Chapter 8 Jennifer #2
Just a woman on the floor of an apartment she's being evicted from, three months behind on rent, twenty dollars to her name, a baby coming that she wants desperately and has no idea how to support, crying in front of her neighbor because Rosa said mija and that was apparently all it took.
Rosa comes in and sits on the floor next to me. She does it slowly, with the careful effort of a woman of sixty-two who has mentioned her knees more than once, and she puts her arm around me and says nothing useful, which is the most useful thing she could do.
I tell her everything.
It comes out in the order it arrives rather than any logical sequence.
The restaurant job I lost four months ago when it closed, which was not my fault and also not any comfort.
The three interviews that went nowhere. The two that went somewhere and then didn't. The bills that stacked while I told myself I'd catch up, until I really didn't, and then the envelope stage began, where all the mail looks the same and you stop opening any of it.
The pregnancy test. The two minutes on the bathroom floor, that cocktail of terror and something that wasn't quite joy but was pointed in that direction.
The not telling anyone. The telling Anna, my sister, who lives in Cedar Ridge with her alphas and her life that works, and the relief of it followed immediately by the guilt, because Anna would want to help, and I've been trying so hard not to be someone who needs help like this.
Rosa listens to all of it.
Then she says, "How far along are you?"
"Fourteen weeks."
She nods slowly, processing, organizing, the nod of a woman who has seen worse and knows what to do next. "I have something for you," she says. "But first, let me ask you something." She looks at me very directly. "Can you cook?"
I think about this.
"Yes," I say.
In my head: tacos. I can make tacos. Good ones, actually, with the right seasoning and my mother's pico and Anna's rice. Scrambled eggs. A soup that got complimented once. Pasta with things in it. Quesadillas. A general working knowledge of heat applied to food resulting in something edible.
"Yes," I say again, with more conviction. "I can cook."
Rosa pulls out her phone. "My friend Dolores has a daughter.
Carmen. Carmen works at a resort, private island, very fancy, she's the island’s manager.
They had a chef lined up for a three month contract and he quit two days ago.
" She looks up at me. "Got greedy. They said no, he walked.
" She shrugs. "Carmen texted me last night.
They need someone fast, they leave tonight, and the agency they use doesn't have anyone available on short notice. "
Tonight.
“What?” I repeat.
"Tonight." Rosa's voice is steady, patient, the voice of a woman presenting a solution to someone who is about to talk herself out of it. "Three months, private island, they house you, they feed you, the pay is good. I understand why you don’t want to go to your sister now. Three months there, you can go to your sister, not empty handed. With some money, that would be better.”
It’s as if she knows me so well. Yes, going with some money, and not being completely helpless would make me feel better.
Three months housed. Fed. Paid.
I’ll come back with enough for a deposit, and I’ll be able to figure out the next part without doing it from complete freefall.
"Yes," I say.
Rosa smiles.
I take out my phone and text my sister.
Anna. Quick question. Give me every easy recipe you know. Foolproof. All of them. Right now.
Her reply comes in forty seconds.
Why. What happened. Are you okay? Jennifer.
I'm great. I just got a job. I need recipes. It's an island thing. Three months. Don't panic.
A pause I can feel through the phone.
An island.
Yes.
Cooking.
Yes.
Another pause.
Okay. How fancy. Are we talking nice dinner party or five star resort.
I look at Rosa, who is watching me with quiet satisfaction.
"How fancy is the island?" I ask.
"Very," Rosa says.
Somewhere between those two things. Just send me everything. Appetizers, mains, desserts, straightforward but impressive. Also your rice recipe. I need your rice recipe.
Okay. Anything to help you sis.
I love you.
Anna sends twenty-three recipes over the next ten minutes, because Anna has always been someone who commits. She sends them with notes, little annotations in her digital handwriting.
This one always gets compliments. This one looks harder than it is. Don't skip the resting time on this one, I know it seems unnecessary, it's not.
I sit on the floor of my almost-former apartment reading my sister's recipes and something loosens in my chest. Not everything. Most of it is still very much knotted. But one thread comes free, and that's enough to stand up with.
I finish packing.
Forty minutes, the box heavier than expected because of the books, always the books, and Rosa helps me carry things across the hall to her apartment.
I leave my key on the kitchen counter next to the mug I didn't wash, and I don't look back, because looking back is a choice and I'm making different ones starting now.
Rosa's daughter drives us to the meeting point, a hotel near the marina that is several categories above anything I've stayed in, all cool marble and quiet luxury and staff who look at you like you're exactly supposed to be there.
A look I've never had directed at me before and would like to become more familiar with.
Carmen is waiting in the lobby. She looks me up and down.
"You can cook," she says.
"Yes," I say.
I have now told this lie twice with increasing conviction, which I think counts as growth.
I've memorized Anna's rice recipe in the car, mouthing the steps to myself like a prayer, and I've screenshotted all twenty-three recipes into an album called Professional Cooking Knowledge, and I've decided that three months is a long time and I'm a fast learner and the human species has been feeding itself for quite a while now. It can't be that hard.
The baby shifts. That small flutter that still surprises me every time, like a hello from someone who has already committed to showing up regardless of whether I've got the logistics sorted.
I put my hand over my stomach.
"I know," I tell her quietly. "We're figuring it out."
Carmen is already moving toward the elevators, talking departure times, kitchen layout, guest preferences, her omega scent of bergamot and clove lingers in the air. I pick up my duffel bag and follow.
Tonight I am also, technically, homeless, which means the island is the only destination I have, which does simplify things considerably.
It's all going to work out. I know it is.