seven
Vodka and I have to end our evil relationship.
My headache and disorientation upon waking could easily be blamed on jet lag and sleep deprivation, but the spins that threaten to topple me upon standing are undeniably courtesy of booze. I groan loudly when I sit up and reach for my clothes, unsure of why I’m even bothering to get out of bed because I didn’t bring coffee with me, nor do I imagine there’s even a coffeemaker in this house that’s less than a zillion years old.
After I flail down the stairs and into the kitchen, I fling open the fridge in hopes of something. Anything. My heart jumps a bit.
There’s milk and orange juice, so evidently, my fairy-godmother posse has struck again. The orange juice is at the back of the fridge and almost frozen—exactly as I’ve always liked it—and I chug back half the bottle, relishing the icy bits that slide down my throat. Then, I check the freezer, nearly crying when I see a package of ground Starbucks Sumatra. That means that there’s a coffeemaker here; there has to be. I don’t know who to thank, but I’ll find out.
I dig through cabinets and fling aside an egg cooker, a waffle iron, a weird little metal case with notecards, and a flat-top grill. And a coffeepot! Within minutes, I have four cups brewing, and in a canister, I find sugar that is not solidified.
So, there’s fresh sugar too.
I’ll have to go into town today and buy some basics. It sort of sucks though that I’m at a loss as to what basics are. I’ve literally never cooked for myself—at least, not successfully—and I’m pretty sure that I cannot pull up an app on my phone that will deliver here.
Wait. Those notecards that I found.
Once I’ve retrieved the box, I see it is full of recipes, all handwritten on index cards by my father’s mother. Her distinctive script takes me back. My God, I somehow forgot that this house was originallymy grandparents’house. I start laughing as I remember.
My grandfather built it, and halfway through construction, my grandmother realized that he’d forgotten to include a damn kitchen in the design. She did all the cooking, so he hadn’t thought about this rather essential room. There was a fight, and so my grandfather just tacked on this silly kitchen underneath the stairs, in the spot that was going to be a spare room. Still, this space ended up having charm. Cramped charm maybe but charm with a stupendous view of the lake.
When I have a delicious cup of coffee in my hand, I venture outside to see what my grandmother wrote down. Last night, there was no way that I could bring myself to even glance at the creek behind the house or the lake out front, but this morning, I ache for these views.
I start by walking out the front door and stepping to my right and onto the porch that wraps around the house, in search of the rhythmic and soothing sound of the water and the otherwise quiet. My hangover gives me countless reasons to ignore all of the interior problems, and the dock that stretches into the lake beckons me.
The rough wood digs into my feet, but I walk until I reach the edge. And then I sit and hold on tightly to the box of recipes.
This lake is too damn pretty. It’s not too small, not too large. It’s all sorts of storybook perfect. Most kids probably don’t appreciate what they have, and I can see now that I certainly didn’t appreciate what I had at all. Not this view, not my family.
Nothing.
I took my childhood, my life, for granted.
Not anymore.
After my feet hit the cool water, I exhale for what feels like the first time in ages. A real exhale. One that isn’t solely about breathing to sustain life. One that might be about choosing to live life. It’s both blissful and disarming.
I don’t know what to do with quiet.
My emotional spinning becomes too much, and I force myself to focus. I’m here only to assess what work needs to be done and get that work in motion…
Make a plan, I tell myself.Just make a plan.
The plan is to call Paul. Coordinate with him. Let him tell me what to do. Well, and obviously thank him. He is probably the person who cleaned the house and the Pathfinder and provided me with food.
The idea of getting in touch feels rather humiliating. I mean, I’m nothing but a conduit for my mother. It’s not as though I have any real skills in home repair. I’m here only because she isn’t. Not to mention that I haven’t reached out to him since my father’s memorial.
He doesn’t pick up when I call. Hearing his voice, even in his short outgoing message, guts me. Paul was my dad’s best friend, and he’s yet another person I’ve actively avoided thinking about all these years for more reasons than I can count. It takes a lot for me to control my voice, to try to leave a casual message about how I’m now in Wake and I would love to set up a time to meet up. My hands are shaking when I hang up.
Dammit.
In an attempt to distract myself, I browse through the recipe cards and pull out ones that sound doable. Basic scrambled eggs, chef’s salad, and chicken with some weird name that I don’t understand but one that sounds easy enough. It’s apparently a whole chicken cut in half and cooked, all splayed out and seasoned with lemon and herbs. And I even pull ones that sound impossible to make, like eggs Benedict and poblano Bolognese. If I screw anything up, at least I’ll be the only one subjected to my failure.
The shopping list on my phone grows rapidly, mostly because I’m panicked but partially because I’m curious about cooking for myself. It might be nice to eat something that a restaurant hasn’t cooked for once.
Over and over, I soundly kick both feet in the water, spraying my body and face.
Yep, it’s weird, being both hungover and clearheaded. Yet I carry on.
When I finally stand, the dock cracks, nearly tripping me.
Fabulous. I open my phone and addFix tragic dockto my list.
After I shower and dress, I grab the car key. Driving this showy rental car into town is not ideal, as I’m worried about who might see me, so I park at the end of the main street in town and make my way down the sidewalk.
I am hit with how familiar everything is. This view, the charming series of shops, thefeelof Wake. While I see some new things, this town is very much as I remembered it.
Maybe I don’t belong here anymore. But I hope I do. God, more than anything, I hope I do.
