It’s like food Mad Libs: make this stromboli with (insert vine vegetable here) and a can of (insert canned vegetable here).
Because of a crate of rescued lasagna noodles (originally thrown out due to inaccurately printed labels), I’ve spent the last few weeks working on different varieties of lasagna. I’m trying to figure out how to replace the cheese (which can be expensive) with beans (which are generally cheaper and in people’s pantries already) and have it not turn into a dried-out, tasteless mush. I’ve yet to succeed. I make it in these tiny casserole dishes and choke it down for lunch.
Which is exactly what I do today. Someday we’ll get to the end of this enormous store of lasagna noodles.
Grandma Vittoria would kick my ass if she ever heard I was making lasagna with beans and no cheese.
I’m crouched down, watching my latest attempt bubble through the oven window, when my cell rings in my back pocket.
I’ve still got my eye on the lasagna and it’s Raff’s ringtone, so I answer without looking. “Yello.”
“Hey.”
But it’s not Raff’s voice. It’s Vin.
And then I remember that I changed Vin’s ringtone to match Raff’s back when Raff was living with us, so that it was more like “call from home.” Only it’s clearly been a very long time since Vin called me because I didn’t even remember that. He’s usually more of a one-word texter.
“Roz? You there?”
“Oh. Yeah. Hi. What’s up?”
“I just…you’re not home.”
I blink. “Areyouhome?” It’s a Tuesday afternoon. Vin usually works a very reliable eight-to-five workday.
“Yeah. Are you…”
“I’m at Harvest. I’m working today.”
“Right. Okay.”
I get that we haven’t really run into each other in a few days and he’s checking to make sure I’m still alive, but it’s been so long since we’ve talked on the phone…“Did you need something?”
There’s a long pause and then, “Do we have Advil anywhere? There’s no more in the bathroom cabinet, but I don’t want to go buy more if we have some someplace else.”
I stand up so fast a spatula overbalances out of a mostly empty can of white beans and they splatter over the counter and floor. I turn away from them and plug the ear that isn’t on the phone. “Are you hurt?”
Everything in my body has gone tight. I feel like I can see spaces in between atoms. Being an electrician can be so fucking dangerous. What if he’s gotten an electrical burn? Or worse, what if he was electrocuted? He could have gone into cardiac arrest. He should be at the hospital, not home—The scar on Vin’s back flashes in my mind.
“No, no.” He hears it in my voice, the scattershot panic. “Not hurt. I have a fever. I’m just sick.”
Better than graphically injured in an accident but—when I’ve got this many panic chemicals in my bloodstream—not by much. “What are your symptoms?”
He doesn’t shake me off, thank God. He survived this last year along with me. He knows how it feels to need all the medical information and need it now.
“Sore throat, headache. Fever of 102.5. I just need Advil and sleep. I promise.”
“There’s Advil in the inside pocket of the blue backpack hanging on my closet door. I’ll be there in forty-five minutes.”
“Roz, I’ll be—” But either he’s heard the steel in my voice, or he’s very tired, because instead of arguing, he just softens. “Okay. Don’t rush. Be safe.”
I do rush. Because I’m picturing him passed out on the floor, Advil spilled everywhere like the beans I’m cleaning up at warp speed. The oven dings, I burn myself on the dish and grit my teeth.
But the kitchen is cleaned and polished in record time. I grab my bag and rush out the door, texting Cherise to eat the lasagna and give me her honest opinion, and then I’m skidding onto the train and headed toward my husband.
When I slam through our front door, he’s standing in front of the open fridge, filling a glass of orange juice. He looks wilted and pale, big blue smudges under his eyes.
“Did you take the medicine? How long ago? What dose?” I drop my bag and race to him, think better of it, and quickly wash my hands, wincing when the water touches my fresh burn.
