4 #2
How many times have I wanted to throw the pictures out, to get rid of the evidence of a love so great it outshone every dark thing in me?
Even now, I can barely believe someone like him fell for a person like me.
But pretending Beau’s love didn’t exist is like pretending the sun isn’t real.
It was too big, too warm, too shockingly beautiful to be erased.
Funny how love lasts far longer than a lifetime.
My stomach growls at me, and we argue as we do most nights. I always win. I’d rather be hungry than suffer through the graying
“beef stroganoff” (emphasis on the “off”) that has just appeared on my dinner tray, I could cook better than this before I
hit puberty. If only I could taste real food again before I go. Preferably a lemon tart. Death-row inmates get a final good
meal; shouldn’t I be afforded the same courtesy?
I slap my hand to my forehead. There’s a whole bloody commercial kitchen here. I could just . . .
A knot turns to ice in my stomach as I recall the day I stopped cooking, after the tragic chicken paté incident.
I pull my serviette over the stone-cold slop, the thought of the tart lingering on the tip of my tongue. Dinner service will
be long over now. Ingredients wouldn’t be hard to find: flour, lemons, eggs, sugar, butter, cream. I run through the steps
in my head: the pastry, the curd, the timing, I could do it in my sleep. I can be in and out before anyone knows I’ve gone.
All I have to do is get through the door.
This is my last chance. Bugger it. If we can’t go out with a bang, my tastebuds and I will go out with a tang.
I wait until I’ve been put to bed. Ignoring my creaking knees, I get up and tentatively open the door; the empty nurses’ station
fuels my suspicion that no one actually works the night shift. I punch in the code to open the door out of the dementia ward,
which I committed to memory when I first arrived. My mouth, salivating at the thought of lemon, pushes me along the shadowy
hall.
The kitchen door is locked. Another keypad sits beneath a large white sign that reads STAFF MEMBERS ONLY. Well, technically it says ST FF as the A is missing. So maybe it said STIFF MEMBERS ONLY, and since my diagnosis of arthritis in my shoulder last year, I think I qualify.
My hands tremble as I push each number, sending up a silent prayer that the code is the same. The green light goes on. Bingo—the
only kind I’m interested in here.
The smell of bleach socks me. Stainless-steel countertops reflect moonlight from the windows, looking eerily like autopsy
tables in crime shows. I picture my own body there, still and pain-free. But that wouldn’t be fair to the kitchen staff, or
hygienic. A good chef must always be hygienic.
I switch on the lights to reveal a decent kitchen, not that dissimilar to the one I headed up at my restaurant, Lorraine.
A row of hairnets, chef whites and aprons hang to my right. It’s mere white cotton and thread, but as I put them on, I feel
important for the first time in ages.
Freezing air greets me as I open the doors to the large walk-in fridge to gather ingredients. I wash my hands thoroughly and
then stop. If I get lethal food poisoning, I’ll kill two birds with one stone—well, one bird and one grumpy old bugger. I
glance back at the fridge, briefly remembering the last time food went wrong.
I measure the flour, butter and sugar straight onto the clean steel countertop. The kitchen closes in like a tomb, a place
where joy died long ago. I don’t have to do this; I can walk away, just like I have every other time I tried to cook again.
But this time, something keeps me here. Maybe the memory of Beau, of how his eyes used to light up when I served him a perfect
petit four. Maybe it’s knowing that this is my last chance. A deadline is always a sure-fire way to get people to act, and
this is quite literally a deadline. It’s not like I’m making chicken paté again.
My chest tightens. It’s now or never. I plunge my hands in. As I work the creamy yellow cubes into the flour, something shifts;
my hands stop shaking, the rhythm of my wrists becoming familiar again. Hesitation slips away, replaced by something I haven’t
experienced since I moved into this place: control.
My movements are slow, careful, but there’s something electric about them. The weight of the sadness is still there, but in that moment, it doesn’t feel quite as heavy.
This is what I know. This is who I am. A mixer would be faster and kinder on the knuckles, but I want to feel the process.
I take a sip of cold water from the tap, add a dash to bring the dough together, and it’s done: a ball of buttery yellow perfection.
Some would say I know this recipe like the back of my hand, but it’s never a phrase I use. I wouldn’t recognize my own hand
if it slapped me in the face. I don’t know the precise number of freckles or hairs or whether my veins are more green or blue.
No, I know this recipe like the left side of Beau’s face, the one I woke up to every morning. The dimple an inch from the
corner of his mouth that appeared in so many smiles it became permanent. The faded white scar on his jawline from the one,
and only, time he tried fencing without a helmet. The fuzzy white peach of an earlobe that he could masterfully wiggle on
command. I know this recipe like that.
A tear lands on the yellow pastry, but a bit of extra salt won’t hurt. I wipe my eyes with my sleeves and chuck the ball in
the fridge.
Returning to the countertop, I cut the lemons in half and juice them. A drop squirts in my right eye, and I press my palm
against it. At least I have an excuse for any more tears now. I never used to cry. Am I still grieving the loss of Beau’s
life or my own, or are they one and the same?
I distract myself by adding the rest of the ingredients for the curd, gulping down a mouthful of sugar for the hell of it.
Perhaps I’ll take another tonight to pair with my Death Menu selection. A spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down, after all.
I turn on the smallest of the twelve burners, a click, a whoosh, and the fire springs to life. The blue-and-orange glow ignites memories. The thrill of service, the gratitude of diners.
The satisfaction of a beautiful plate of food that someone’s given a damn about. I haven’t cooked in so long, but it’s like
riding a bicycle. Only far more fun, though arguably less good for your thighs and buttocks, especially if you cooked irresistible
food like I did. Life is far too short to avoid butter.
The curd comes to a simmer, thickening as it coats the back of the spoon.
A faint hiss rises from the pot, and it takes on a velvety texture, swirling like liquid gold as its bright citrus scent fills the air.
Heat blooms from the stovetop, the lemon growing richer, deepening into something smooth and indulgent.
Something perfect for hiding a ring in.