and talk less.
A relatively basic idea, the sandwich was not gross like the name might imply. Instead, it was a Mexican treat that could be enjoyed without the use of an oven or a microwave, making it the perfect meal to take to work—or for lunch with Lauren.
The main ingredients were simple: black bean bread, avocados, onions, tomatoes, jalapenos, a lime, and chicken. After pan-frying the chicken, the meat was set aside to cool, then placed in the refrigerator overnight. In more conventional settings, it was the left-over chicken from dinner, much like a turkey sandwich following Thanksgiving. The only other part that would need to be made in advance was the guacamole. Usually, this was an additional twenty minutes of work, but guacamole and chips often made for a great evening snack. Then, the following day at work, I could simply coat two pieces of bread with a generous helping of guacamole, add some sliced peppers for an extra kick, and sandwich the chicken in between.
Satisfied with my idea, I carried my selection to the front, where Jay stood back from the grill to ring up my selection.
“Hey, Joshua. How’s it going?” His tone implied his sympathy for Ms. Debbie, confirming the news of her death had made its way to him.
“I’m managing. I suppose you’ve heard.”
“Yeah. I hated to hear of her passing. She was one of my favorite customers...” he lamented before continuing. “I see you are still a fan of her—cold burritos, was it?”
“Cold, cold,” I corrected with a laugh. “I guess I’m the only one who buys it now.”
“Actually, no. One day a Hispanic family was shopping in here, and the wife spotted it. After that, she must have told her friends, because I kept running out and had to order more.”
“Oh, I figured it was always low in stock because we were the only ones buying it.”
“Well, initially.” He paused before transitioning to his next thought. “Do you know of the arrangements for Ms. Debbie?”
“There’s only a viewing on Monday from ten until twelve. If you can make it, I know that would have meant the world to her, but I understand if you are tied to the store.”
“I can close up for thirty minutes and come by. That’s the least I could do.”
“Sounds good. And oh, I almost forgot; I’ll need to get some chicken from you as well.”
“Would you like it precooked?” he asked, recalling my usual request.
“Actually, just some that is already thawed out. Cooking helps me relax.”
Knowing what I meant by relax, Jay walked to the storage cooler and brought back a half-pound of breast. “Is this enough?”
“Sorry, I should probably get a pound.”
“Oh,” he said curiously. “Dinner for two?”
“Something like that. A friend is helping down at the shop, and I’m providing lunch.”
“Ahh. Alright then,” he said, nodding his head.
A few moments later, he returned with the second breast and calculated the total. With the exchange completed, I gathered the bags and continued my walk home.
Dropping the bags beside the kitchen sink, I considered the need to get another car or possibly buy back my old one. I doubted it was a quick sale, but the problem was the money. I had paid Ms. Debbie before she passed, which I did not regret, but funds were going to be tight for a while, especially with the store being closed for a week. I would have enough to get by with my savings, but the car would have to wait.
After placing the produce along the counter, I reached for a colander in the cabinet. It had been a while since I had used it, but the bowl remained on top of all the other pots and pans. Clearly, my cooking had taken a back seat. Dismissing the thought, I ran the tap to get the water warm enough to rinse the vegetables without scalding my hands. As the water continued to flow, I reached for another bowl to place in the left basin of the sink. Needing some vinegar for a disinfectant, I bent down to the below cabinets and began to rummage through the other cleaning supplies until I found the bottle I was in search of.
I placed the vinegar on the edge of the counter, unwrapped the unopened label, and discarded the plastic. Without any further thought as to why I had so methodically run the hot water—as inside the apartment, it usually took forever to become warm, or in down hours, it would scald the skin off your body—I placed my hand under the faucet. With a curse, I jerked away, simultaneously knocking the full bottle of vinegar off the counter. Waving my hand and attempting to catch the bottle with my body, the vinegar spewed down my shirt, onto my pants, and into a river along the floor.
“Arh!” I huffed. “Why does everything have to be a mess?”
I lifted the now-half-empty bottle and grabbed some towels from the drawer. As I stooped down to mop up the vinegar, I pounded my unscathed hand on the floor, releasing my frustration.
In reply, the neighbor from below answered back with the prodding of a broom handle on his ceiling. “Keep it down; why don’t you!”
Angry, I sat back on the floor. My clothes lay stuck to my body, and the bitter aroma filled my nose. I shook my head, still fuming with the range of emotions that had compiled my day. With my good hand, I pulled myself from the floor, slammed down the handle of the faucet, and headed into my bathroom. I peeled off the shirt and pants and grabbed a washcloth from under the sink. The last thing I wanted to do was take a shower with a burnt hand, but I needed to wash off.
