Chapter 28
OUTSIDE THE DENTIST’S OFFICE, I sit on a wrought iron bench under a large willow tree.
Blades of grass dance in the light filtering through the hanging leaves.
I breathe in the heady scent of nature. Two years ago, there were lengthy discussions about perfuming our office air.
The lobby of the building had been doing it for years.
It was subtle, but it was supposed to encourage both loyalty and pride in our workplace.
They decided instead to upgrade our air scrubbers to improve air quality.
I close my eyes. The authentic, vibrant sweetness in the tender breeze speaks to something deep inside me.
“Meredith,” Clint calls out to me.
I blink into the bright rays reflecting off a van’s windshield. He shifts to his left, and his broad shoulder casts me in shadow. I smile at the man who shows courtesy even when I don’t always appreciate it.
I shift my focus to the parking lot. Where’s Erika?
Clint texted me that the late cancellation fee had done the trick, and they were on their way.
I open my mouth to ask when I see a shuffling body in an oversized hoodie take shape behind him.
She must be sweltering in this unseasonable heat but gives no indication.
I stand, and we walk into the office as if we’re a normal family, not one on the brink.
After Erika’s no-cavity appointment, we decide to walk a quarter of a mile to a food truck park.
Erika says she’s not hungry and besides her teeth feel weird after the fluoride.
Clint says she can eat after thirty minutes and that the feeling will fade.
Erika shrugs but slumps along behind us.
Clint and I talk only of inconsequential things, like the Japanese maple in our side yard at home that needs to come down.
Clint worked hard to save it after a strange beetle infestation, but the damage was too great.
The tree is not huge, but it’s close to the house.
I offer to call someone, knowing full well Clint will take care of it.
“By the way, I got a call from Rob this morning. He, uh, wanted to give me an update on a grant he found.”
“He’s looking into grants?” I ask. Rob has ideas that usually require others to work. I immediately rebuke my skepticism. Rob did build and sell a successful outdoor business, but, in my opinion, on the backs of his employees.
“Yeah, I’ve been meaning to tell you about Wilson. They’ve taken an interest—”
“Can I have money?” Erika has wrapped her hoodie around her waist and is wearing an oversized T-shirt with the picture of some rapper I’ve never heard of.
Although being in the dark about the man with a mouth full of shiny metal and a dragon scalp tattoo is not surprising, I didn’t think Erika liked rap music.
I’ve never seen her wear a shirt like this, and it’s huge on her.
One shoulder threatens to spill through the stretched neckhole.
I decide not to go for the obvious and instead be relieved she won’t be passing out from heatstroke.
The temperature has to be reaching into the high eighties.
“Sure.” Clint raises his eyebrows as he hands her a twenty.
I haven’t seen Erika ask for cash in forever. She always uses that online payment app, Hippa, with a request to Clint or me after the fact. It’s how she gets paid for all her tutoring. Maybe the trucks only take cash?
“Meet us at the picnic benches over there.” Clint points toward a grove of elms with a smattering of tables.
Clint and I scan the trucks. There’s an Indian Flame truck to our right that makes my mouth water. Maybe they have a spicy mango chicken or lamb korma. Even a plate of fried pakora with tamarind and mint chutneys.
I love food, but I don’t always have time to enjoy it.
While my mother has always been a small eater and a small woman, my dad ate with gusto.
Whether it be a prime rib on Thursday nights at Oakey’s or a panko-crusted fish sandwich at The Shore, he was the man everyone wanted to eat with and cook for.
He’d comment on the cinnamon added to a great rib rub or the fresh mint in a Greek salad.
I inherited his discerning palate. Never as good as him when I was young, my sophistication grew as I started taking clients to new and different restaurants.
When I came home and we’d play our culinary version of Name That Tune, I began to stack the deck with strains of coriander and charnushka.
He’d howl with delight when I’d stump him.
Clint loved my dad. Clint grew up Maine conservative.
The most exotic dish from his mom’s kitchen was “chop suey,” a mixed pot of macaroni, hamburger, and tomato sauce.
But always up for an adventure, Clint encouraged Dad to school him on marinades, fermented stocks, and dishes from far and wide.
In his last year, Dad was overjoyed when Clint cooked him a pad Thai that rivaled any we’d had before.
“I’m thinking Tomato Tomatoh. A nice cup of soup with grilled cheese sounds delicious.” Clint points toward the bright-red truck beside us with only a couple people in line. The logo and images on the side panel are as bland and uninspired as it gets.
It likely makes no difference where I get my food, but I have a craving far beyond lunch. I want to stay close to my husband, feel his warm, solid body next to me as we order and wait for our food—my arm stroking his back and his fingers tucking my loose hair behind my ear.
“Sounds yummy. Let’s do it.” I squint toward the menu on the side of the truck.
“Seriously?”
“Sure.” I shrug.
He slides his warm hand into mine and tugs me forward. My feet forget to move, and I stumble. He tucks my arm against him, and I lay my head briefly against his shoulder as we get in line behind the one person ordering. Who are we?
“What do you want?” he asks as he scours the menu written in white chalk on the side of the truck.
“Whatever you’re having,” I say, content to watch a big guy in a grubby white apron liberally buttering a stack of thick white bread.
“No, really. What do you want? I’m getting the pesto tomato cheese with a side of gazpacho.”
I whip my head up at the menu. That does not sound like greasy grilled cheese and overpriced Campbell’s soup. “Perfect. I’ll do that too.”
“You’re acting strange. Don’t you want to get something different so we can sample each other’s?” He pushes slightly away from me to peer down into my face.
I go up on tiptoe in my flats and peck him on his juicy lips.
He hesitates a moment and then tugs me into him. “I like it.”
