How Sweet It Is (2 page)

S
omewhere outside of Gainesville on Route 23, it starts to rain, and when the drops begin to splatter wildly across the windshield, I pull the Jeep over to the side of the road. My hands tremble; the engine idles. The next thing I know, I’m rocking back and forth, my kneecaps jarred by the steering wheel. As my eyes close, my memory flashes with a vision of crunched metal—ugly and jagged. I hear glass shattering and the shriek of tires. My eyes open; I’m not in a wrecked vehicle. I grasp the seatbelt strap across my chest and swallow three times. My friend Sally taught me to do this. “When you swallow, your body relaxes,” she repeats whenever she finds those deep lines of panic displayed across my face.

An officer pulls up behind me, and I hear the crunch of the gravel under his heavy shoes as he comes to my window. He uses a gloved hand to knock on the glass and then asks if I need any help.

I stop rocking, find the button to lower the window a few inches, and clear my throat. “No.” Chilling rain dribbles into the car, streaking the sleeve of my windbreaker.

“Are you sure?” His breath smells of coffee, which reminds me that I have had no caffeine today.

I speak to his shiny badge, which I’m sure includes his printed name, but my eyes are too blurry to read it. “I’m fine.”

Just three and a half months ago, another officer had asked me how I was as I lay in the passenger’s seat of Lucas’s 1987 Mustang. I’d passed out after that. I don’t want to look into this man’s face right now.

“Well, miss, you will need to move along.” His tone is compassionate, in an authoritative sort of way.

Nodding, I tell him, “I will.” My voice sounds tinny, like I’m talking through a pipe.

When he leaves in his red-domed patrol car, I resume my rocking. This time terror rumbles through my head like the wheels of a tractor plowing a dirt field, flattening every stem, every weed. If I look to my right, I’ll see a woman slumped over in the passenger’s seat, blood smeared on her forehead, shards of glass protruding from her arms. Gritting my teeth— a habit I have only recently formed—I look to my right. The passenger seat holds my worn brown suede purse. Jerking my head toward the back seat, I see only the gray upholstery. I’m really all alone.

Post-traumatic stress syndrome is what the doctor called this. PTSS for short. To me, that sounds like a brand of hair-spray. Or the sound of air slowly escaping from a lidded pot cooking collards on the stove.

I hear a scream identical to the one I recall hearing during the accident and realize it belongs to me. Clutching my elbows, I try to steady my breathing. But my breath is a series of gasps, and then a loud sob rushes out of my mouth. Tears much larger, I’m sure, than these falling raindrops slide down my cheeks.

I should have taken Sally up on her offer. She said she’d drive me and my belongings to Bryson City. She’s a doctor— her patients are the kind I’m allergic to. “You don’t do well driving,” she gently told me one evening when we were at Burgalos for dinner. “It’s natural after what happened for you to have fear. Just let me drive you. I’m off next Saturday.”

I let her comment slide off me like a loaf of bread out of a well-greased baking pan. She must have seen my knuckles turn harder than concrete last Tuesday when I dropped her off at her clinic because her car was in the shop. I was doing well until a trucker in front of me slammed on his brakes. “What is he doing?” I cried.

“The light’s red,” she told me. “Cars tend to stop at those.” She smiled, but I couldn’t return her smile. It was too hard just to breathe.

“Swallow, Deena,” she urged me.

This morning’s rainstorm was not predicted. I wouldn’t have chosen to leave Atlanta on a day with rain. Had I known the weather would be like this, I’d have waited. I would have sat cross-legged in my almost empty, one-bedroom apartment, dressed in a pair of gray sweat pants and billowy T-shirt, and listened to Antonio Vivaldi’s
The Four Seasons
. At lunchtime, I would have eaten takeout from the Chinese place down the street and talked to Sally on the phone in between her canine and feline appointments at her clinic. She would have told me how nasty the rain makes pet fur, and I would have remembered again why I chose not to be a vet.

When the windshield begins to fog, I switch on the defroster.

“Are you going to just sit here paralyzed forever?”