Placing a drop of soap on the cloth, I rubbed my chest, where the majority of the vinegar had landed. It would take more than a little soap to get rid of the smell, but I needed to finish making lunch and assess my hand.
Rinsing the washcloth, I added another dripple of soap and went back over my skin. I watched myself in the mirror, almost disgusted with the visual that reflected toward me. I was not fat in any sense of the word, but I knew I had done better, been better, with eating and working out, both of which had seemed to cease.
I turned on the water once again, removing all the soap and vinegar before going over my skin a final time with just water. Somewhat satisfied, I pulled the hand towel from its hanger and dried myself off before tossing it beside the sink.
Across the hall in my bedroom, I went and stood in front of the closet, searching for a clean shirt. The task should have been automatic, without thought. I had no intentions of going out the remainder of the day, so the first baggy shirt I laid my hands on would have sufficed. However, it was likely that the same thought drew my hand to the extra-large yellow Bobcats basketball shirt.
The Bobcats were not my college team of choice, but as a prank, a friend had given me one for graduation because they were the Knights’ arch rival. At the time, I laughed off the sentiment and stuck it in the back of my closet, never to be worn, particularly owing to the fact that I cared less for the color and the team, but in addition, I was more of a medium-to-large shirt kind of guy.
The point being, when Brooke started spending the night at my apartment, she had come across the seemingly faded yellow top and clung to it for a nightshirt. I could not have loved her more for dancing around and cherishing one of my shirts, but out of all the choices, it was the Bobcats. Brooke had admitted that she did not care for the team either, but just to get under my skin, she insisted on wearing it nightly. So much so, she would make sure it was washed regularly. This taunt always brought a smile to her face, and when we were having sex, it seemed to amplify the intensity of our motions because she refused to take it off until I forced it over her head.
I released the breath I was holding and pulled the shirt from the closet. Still shirtless myself, I imagined walking back into the kitchen, opening the trash can, and, with the shirt still on the hanger, tossing it out. I had waited years to throw the shirt away, but each time, the scent of Brooke seemed to magically cling to the fabric. With the recollection of her came a flood of memories, and as usual, I settled on placing it in the back of the closet.
Put off by my lack of ability to concentrate on the future, I decided to refocus my attention, this time choosing a large Knights shirt. With what I considered the last of Brooke’s belongings hidden away, I returned my attention to preparing the sandwiches for Lauren and me. The effort to clear my mind was unsuccessful, though, because whenever Brooke entered my thoughts, I always found myself revisiting the reason for her sudden departure.
Indeed, I had questioned her integrity, but I felt like knowing the reason for her not wanting children might put my thoughts at ease. Perhaps I would have forgone kids just to make her happy, and then we might have grown closer as a couple. I would never know the answer to such bothersome thoughts, but over the years, I was able to piece everything together. It just took time for my eyes to see the circumstances clearly.
When Brooke left, there was no doubt she had done so during the night or early the next morning. In her departure, she had left all her belongings behind. One of the hardest parts of our breakup had been the fact that she never said goodbye, but unlike ripping off a bandage, never receiving a call advising me what to do with her belongings proved worse. However, I finally mustered the strength to pack them up.
I had been meticulous in folding her clothes so they would not wrinkle, labeled each box for tops, bottoms, and undergarments, and even separated her stuff in the bathroom: solids and liquids. Looking back now, I realize the measure was overkill and just a form of lamenting. But after a breakup, any decent man will be at his weakest, and that was exactly where I fell.
When I had gathered all her belongings from the bathroom drawers and cabinets that she had claimed, I searched my own cubbies to make sure nothing had been overlooked that would have been Brooke’s. It was hard enough removing her from my life, and I did not want to have to do it again.
With no other pieces of our relationship in sight, it was in that moment that I realized something I had failed to consider—perhaps because Brooke had been secretive in that part of her life—but there were no tampons to be found. Call me a novice, but the one thing I knew was women always kept pads or something stashed away. Sure, Brooke might have been one of those women who failed to prepare for her cycle, but I knew Brooke, and she was prepared for anything.
It all made sense. Brooke was not against having children. On the other hand, it was probably the one thing she wanted most, but it was clear, she was unable to have them. Pulling out and not using a condom were all means to keep her sanity. Although it looked as though she was being cautious in some ways and not in others, the truth was she could not bear the thought of me finishing inside of her and the false hope it brought. So instead, Brooke left, fearing her love alone would never be enough.