We carry our bounty along to a picnic table where our daughter already sits, tearing donut holes and dunking them into one of three gooey sauces.
If I glance over at Clint, I know his eyes will tell me not to comment.
She’s doing it to deflect. If we argue about her lunch, we won’t have energy left to address the bigger issues.
“That looks healthy,” Clint deadpans as he climbs over the bench and settles his lunch in front of him.
Erika shrugs.
“You have my change?” Clint asks as he breaks off a corner of his grilled pesto strip and pops it in his mouth.
Why is he trying to antagonize her? He’s always the parent pleading for peace and taking fifteen thousand breaths before we say anything. Maybe he’s reached the end of his rope too.
“I might get something else. This is really sweet.” She pushes the thick wax-paper bundle a few inches away over the grooved wood surface but stays tucked on her side of the table.
The park is pleasantly full for a Wednesday.
Enough people to keep the trucks making fresh lunch options but not so many that people are forced to eat too close together.
A man with his phone clamped between his shoulder and his ear walks by with some sort of curry wrap.
A delicious blend of cumin and coriander invades my senses.
I glance down at my untouched lunch trying to remember my bigger purpose.
“Why don’t you just say it, Mom?” Erika’s voice is full of glass shards.
For a moment, I think she’s asking me to admit that I lied about what I wanted for lunch, but when I raise my gaze to hers, I know she’s thinking of herself.
“I mean, you’ve come all the way here. It’s not like you even like grilled cheese.” Her mouth hangs slightly open, and she shakes her head at my food.
I take a bite of my pesto panini strip. The flavors are good, but the heavy-handedness of the butter makes my stomach acids go on high alert.
I pat my mouth with my napkin. “You’re right, I came all the way here for you. I’m worried about you.”
She closes her mouth and raises her chin at me like how dare I worry.
“Well, first, I want to know about the picture.” As I say the words, my mind briefly flashes to the two pictures taken of Lucas and me, and I stupidly say, “The one your dad found.”
Her head tilts as if she’s mentally weighing my words. I don’t dare glance at Clint. I mean, what other picture could I be referring to?
I plow ahead. “Did you take it for yourself or . . . maybe for someone else you haven’t told us about?”
Something like confusion or even fear flashes in her eyes but is then immediately replaced by a look of part disgust and part detachment. “It was nothing.”
“But it wasn’t nothing.” Clint speaks up, half his lunch gone.
“It was. Gross that you found it.” She shivers. “But it was nothing.”
“And this phone your dad found?” I ask.
Her back straightens, and her eyes light with fire. I see my mistake right away. This is the fight she was expecting and has geared up for.
“You took my phone,” she spews. “What did you expect me to do? I have appointments with students who need help. You act like you have it all together, but you have no idea.”
She knows just how to press me, always has. We only win if I can keep my cool. I reach across the pitted table, but her arm is just out of my grasp. “Then tell me.”
She shakes her head. “I need to get back. I’ve got a lot of work.” She balls up her crinkly paper and pushes up.
Clint lays his splayed fingers on her hand clutching her wadded-up “lunch.”
“What?” Erika keeps her gaze toward the parking lot.
“Watch your tone. And are you going to eat that?”
She dramatically releases her hold. “I’ll be at the car.”
“Wow,” I mutter as she marches away. “I barely recognize her. What is happening?”
After digging into the wreckage, Clint dips a sugared hole in what looks like a creamy caramel sauce. “Seriously good.” He taps on the paper under my sandwich strips. “Don’t let her get to you. I guarantee this has nothing to do with us. Eat up. Little greasy but really good.”
Although I want to rush to our daughter and demand the answers she refuses to share, I take another bite and then another. The tomatoes are fresh, and although I haven’t yet sampled the soup, I’m enjoying my lunch.
“I got something today,” I say with a playful tone.
“Hmm.” Clint swirls another hole in what looks like vanilla.
“Garman Straub is sending us on a vacation.” I wrinkle my forehead in exaggerated confusion.
“You’re kidding.” He shifts toward me on the bench.
“No. They booked us a family cottage in the Poconos starting tomorrow night and . . . well, what do you think?” I stop myself from telling him about the dinner reservation for just us for tonight. I’m not sure why. Maybe see if we can make it through this afternoon’s truce.
While pulling one leg over the bench, he twists more fully around so he can look right at me. “I’m confused.”
“I know.” I chuckle while screwing up my face.
“It’s almost like they’re trying to get rid of me.
” Because of course they are. But at this point, I’m relieved to not be playing amateur detective, and maybe if we can pick up Reid and get away with Erika, we can all find our way back.
And I’ll tell Clint about Lucas. This time I really will.
“That’s not what I’m confused about.”
I nab one of the last two donut holes and dunk it in the dark chocolate sauce. My throat makes a little mewl sound.
“Why did your face look pained when you told me about the cottage? Is the thought of going away with me a chore?”
I stop breathing. What just happened?
“I see it. All I have to do is look at you and I know.”
“Know what?”
“Exactly. All I get are whispers of disgust on your face and distracted moments.”
“Unfair.” I shake my head. “You’re the one who wanted a break. You’re the one who wanted space.” I slam down the sugary mess without taking a bite and then grab the stack of napkins.
“Meredith—”
“No, I’m out of ideas. You’re punishing me for something you’re feeling. I can’t . . .” I swallow hard against my lunch threatening to come up.
“Finish your thought, Meredith.” Clint’s jaw clenches shut, probably as tightly as his mind.
“I can’t keep beating my head up against your brick wall.” I scour my hands with a handful of napkins.
Clint grabs his lunch. “We’ve found something to agree on.” Without looking at me, he rises from the picnic table.
I slump and lower my head into my balled-up fists.
For the first time, I honestly question if Clint and I will make it.