Good Enough to Eat (6 page)

I collapse on my couch, feeling the tightness in my chest, the sting in my eyes. Just when I am feeling like maybe my life is going to be okay, life has other plans. I think about the thousands and thousands of dollars I spent on spa treatments and clothes and handbags and vacations at fifteen-hundred-dollar-a-night hotels. I think about the money that flew through my hands: fresh flowers all over the house every week, a full-time housekeeper, extravagant gifts to everyone in the office at the holidays. And stupid me, never fancy jewelry that you get to keep and has resale value, not antiques or art that you can auction off in tough times. Oh no, just massages and six-hundred-dollar-a-pair shoes, and fancy restaurant dinners with two-hundred-dollar bottles of wine. I own the store and this condo outright, same with my car. But in this economy, with my tiny profit margin and the crappy real estate market, I’m not qualified for much of an equity line on either property. I was too proud to take alimony from Andrew. I didn’t want the constant reminder of him, even in check form.

 

 

 

 

I look around my sanctuary, which now has the taint of being flawed. Broken. Somehow, it makes me love it more, knowing that just under the surface things are amiss. Just like me.

I breathe deep, trying not to lose it. Trying to stem the anger that is building. I get up and start to pace around, rudderless and suddenly starving. Fuck it. Fuck it all.

I call Philly’s Best and order a large cheesesteak sandwich, extra meat and extra cheese, a side of garlic bread, and an order of onion rings. By the time I take my shower, getting the day’s grime off me while sobbing into the steaming sting of the water, and get into my sweats, the doorbell is ringing.

Soft, chewy buttery bread, steaming seasoned meat, gooey cheese, crispy, salty onion rings. I eat standing at the kitchen counter, barely pausing between bites. In less than fifteen minutes there are only crumbs left. This is always the point when I sort of wake up, when the self-loathing kicks in. The anticipation of the food, gloriously bad for me, high in fat, calories, sodium, and guilt. The first bite the only one that fully registers.

If picking up the phone to call for food is the easiest call to make, the next one is the hardest.

“Hello?”

“Carey. It’s Melanie.”

“Eleven thirty your time, so are we attempting to prevent the binge or are we seeking absolution for the binge?” There is no accusation in this, just a genuine interest in my status.

“Bless me, sister, for I have sinned. I have had wanton congress with a Philadelphia cheesesteak and a bushel of onion rings.”

“Wow, Philly’s Best binge. That is serious. What happened?” Carey knows all my binges. She knows that if I have PMS I turn to chocolate and if I’m horny I turn to carbs. She knows that if I’m lonely for family or friendships I bake, and that if I’m stressed about the business I make rice pudding or crème caramel. And she knows that if the whole world explodes, I turn to the one place that not only delivers till midnight, but takes me back to my undergrad days at UPenn, when I gained the freshman forty while making straight A’s and sleeping with an endless series of slightly malnourished geeky grad students.

“Just found out that my condo is doing a special assessment of fifteen thousand dollars, due in three little weeks, to cover some necessary building repairs. This after I got home from the store, where I had to tell Ashley, the extern, that I couldn’t give her much of a recommendation, based on her performance, which made her cry. For three hours. Sniffling and wheezing all over the kitchen till I finally just sent her home. All I wanted was a hot bath, a glass of wine, a decent meal, and some
Without a Trace
reruns on TiVo. And instead there is a note taped to my door telling me that I’m about to be even more completely broke than I currently am, and before I knew it . . .”

“Cheesesteak and onion rings,” she says.

“And garlic bread,” I admit.

“And how did it feel? Eating all that?”

“I didn’t feel much of anything. I mean, it tasted amazing for a couple of bites, and then blind mechanics until it was just gone.”

“And now?”

“And now I am overstuffed, bloating, retaining water as we speak, and relieved to be living alone, because not only was no one here to witness a truly disgusting spectacle, but the attack of toxic Philly farts that is going to hit in about fifteen minutes is going to make even me wish I didn’t live with me.”

Carey laughs. And I laugh at the enormity of my own ridiculousness.

“Honey, I can’t speak to how your colon is going to react to what you ate, but how long do we have to work on you forgiving yourself when you have a difficult meal?”

