“You clearly know how to cook. Not just crap, either, but real food. Good food. You can do it without a cookbook or recipe, and you don’t have to stand in the kitchen to make sure you don’t mess it up. So how come every night when you eat the shit I’ve fed you, you tell me how good it is? You and I both know it’s not amazing like you claim.”
Slowly, I set my fork down on the side of the plate and used a napkin to wipe my mouth. “I’ve never had anyone cook me dinner…not like this. I mean, I used to eat at your house when I was younger, but your mom didn’t cook specifically for me, she fixed food for everyone. And my mom…well, she worked a lot. So when she wasn’t home, the delivery guy fed me, and when she was home, we ate reheated takeout.”
The infectious grin fell from her expression, and her eyes turned soft with concern.
“Don’t feel bad for me. Most kids used to beg their parents for pizza or fast food. Me? I got that shit shoved in my direction without even asking for it. I was in heaven. In case you’ve forgotten, I wasn’t some sad, lonely child. I wasn’t neglected. I had your family, and got to enjoy plenty of meals around a bunch of people sitting at the same table every week.”
“Yeah…I don’t think my mom ever had food delivered to the house. And if we had fast food, she was probably sick and couldn’t cook—although…” She tapped her chin and stared above my head. “There was at least one child at home who was old enough to make dinner if she couldn’t.”
“You’ll never hear me complain. That woman fed me some of the best meals of my life. I used to tell Matt I needed to find a woman who knew how to make the same stuff your mom did, because I’d marry her and never let her go.” I laughed beneath my breath and shook my head. “He told me she made up every recipe, and they were secret, that she would never tell anyone how to make them. So I said I’d marry her and be his stepdaddy, and he’d have to call me Father Dearest.”
We both shared a laugh, followed by brief silence while we took bites of our food. “Who cooked for you in college when you lived with Matt?”
I winked and said, “Take a wild guess.”
She pondered it for a moment before her lips tightened with mirth. “My mom?”
“Yup. She used to bring us pre-prepped meals for the week. All we had to do was heat them up.”
“Oh my God, you two were so spoiled.”
“I wasn’t complaining.” I shrugged while chewing another bite. “But all that changed when Matt started to date Christine. Your mom said it was time to grow up—I’m pretty sure those were her exact words when we went over there to collect our weekly meals, and she handed us each brand-new frying pans. Somehow, Matt convinced Christine to come over and she took over duties as head chef for at least a few nights out of the week. Then they got married and moved out, and I had to finally learn to do something for myself.”
“Well, it’s amazing. The food, I mean. This food.” She snickered before shoving a forkful of rice into her mouth, and then swallowed it down with some water. “But at least we know one thing…our marriage was doomed from the start. You want a wife who can cook like my mom, and it’s evident I can’t make anything that doesn’t come out of a box with microwave instructions.”
“Janelle…” I waited until I had her full attention, and then said, “Regardless, if it was a peanut butter and jelly sandwich or Hamburger Helper, I appreciate the time you spent to make it for me. So believe me when I tell you it’s amazing.”
She fluttered her eyes and went back to her plate.
She didn’t believe me, but she didn’t have to.
We joked while we finished eating, but she seemed quieter than normal. Part of me wondered if it had to do with her phone call, but I wasn’t about to ask. I didn’t care to know anything pertaining to that prick. Granted, I didn’t want her to stay quiet, but if it was between that or listening to her talk about the loser, I’d take her silence in a heartbeat. I figured if it got too bad, I’d give her a book and ask her to read it out loud—maybe a cookbook, but only if she didn’t find that offensive.
Though, while washing the dishes, I realized something was wrong. When I asked her about it, she just said she was tired, but I knew it had to have been more than that. Her eyes were distant and she appeared worn out, exhausted. So I sent her to bed and finished cleaning the kitchen.
That night, I realized how lonely the house was without her. Even though we didn’t always spend the evenings together, at least we were both home bustling around. Sometimes we watched TV, while other times, I watched it and she played on her phone—or vice versa. There had even been a couple nights we weren’t in the same room, but I could hear her from across the house, and I was sure she could hear me, both of us knowing the other was within reach.
But this night, it was silent.
Eerily so.
I couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like with her gone.
Forever.
And I didn’t like how that made me feel.
13
Janelle
My phone buzzed on the table next to me, but I couldn’t answer it. My head pounded and any amount of light only made it worse. Even the slightest movement exasperated my pain. And to add to that, my throat felt like it was on fire and punished me every time I swallowed. So I not only couldn’t answer the phone, I had no desire to. It could’ve been the Pope himself calling, and I wouldn’t have cared—unless he called with a magic prayer to heal me. That I would’ve gotten out of bed for. But nothing less.
I had no sense of time, no idea as to how many days I’d stayed curled up on the mattress, burrowed deep beneath the covers. It could’ve been a month for all I knew. I’d briefly wake up, immediately remember how much pain I was in, and then surrender to sleep once more. That’s where I wanted to stay—in the unconsciousness where I didn’t hurt and things were good. It’s where I was able to live in sheer bliss with Holden forever and ever.
“Janelle,” a soft voice whispered, sounding very much like an angel coming to take me away. This is it, I thought to myself, I must’ve died, and now I’m going to heaven. The angel touched my forehead and said, “Come on, Janelle. You need to get up. We have to take you to the doctor’s office.”
I groaned and rolled over, and that’s when I knew I wasn’t dead, nor was I on my way to the pearly gates in the sky. I cracked my eyes open enough to see Christine perched on the side of my bed. I tried to speak, tried to ask her why she was here, but all that came out was a sob followed by a hiccup of pure agony caused by the sob.
“Holden called me because he got worried. You haven’t answered any of his calls. Now I can see why he was concerned. You’re burning up, Janelle. We need to get you to a doctor.”
Even the thought of getting out of bed was painful. I’d reached the point of desperation where I began to imagine taking an ice cream scooper to my tonsils and digging them out. I also imagined setting my bed on fire, because it was the only thing I could come up with that would keep me warm. As far as curing the headache, my only option at that point was to crack my skull open to allow room for the swelling.
Christine was right—I needed a doctor. A real one.