I release a sharp exhale, knowing exactly how Maria would feel about the culinary institutes I requested admissions packages from almost a month ago. She would want me to try. She’d cheer for me to put myself out there and see if I measure up, with so much optimism it would make me dizzy. Unfortunately, and despite her best efforts, optimism was not something Maria could pass on to me. Frankly, taking that leap and putting myself out there to be judged like that scares theshit out of me. I’d love to pursue something with my passed down cooking skills, but I’m not quite sure yet which direction to take. The packages I requested were from institutes all over the world. It almost feels too daunting just thinking about applying to institutes in France or Switzerland. But besides my tattoo parlour family and Maria, there’s not much keeping me here. Until I can formulate some sort of plan, I won’t bother telling anyone about the culinary school applications. I don’t want to get their hopes up only to be let down by my inadequacy.
My phone buzzes on the counter pausing my background music. I grumble and glance quickly at the caller ID. It’s Ellora. Of course she calls just as I’m supposed to be taking the gnocchi out of the boil and having a slight panic attack at my indecisive future. I click it quickly, immediately putting her on speaker.
“I’m kinda busy right now, Lor,” I say briskly.
“Oh look who’s alive.” My sister’s sarcastic voice fills my kitchen and I swear the gnocchi deflates a little. I roll my eyes because she can’t see me.
“I can feel you rolling your eyes, Dominic. Don’t worry, I’m not selling any bibles. Just checking in to see if you’re still alive.” Her tone is clipped but I know her intention is coming from her heart. Her cold black heart.
“Yup, alive, doing well. You?” I ask, wincing at how much of an asshole I sound, even to myself. Ellora, historically, has never been well, even when we were kids. Where I moved on from our junkie parents, she tried to carry them with her. Shoulder their burdens. Unfortunately, those burdens included owing drug dealers money and never having jobs to actually support their own kids.
“I’m good. Reallygood, actually.” There’s more positivity in her voice than I’ve ever heard before. It makes me pause, wondering where it must be coming from. A slice of panic ebbs its way under my ribs.
“Listen, I know we don’t do the whole…sibling bonding bullshit or whatever,” she starts, sounding like she’s begun pacing around. My laugh is saltier than I intend. We’ve never been verybrother-sistery, more like two kids that happen to live in the same home before being picked up and dropped into the foster system while we happen to be related genetically. Being siblings did not guarantee living in the same foster home.
“But I’ve found a good career, I’m sober, almost five years now, and I’m seeing someone.” I audibly hear her swallow and my panic deflates. It’s never been easy for Lor to open up to anyone romantically, especially once she became sober. I’ve had girlfriends, but Lor has mostly only dated her dealers. Five years sober is an achievement I was always scared would never happen for her. Emotion sticks itself inside my throat and I suppress tingling sensation that forms across the bridge of my nose.
I clear my throat. “Good for you, Lor. Those are some really great things you have.” I try not to add onto the end,sodon’t fuck it up like our parents did, you deserve better.But I know she knows I’m thinking it.
“I’m moving actually. I’m done with the east coast and this new place has more to offer.” She sounds decided, decisive. A trait I wouldn’t have paired with my sister. I’m proud of her, but the words get stuck in my throat. Our relationship has always been on thin ice. She sided with my parents, begging them to change, while I walked away the first chance I got, ready to never speak with them again. She turned to drugs and I began cooking. Sometimes I wish we had been given the chance to have a better relationship, a friendship even, but those were not the cards we were dealt. I had Maria for a critical moment in my childhood, I don’t think Ellora ever had that. She bounced from foster homes more often than I did, always causing trouble and trying desperately to get back to our parents.
“Good for you, Lor, do you need help getting movers or…?”
She scoffs. “No, Dom, I didn’t call you to pay for my movers. I was just letting you know where I was. That’s what family does.” Her casual tone sharpens with her last sentence.
I sigh and pinch the bridge of my nose as I begin sautéing the gnocchi in my butter sauce. “Don’t start Lor. I want nothing to do with them.” I try to make my words come out with finality, but it sounds more like exhaustion.