Oh no, now I’m talking to myself.

I reply, “Well, no.”

“Then get moving, miss.” I make my voice firm, without any hint of compassion.

“Now?” The sky still looks dark.

“Now or never.”

These conversations between my reluctant-fearful self and my trying-to-motivate self have become more and more common since the accident. I’m not sure which self I like—or loathe. Often it depends on the weather.

As my hands clutch the steering wheel, I consider calling Sally on my cell phone. I’ve flipped open the phone and my index finger is poised to jab at the first number. Instead, I toss the phone across the seat and say, “Think of something pleasant.”

So I think of a stream with rocks and clear, cool water. Daisies, petals touched by dew, bobbing in the gentle wind. Peach pie with a mound of vanilla-bean ice cream. Rich velvet cake with buttercream icing that melts on your tongue. An autumn morning walk with Dad across the harvested fields, pointing out geese that soar overhead, picture-perfect against a blue sky, and later, just before breakfast, going to the barn to feed the plump piglets that were born in late spring.

Soon, I’m driving again, visions of piglets prompting a tiny smile. But when the rain gushes over the Jeep like a waterfall, I feel panic set in once more. Cars pass me; some even have the nerve to honk. As their tires spray water against the sides of my vehicle, I mutter, “I’m going thirty miles per hour.” Which, despite the 55 MPH speed limit signs, seems to be the only safe speed for this soggy day.

Through the torrents of rain, I spot a lopsided billboard with the words
Good Eatin’
on it. I am more than ready to stop. I drive another slow mile and then see a small burgundy diner on the right. A few of the letters are burned out in the neon sign that flickers, so it reads
God in.

A place where God is present—what more could anyone ask for?

————

Inside the fluorescently-bright restaurant, I’m greeted by the smell of bacon, hamburgers, and something strong, like bleach. A waitress in a rust smock and matching lipstick seats me at a sticky table in the back. She hands me a menu stained with grease spots. I try to smile as she comments, “Looks like a day for ducks and my petunias.”

As I study the menu, I wipe my neck, which is moist from my wet hair. Since I couldn’t remember which box I’d packed my umbrella in, I just ran from the parking lot into the restaurant. The rain felt clean and strangely comforting, as though its pellets were trying to bathe away my worries. I even considered standing in the rain for several minutes and getting completely drenched, just to see if nature’s bath could rid me of all my discomfort.

The waitress waves toward a car parked outside. “Ah, look at that, would you? Someone forgot to roll up the windows. Well, he’ll be in for a surprise.” She clucks her tongue and then chuckles as she walks toward the front of the restaurant.

I take a few gulps of air, shiver. I know I rolled up my windows. That’s not something I have to worry about. My right arm jerks, and I massage it with my left hand. A nurse gave me a massage in the hospital; I wish she could come over every day and repeat that wonderful, soothing act. If I ever win the lottery, I’ll hire a personal masseur. And a chauffeur, so that I won’t ever have to get behind a steering wheel again.

When the waitress comes by with a white memo pad and number two yellow pencil, I order sweet tea and French fries. Large for both. I haven’t eaten anything all day, even though Yolanda fried eggs and tomatoes for me this morning. “You eat for to be strong,” she encouraged me. When she was looking for a pair of clean socks for her son, I opened her garbage can and let the eggs and bits of tomato run into the black Hefty bag right next to last night’s potato peelings.

From my purse I dig out a bottle of Extra Strength Tylenol. Right after the accident I had prescription stuff—the good stuff—which they freely gave me as I lay in the hospital bed. Upon discharge, I was given a prescription for what must be the world’s most wonderfully strong pain-zapper. When the prescription ran out, although I begged, Dr. Bland told me he didn’t want me addicted to codeine. “You should be feeling better,” he said as he took a moment to study me over the black rims of his glasses. “It’s been three months.”

