Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
CAMERON
Back at work after staying with Tally for two days straight, and I have to put my head down and deal.
The ER doors whoosh open every few minutes, bringing the metallic scent of blood from gunshot wounds, the acrid stench of burnt rubber clinging to car accident victims, elderly women clutching their lower backs from bladder infections, and wide-eyed ladies in labor whose knuckles turn white as they grip their partners' hands.
An appendicitis or two comes through the door, faces flushed with fever and twisted in pain.
I do what I do—assess vital signs with steady fingers, order CTs with a few quick taps on the keyboard, and deliver news with the practiced calm that comes from years of practice.
"You'll be the proud recipient of an emergency appendectomy," I tell a college kid, trying to ease his fear with a touch of humor, before sending another patient upstairs to bring new life into the world.
She's awakened something in me that's been dormant for years. Call it selfish, but I need to stockpile memories of her to sustain me through twelve months with Doctors Without Borders. And selfishly, I want to leave such an impression that when I return a year later, she'll still be waiting.
When I arrive at her place, Tally yanks open the door, her head tilting to one side. “’Bout time," she says. "I'm fucking starving."
Progress—she's actually standing at the door instead of hollering for me to let myself in. Her left hand, the one she needs for her tattoo work, flexes repeatedly at her side. I catch the deliberate demonstration, the silent argument that she's healing.
"Don't even start," I tell her, watching her fingers curl and straighten. "Another week minimum. Rush back to those needles now and you'll regret it for months."
She shakes her head. "Shit. Maya's calendar is packed solid. Blade could take more clients, but my regulars are loyal as hell. They'll wait for me or nobody."
I nod. "Because you're that good. Hey, what about your painting? Give it a couple days, then try that. Doesn't demand the same precision grip as tattooing. Might actually help rehabilitate that left hand. Baby steps back to your art, you know?"
“Yeah. I guess that’s something.”
I go into the kitchen and whip up a quick dinner - grilled salmon and asparagus with a big green salad - and open a bottle of wine.
As we sit and eat at her dining room table - distressed wood because Tally has excellent taste in furnishings - Tally shakes her head.
“You know, I could get used to this, but I don’t want to.
You’re leaving soon, so I have to figure out how to eat once you’re gone.
Been thinking about taking a cooking class in my spare time. ”
I laugh and take a sip of the wine. “Glad I could inspire you.”
“It’s not that you inspired me so much as I realize how pathetic I’ve been, not knowing how to cook. And if there’s one thing I don’t like to feel like is pathetic. So, yeah. Have to be self-sufficient, so…”
“I could teach you to cook,” I say. “Just the basics, and then you can get some good cookbooks to continue on.”
She shrugs, but I can see that she’d like me to teach her a few things.
So, for the next two weeks, I arrive after my ER shifts with grocery bags and patience.
I guide her hands as she butterflies chicken breasts, show her how to test salmon with a fork's edge, and demonstrate the perfect poached egg wobble.
I teach her how to make risotto the right way—standing at the stove for what feels like forever, adding broth one ladle at a time, stirring until her arm aches.
When she tastes that first creamy, perfect bite, the look on her face makes every minute worth it.
We create a rainbow of sauces—velvety béchamel transformed with cheese, onions, or tomatoes; pungent pesto; rich ragout; creamy Alfredo; bright Romesco, made from almonds, sun-dried tomatoes and red peppers.
She curses when her hollandaise breaks but beams with pride when the second attempt turns silky.
I teach her the subtle variations of the basic Hollandaise sauce—mornay with its nutty cheese, soubise's sweet onion undertones, nantua's delicate seafood essence, aurora's vibrant tomato hue, and English sauce's herbaceous brightness.
Tally absorbs it all, her questions as sharp as her chef's knife, her practice sessions becoming increasingly confident.
"See?" I say, watching her drizzle golden hollandaise over perfectly grilled salmon. "Master the foundations, and everything else is just creative combinations. That sauce works magic on practically anything."
She sighs, licking a drop of sauce from her thumb. "Holy shit. I actually made hollandaise that didn't break. And mayonnaise from scratch. You're like a culinary Gandalf or something."
"Just passing on the basics," I say, watching her taste the sauce again.
My chest tightens as I imagine her making these recipes after I've left for Sicily.
I picture her standing here alone, nourishing herself with something I taught her, and it soothes an ache I didn't know was there.
But I swallow those thoughts before they reach my lips—Tally would roll her eyes if she knew I was worried about her eating properly without me.
I catch myself thinking she'll fall apart without me and roll my eyes at my own arrogance. This is Tally we're talking about—the woman who told me that she stitched up her own forearm after a motorcycle accident. She survived twenty-nine years before I stumbled into her ER bay.
Still, I can't shake this urge to be the one who brings her coffee in the morning, who makes sure she eats something besides takeout. A year in Sicily stretches before me like an ocean I have to cross alone.
Focus, Cameron. There will be refugees who need your hands steady, your mind clear. Not daydreaming about the curve of her shoulder blade under your fingers.
Though as distractions go, she's exquisite.