“I know, I know. I should have put it on my good china and lit a candle and savored every mouthful, stopped when I started to feel full, and then moved the hell on. Damn you, Philly’s Best!”

“See, you know what you should do. Food isn’t the enemy, Mel. Philly’s Best isn’t the enemy. There is no such thing as a bad food, just an inappropriate amount of food. There is nothing you can’t eat, if you eat it in moderation. And you know that better than anyone in the world. You know you can always call me when you want to talk, but don’t feel like you have to call me to confess your sins, because there is no sin in eating. Ever. And the more you fill your life with primary food, the more love and laughter and good work you have, the less you will need the other food. But when life throws you a curve, like it clearly did today, and you don’t have time or energy to go to a museum or watch your favorite movie, or go on a date, then eat what you want, just eat it purposefully and with joy.”

“Thanks, Carey. I needed to hear it for the millionth time.”

“It’s what I’m here for.”

“I’ll talk to you at our usual time on Thursday.”

“Unless you need me before then . . .”

“I’ll be okay. Have a good night.”

“Good night, sweetie. I’m proud of you.”

My stomach gurgles menacingly as I hang up the phone. I go to the computer and check my e-mail. There is a note from Gillian.

Gilly. I’m so proud of her. And so disappointed that she isn’t coming to visit. She keeps offering to fly me in to visit her in London, but I’m too mortified at not being able to afford the trip myself, and too scared to leave the store for any length of time. We were never as close when she got older as we were when we had our secret mac-and-cheese club. In high school she got popular, and I got fatter. I went away for college, and when I came back for law school, we barely knew each other. Her consistent dislike of Andrew solidified the distance between us for a long time, and we only really reconnected when Mom got sick, getting to know each other again and finding reasons to bond. By the time Mom died, things were pretty good between us, but she and Andrew never really got along, so we kept our tentative newfound relationship to lunches or Sunday brunches. When she got transferred to London, we began communicating almost entirely through e-mail. When Andrew and I split, she flew in to help me move, which was probably the nicest thing she ever did for me. Our first night in my new condo, surrounded by the disaster of my circumstances, she made a family-size box of macaroni and cheese, and we ate it sitting on the floor, in the middle of my messy life.

I get out my notebook and begin planning tomorrow. Because no matter what happens, whether we are ready for it or not, there is always tomorrow.

 

 

I just sat down for the littlest second. It had been such a long morning. Near-blizzard conditions had kept Kai from coming in, so I was prepping and cooking everything on my own. I had barely slept last night, obsessing about the assessment, which is due in six days, and about whether the association is going to approve my loan. I put the turkey meat loaf in the oven, unlock the door for any customer who might brave the weather, and sit at the little table in the window just for a second. But my eyes close and don’t open until the smoke alarm in the kitchen starts beeping. I leap up, and run to save the meat loaf from a fiery grave. It is too late. I dump it in the garbage, thinking about the lost income it represents, and as I am distracted, catch my inner arm with a corner of the hot sheet pan, burning myself.

It is the last straw.

I throw the pan onto the counter and run my arm under the cold water. The burn won’t be that bad. The pain barely registers. But I can feel everything welling up inside me. The sobs choke out of me, the tears hot on my cheeks, every sorrow in the world seeming to be mine.

“Um, hello? Are you all right?”

I wipe my face quickly and poke my head out of the kitchen. Standing at the counter is a young woman, wrapped in what appears to be fourteen different scarves, the angular brows above her bright green eyes furrowed in concern.

“Sorry,” I choke out. “How may I help you?”

The girl starts to unwind the first scarf, revealing sharp cheekbones, a generous mouth, calico blonde hair with random pieces of pink. The unwinding continues, and I realize that what had seemed to be several scarves of different colors and textures is actually just one monstrously long scarf, cobbled together in a series of mismatched yarns and patterns, as if someone took one-foot segments of a bunch of different scarves and sewed them together. For some reason it tickles me, this ridiculous accessory, and I begin to laugh. The girl tilts her head at me.

“I’m so sorry,” I gasp. “You must think I am insane. Or bipolar or something. You’ll have to forgive me; it’s been a long morning.”

“That’s okay. I laugh and cry all the time, sometimes at the same time. Are you all right?”