“They’re doing better, Dom. If you just opened your heart a fraction, you’d see they’re just people who’ve made mistakes.” My parents. Her parents. Lor has continued to contact them, tried to get them in rehab so many times, but more often than not she’s out of money and they’ve taken off. “Dominic. They just want to see who you’ve become, how your life is…” she continues in a rush, frustration lacing every hurried word, “Hell, Dom,Idon’t even know where you live! You don’t even trust your own sister to tell me your address!” If I had been holding the phone to my ear I’m sure my eardrum would have been blown right off.
“Ellora, I don’t trust them. Listen, I’m right in the middle of a complicated recipe and I don’t want it to spoil,” I rush, needing to get off the phone. Once I had acquired my own apartment, I knew there was no way I wanted my parents to know where I was. I had my first permanent home that was all mine, and I was not going to risk them coming here.
“Fine. Talk again at Christmas I guess, fucking asshole.” The call disconnects.
I plate up my food, glad to be off the phone with her but also happy to have heard her voice, knowing that she’s doing well. Disappointment ruminates in my gut as I realize maybe I don’t trust Ellora either. I shake my head as if the heaviness of our conversation would slip out of my ears and onto my couch. I flip on whatever show happens to be cued up and eat mindlessly. Ihad been so excited to make this Ossola style gnocchi with sage butter sauce, but now every bite tastes like ash on my tongue.
FIVE
Mocha
Celeste
I walkaround the block from where I parked towards Biblio & Brew, my buttercream yellow sundress swishing at my thighs. It tickles the bare skin of my legs, making me smile. The clouds are nowhere to be seen and I take a moment to close my eyes, tilt my head up, and just feel the sun warming my cheeks. I inhale deeply, the warmer weather of the summer months has just begun. I smell the freshly mowed lawn across the street, the green hue vibrant. I feel the zest of life right down to my bones today.
This blissful feeling started the moment I woke up and saw Mom working on the little garden out front of our house. I caught her eye in the window and watched as her smile grew so wide it could have touched her ears. The heady combination of hope and joy blossoms in my chest from watching her becomeso active in the last few years. She even insisted I stay home while she became more independent with her grocery shopping, doctors’ visits, and even going to see movies by herself. She’s embraced her life so fully and I honestly don’t know what I’d do without her.
Mom is sunshine in human form. She’s been through so much but remains so optimistic it’s baffling. I don’t know if I inherited all that positivity from her, but I hope I have just enough. I know if I didn’t, she would be there with bells on.
I feel like I’m channeling her sunshine right now, glowing from the inside out while I go to my new coffee spot. I’m actually very happy with this recommendation. It’s cozy, full of books by local authors, and if I’m being totally honest, employs a very hot barista. His broody demeanour can be a little surly based on my limited interactions with him, but hey, he’s easy on the eyes and makes a killer caffeinated drink. A drink I’ve been thinking about since I woke up.
The bell above the door at Biblio & Brew tinkles a delightful little sound gifted by the coffee fairies. I glance toward the coffee bar to maybe or maybe not scope out if a certain surly someone is behind it with his boring black coffee in one hand and some obscure book in the other. I feel my elevated mood dip when the cafe area is unattended. I try to rationalize my feelings by telling myself that I’m here for a huge coffee and there’s no one here to make it for me. That’s all. I steal another sweeping glance. There’s a thirty-something woman over by the register for book sales but other than that, I don’t notice anyone else working. Damn, I really wanted a coffee.
My shoulders droop and I turn to head toward the sports section, the cafe now at my back. There’s a small reading table in front of the stacks. I casually run my fingers along the spines inhaling the smell of freshly printed books. I spot a tall, lean, chestnut haired guy with his back to me, a large varsity jacketpulled tight across his wide frame. I pretend not to notice and put on my best damsel in distress act, reaching for something sports related on a shelf above my head.
“Can I help you grab that?” I hear Varsity say, closer to me than he was a few seconds ago.
Hooked.
“Oh! Yes actually, thank you. This one right here…” I glance up and point toward the book I’d been pretending to reach for…The Intricacies of NFL Press Conferences.I suppress the urge to groan. I know absolutely nothing about football. Canadian, American, hell, I don’t even knowEuropeanfootball.