“Yes, but I still have pain all over,” I told him, hoping to sound refined, with only a mild strand of desperation. What I really wanted to say was, “Which pain were the drugs supposed to cure? The pain in my legs or the pain in my heart?” Somewhere around March, two months after the accident and a month after my grandpa Ernest’s death, I’d realized my life was in shambles. I didn’t know how I would ever be normal again. And somewhere around that time, the physical pain went away and the heart pain set in.

Just like death, people don’t like to talk about pain—well, unless it belongs to them. They want you to move on, get over it, resume your life, whip up an omelet, frost a cake, be happy, play the saxophone. But I still carry pain—and Extra Strength Tylenol is not getting rid of it.

When the fries arrive on a chipped blue plate, I squeeze Hunt’s ketchup into a mound and dip one crispy slice into the red circle. I chew loudly, making a smacking noise, just to hear the sound. I figure table manners don’t count when you dine solo, although my mother would surely disagree. “Deena, Deena, you must eat like royalty,” she once said. I don’t know where that idea of hers came from. I’m the daughter of pig farmers and have yet to feel regal.

The next time I sink a fry into the red condiment, all I can think is that the ketchup looks like a pool of fresh blood.

three

C
overing my plate with three white paper napkins from the dispenser, I recall the first time Chef Bordeaux taught our class how to make crispy fried potatoes. He called them by a fancier name, yet they were just one step above French fries. He coated them in a seasoning of salt, pepper, garlic salt, cayenne pepper, and olive oil. Then he baked them at 400 degrees for thirty minutes, taking them out of the oven once to stir them. “So as not to burn,” he said. We ate them when they were done, and we were all impressed with the soft insides and flavorful taste.

“You like potatoes?” he asked us.

“Yes,” we said, in between bites. We were all in training. I’d only been working at his restaurant for a month. Anthony, just off the boat from a small village outside of Lyon, France, said never had he had potatoes so “delicate.” He then switched from English to French, and none of us understood him. Chef B grew up in San Sebastian, Spain, but he tried to follow the young Frenchman’s enthusiasm. After all, Anthony had been recommended to him and the Palacio del Rey from a two-star restaurant in Lyon.

Anthony makes the best braised duck in orange sauce I’ve ever tasted. He knows how much I like it, so he made the dish for my going-away party. Chef Bordeaux made wild rice seasoned with garlic and fresh rosemary from his own garden. The rest of the meal included shiitake mushrooms filled with cheese and baby shrimp, mint sorbet, and basil and parmesan Tuscan loaf bread. The party couldn’t have been more flavorful or beautiful, unless perhaps it had taken place on the
Queen Mary 2
. It was too bad the occasion was that I was leaving the restaurant.

The event even included a gift. Everyone chipped in and brought a set of cake pans for me. There were three—an 8-inch, 9-inch and 13-inch—and each one was wrapped in silver-and-purple paper topped with a large bow. I almost cried when I opened them, and I don’t cry easily. My mother taught my sister and me the art of sucking in not only your stomach but also your emotions. “A woman cannot be easily read,” she told us. “A woman must cover her body and her heart.”

I pull another napkin from the metal dispenser and lay it like a veil over my plate of half-consumed food. Hunger grips my stomach, so I decide to eat a few more greasy potatoes, in spite of what the ketchup brings to mind. I lift one edge of a napkin and take two fries from the plate. They will never compare to Chef B’s potatoes, but sometimes you just make the best of what you have.

Suddenly, I want to make a list of all the food we had at my going-away party, and I’m sure it’s because I don’t want to forget any part of the event that was held in my honor. After all, how many good-bye parties does one get in a lifetime?

Before i grab a napkin to jot down the names of the various dishes from my party, I see another gift—one that begs my attention—and I pull it from my purse. It’s a hardcover journal Chef B gave me. “Writing down your heart is healing,” he told me when I opened the blank journal. “One lady, father die, then her sister, then her cat. Next, she does not want to keep on. She write her heart onto the pages of her journal. She find some peace.”

The shiny cover of the journal features a slice of peach pie next to a goblet of a clear liquid and a white mug of a dark beverage—my guess, Costa Rican coffee with a rainforest blend.