Page 42 of Below the Shadow of the City

My mom, not knowing better, brushed them off when I brought those feelings up. “You’re just jealous of her, Sigrid, why don’t you focus on making yourself as good of a player as she is?”

Over the next few years, my worldview exploded when I realized those feelings weren’t mere jealousy. I didn’t want to be her, I wanted to be with her.

“Your mom and I do worry though,” he turns to me, focus off of the stale rye bread. “We know the breakup was tough—” My dad was the more understanding of the two when it came to my “flip flopping” as my mom had jokingly called it. He liked Perrie, both my parents did. She was incredibly proficient at making herself into someone likeable when she needed to.

“I’m okay, seriously. Don’t burden yourselves with being concerned for me.” I’m not giving him anything else to hurt that weak heart of his.

“It’s in our nature,” he reaches for my hand. His has an IV needle stuck in the back of it with tubes snaking up towards a saline drip. “I will always be concerned that you’re not as happy as you deserve to be. That’s what it means to be a parent, we don’t want the world to beat down our kids and steal their sunshine.” Coming from my dad post heart attack slumped in a hospital bed, even the corny sentiment is enough to make my eyes well with tears.

I transform into a different person. Not Present Sigrid, nor Past Sigrid, but someone else entirely. When my mom needed me to grab her coffee from the cafeteria, I agreed without a bit of the groaning I would have given ten years prior. I exist in an unrecognizable purgatory, straddling disparate parts of myself until I’m stretched too far. I try to be as helpful as I can be, which since I can’t fix my dad’s heart, or my mom’s stress, mostly looks like me being alone in their house cleaning when I’m not at the hospital.

I’d long put away the groceries Maddox bought us, and I try to think of how to repay him for such a favor. Nothing of value seemed to come to mind. Money is no object for him, he’s made that clear, so sending him fifty bucks would be insignificant. I haven’t texted him since that first night, and what else was there to offer other than gratitude? I’d continue to let it simmer and ruminate and hope that it would come to me in a flash.

I replenished my parents fridge and cabinets and the items I bought sit nicely next to the ones he had. I wipe, and I dust, and I mop, and I do laundry. I do all the domestic things that my mom will be too overwhelmed to do herself. I fiddled with their TV and speaker system to fix the quirky technical problems they’d casually complain about whenever I was home.

Throughout all of this I’d sneak bites of the chocolate torte, a small slice here, a forkful there. My mom hadn’t touched it, and my dad certainly wouldn’t be allowed to. So I considered the dessert to be a small gift only for me.

In my rummaging I find a jar of yeast stashed in the back of the cabinet. The bread from the Italian restaurant Maddox took me to lives rent free in my head. I keep thinking about the flaky sea salt, the herbaceous rosemary, and how soft and fluffy it was. I had asked Maddox if he could get Orion to get me the recipe, which he declined saying it would be a breach of bro code if he revealed proprietary information like that. I didn’t fight him.

Bread has never been a strength of mine. I don’t have a sourdough starter I lovingly nurture, and I often opt for quick breads and pastries instead. I have nothing but time now, my dad has appointments that will fill most of the day and I won’t be going back to the hospital until tonight. I whisk the yeast and warm water, searching for telltale bubbles to show that it’s activated. To my delight, it still is. My mom’s all-purpose flour is a good enough replacement for the higher protein bread flour I would have used if I was at home, and the mixer she got as a wedding gift still works as well as it did forty years ago. I form a sticky dough and leave it to rest on the counter while I dig through the cabinets for flake salt and herbs.

“Hey Marg,” I answer and click the button to put on speakerphone using my elbow as I knead the dough on the counter. It took a few tries until I got it. I’m surprisingly proficient at making do when my hands are otherwise occupied. She’d called me a few times already to check in on my dad and ask how I was doing. After the initial panic, things have settled. My parents and I are going through the motions and seeking out normalcy now.

“What are you up to right now? Are you at the hospital?”

“I’m at my parents’ house. Currently attempting a focaccia. If the dough behaves like it should.” So far, I’m optimistic. It rose like it was supposed to, but that’s only half the battle.

She chuckles on the other end of the line. “Wow, she’s actually baking again. Who would’ve thought we’d see the day.”

“I am on a deadline, you know.” I punch the dough down into a ball.

“So it’s for the cookbook?”

“No. It’s more of a precursor. Trying to prove to myself I can still do this.” I knead the dough on the countertop before shaping it into a loose oval. I frown when it shrinks back on itself in a lumpy shape. “That’s not why you called me though.”

“No, it’s not. How free is your calendar Friday night? Are you seeing mystery man?”

“I’m wide open.” I didn’t have set plans with Maddox, I didn’t even know when I’d see him again.

“You are still seeing mystery man, right?” Her voice is direct. Any answer other than ‘yes’ would likely lead to chastising from her. To Margo’s benefit, it would probably be deserved.

I sigh. “Yes. And that’s all I’m going to say on it for now. I’m over complicating things on my own here, there’s shit I need to figure out.” Understatement of the century.

“You don’t want to talk through it?” She asks tentatively.

“I’d be beating a dead horse.” It’s a me problem, and she’s heard so much about this curse that she could probably tell me what I’m going to say before I even say it.

“Got it.” She quips.

I change the subject back to why she called me in the first place. “What plans do you have in mind?”

“A preview of that new Broadway show, a gift from that actor from a few years back.” Once again, Margo and her endless connections across the Five Boroughs come in clutch. I could definitely use a night immersed in theater as a distraction.

“You guys still talk? Are you hooking up with him again?” I worry she’d mentioned that they’re back together and I’d been so in my head that I missed that crucial piece of information.

“No, he's very happy with his fiancé, Roger.” She answers, and I’m relieved.

“I see,” I laugh.