Tastes Like Winter (15 page)

I have this idea that the more I learn and the smarter I become, and the
more I can remind myself that I am smarter than this. I can rationalize my
grief away. Yet while my brain fills quickly with new trivia, my heart remains
empty.

When finals come, I am beyond prepared and easily ace all of them, but
my success is short lived. My dad invites me out for a celebratory dinner, and
since we haven’t seen each other since January, I accept. Dmitri’s, a fancy new
Italian Steakhouse, opened up downtown, and if nothing else, I can get a great
meal out of the evening.

I change into a simple black dress and add a set of my mother’s
pearls, given to me when I turned sixteen. I don’t often dress up, in fact, I
haven’t worn a dress since the ballet, but this is a no-jeans type of
restaurant, and I wouldn’t want to embarrass him or myself. I round out the
outfit with black sandals that have little red jewels on the ankle strap and a
matching red cardigan. I picked this outfit out all on my own and think Genna
would be proud.

Since it is a weekday and Dad will be coming straight from work, we
decided that I would meet him there. When I arrive and tell the hostess the
reservation name, she informs me that the rest of my party is not yet here, but
our table is ready and I can be seated while I wait. I thank her with a polite
smile and follow her to the table. She leaves me with a menu and lets me know
she will show my father over as soon as he arrives.

I scan the room, taking in the dark wood and golden walls. Each table
is lit romantically with a flickering candle, making the restaurant look rich.
Yet sitting alone at the beautiful table makes me nervous, and I anxiously adjust
the napkin on my lap. I take a few sips of water from the large crystal glass
in front of me, but when I notice that the overly attentive server rushes to
refill my glass after each sip, I find myself doubly self-conscious.

I glance at my wrist to check the time and to calculate how long I
have been waiting, but I removed my watch earlier since it didn’t go with this
outfit. I reach for my wristlet to consult my cell instead, but it appears that
I left that in the car, as well. It feels like forever has passed waiting, but
I can’t be sure. Each minute that passes increases my anxiety, and I find
myself fiddling, straightening the crystal salt and pepper shakers, the heavy
silverware, and ivory bread plate in front of me.

I am about to give up and timidly make an exit, convinced that I have
been stood up, when I hear my dad bustle into the restaurant in a huff.

“Hi, sweetie. So sorry I’m late.”

I’m already half standing from planning to make my escape, and he
takes this as me moving in to greet him and pulls me into a rushed half hug.

“Hi, Dad.” I sit back down, smoothing the napkin over my legs and
resigning myself to staying.

“Got caught up with a few last-minute work e-mails and must have lost
track of the time. You haven’t been waiting long, right?”

Before he allows me to respond, he gestures to the server who’s waiting
and orders himself a glass of Merlot. Would I like anything else to drink? No,
water is fine. He opens the large green menu and begins reading over his
options in a way that does not offer room for conversation. I do the same and
quickly settle on the spring vegetable and Parmesan risotto. I shut the menu
and perch it on the corner of the table, a delicate balance for such a large
book, the small space made smaller by the various glasses and bread plates.

Dad lingers a bit longer and, once he is decided, gestures again to
the waiter. The young man, dressed neatly in black and white, appears again,
and I shift in my seat, searching for the hole behind me that he keeps popping
out of.

“How’s school?” Dad asks plainly as soon as the waiter has taken our
order and retreated again.

“School’s over for the summer, Dad.”

He nods automatically and takes a sip of his wine in response.

“We’re celebrating my final grades, remember?”

“That’s right. How did exams go?”

I look up at him through narrowed eyes. I always knew but maybe never
fully and consciously realized how little he gave a shit. We haven’t had much
contact since he moved out, obligatory phone calls and two holiday-forced
get-togethers, but sitting at this table with him now is frustrating. The
risotto better be worth it.

“Splendidly. Straight As. Number one in my class. Aren’t you so
proud?”

He nods. “Have you thought any more about attending BU?”

“A little. I still have time to decide, and there are a few other
schools that have caught my interest and I would like to explore.”

He nods again, but he isn’t listening. Instead, he alternates between
fingering the stem of his glass and surveying the other patrons in the room. He
checks the door, as if he’s hoping for someone better to walk in.

He completes another scan of the room before finally meeting my eyes
and asking, “And what are your plans for this summer? Will you be working?”

I remind him about my job at High Street and further explain that
another family asked me if I would babysit a couple of nights a week now that
school is out. I finish up and, taking a risk, go in for another sip of water,
turning in my seat to look for the mystery waiter as soon as I replace my
glass. He approaches the table bearing entrees instead of water. Thankful for a
distraction, I quickly dig in. The food smells divine and tastes even better.
With delicious cheesy rice in mouth, my evening begins looking up. Maybe I can
spare a few extra minutes and go for dessert.

While swallowing a bite of his steak, Dad takes another sip of wine
and completes another room scan. This time his eyes settle on a beautiful
brunette approaching us. He pushes away from the table and stands to greet her.

“Marissa, I didn’t expect to see you here.” He clears his throat as
she approaches, and they share a familiar hug and cheek kiss.

“Michael, so nice to see you!” she sing-songs. “I was over at the bar,
having a drink with a friend, when I saw you sitting over here. I thought I’d
come over to say hello.”

I go unacknowledged and, realizing that I most likely will never be
introduced, decide not to let my risotto go to waste and get cold. I pick up my
fork and return to eating. With my dad still rudely standing next to the table,
they begin discussing work and an apparently important meeting that occurred
that day. I guess that they must be colleagues. But when he instructs her to
leave her typed notes on his desk Monday morning, my ears perk up. Is this his
assistant? The assistant?

What a bold move, coming over and interrupting dinner with his
daughter. I pause mid-bite to study her profile. She is pretty and young and
looks both smart and eager. My initial inclination is to call her a home
wrecker and find a way to accidently spill my father’s wine on her dress, but I
kick myself inside. It takes two to tango, and his crisp white shirt deserves
the red liquid even more. While this new fantasy plays out in my head, she
excuses herself (still without ever saying hello), and he sits back down. He
cuts off another bite of his steak.

“Who was that?” I ask.

He opens his mouth to begin, before cutting himself short. “No one
important.”

And the conversation is dismissed. I finished my meal while he chatted
away with his harlot, so even though more than half of his steak remains on his
plate, I am officially ready to leave. I don’t have the energy to play nice,
and frankly, I am pissed off that after everything that has happened this year,
he can act so casually with that woman in front of me. I am ready to put another
failed evening behind us.

“Well that was a lovely meal,” I say to him sarcastically. “Thanks for
dinner, Dad.” And happy now for the magically appearing waiter, I signal for
him. “Check, please.”

***

When Genna graduates the next day, I stand alone on the sidelines, cheering
her on. Her parents are watching up in the bleachers, but after last night, I’m
not feeling particularly chatty. Once Genna has accepted her diploma and thrown
her hat, I meet her on the field and pull her into the biggest, longest bear
hug I can muster. She leaves for college at the end of July to start field
hockey training for the collegiate team, continuing down her athletic path of
greatness, now with a much-deserved scholarship!

Even though she has a few weeks to go before she packs up and heads
out, I already miss her. We have fought so hard to maintain the easy friendship
we have always had, despite our busy schedules and different outlooks on life,
but so much has changed this year. We have already begun to grow apart, and
this past month, the separation has grown even more pronounced. It’s almost as
if we subconsciously agreed to pull back, to lessen the absence looming around
the corner.

With my dad gone, Jake gone, and now Genna soon to be completely gone,
I am more alone than ever. But I like being alone, don’t I? I’m not sure
anymore.

Last week, in a moment of weakness, I messaged Jake a short
imissyou
, omitting the spaces as if the less room it
occupied on the screen, the less vulnerable I would be. He never responded, and
most of me didn’t expect him to.

Fortunately, I still have Mom, and for
that, I’m grateful. It is amazing to see the progress we have made this year. I
went from avoiding and blaming her for her part in the divorce, to being
embarrassed by her weakness and reverting to tough love, to recently seeking
her out and leaning on her more than I have in years. I haven’t opened up to
her about Jake, mostly because I don’t want her to worry about me and my
heartbreak when she is still working through her own, but having her around has
been comforting. This spring she has taught me how to make every Forrester
family recipe in her book, and I am several pounds heavier for it.

So when Mom suggests we take a trip to Colorado now that school has
finished, I’m happy to go. We spend a few days at a gorgeous resort in the
mountains, where I am able to soak up some much-needed sun and try to revive
myself. Mom goes to the spa, and I opt to hike the trails through the forest
directly behind the hotel instead. I hope the exercise will strengthen me,
though physical strength is not the type I need right now. Being outside and
away from High Beach is revitalizing, and exploring a new part of the world
reminds me how much joy there still is in the world. I need to get out of my
head, stop feeling sorry for myself, and live again.

After her spa day and my hike, Mom meets me back at the hotel
restaurant for dinner with a massive smile on her face. I see the relaxation
treatments have done her well, and I am happy for it. We finish a great meal by
sharing the most delicious vanilla bean crème
brûlée
I have ever had, brainstorming on what the recipe might entail, and deciding to
attempt to recreate it when we get back home. This will be a new culinary
endeavor for us, and we joke about stepping up our game and experimenting with more
haute cuisine. We decide to buy Julia Child’s famous cookbook and have our own
adventure, working our way through it. I am excited to have this time with my
mom to focus on.

Unfortunately, all good things must come to an end. The trip is too
short, and we are home before we know it. After we land at Logan Airport and
the taxi drops us back off at home, the weight I thought was lifting comes back
down on me again, though to my relief, it’s a little less pressing. The
reminders of how much I miss Jake still hide around every corner of High Beach,
but the deep-down feeling of being lost and alone has been alleviated slightly
by our trip. I am happy to at last see a glimmer of light at the end of this
heartbreak-shaped tunnel.

***

“Hey, Mom? What do you want to make for
dinner tonight? I thought I could run to the store and pick up ingredients, and
we could work through another recipe. Maybe try out one of Julia’s? I know we
don’t have the book yet, but I could pull something up online,” I call to Mom
from the kitchen.

She is in the study on her laptop again. She has been on the computer
a lot since we got home from Colorado, but whenever I walk by, she clicks to
another screen. Mom isn’t usually one for secrets, so I imagine she must be
planning something special for my upcoming birthday.

“Oh sweetie, I’d love to, but I am actually a bit busy at the moment.
Can I take a rain check? There is spaghetti and frozen sauce. Perhaps you could
do me a favor and cook that up for us? I should be an hour or so more.”

Another hour? This must be one massive birthday surprise!

“Yeah, no problem. What are you working on?” I test her to see if she
might spill.

“A little project I’m playing around with.
You’ll find out, soon enough.”

Her vague answer is enough to satisfy my curiosity and cement the idea
that it is, in fact, a birthday surprise. Not wanting to spoil the secret, I let
the subject drop. I diligently enter the kitchen and pull the sauce from the
freezer, placing it in the microwave to defrost. I pull down a box of angel
hair from the pantry and set it next to the stove, before moving to the fridge
and seeing what ingredients we have and if I can throw together a quick salad
to accompany the meal.