Meadow hugs me wordlessly, and I feel something coming from her that’s hot and sad and intense, but I’m not sure what it is. Or maybe I do know. “Rory was always only mine,” she says. “I get it.”
And here is the truth of Meadow, too. By virtue of her own hard road, she has a lot of compassion. She had a baby at sixteen, fathered by no one Meadow wanted to claim. She does know. It feels good to rest in her arms, against her soft shoulder. Something too hot drains out of me. “I’m sorry about Norah,” I say. “She’s just not that bad.”
“Norah?” Rory pops up. “Are you kidding? She was the most normal woman Dad ever dated.”
Meadow stiffens, but when she lets me go, she’s found a smile to paste over her emotions. “Are you implying that I’m not normal?”
Rory raises a brow. “If the shoe fits . . .”
I make an appointment with Rory’s doctor to find out more about the pregnancy, and because of the situation, she squeezes me in the next day. This satisfies both Meadow’s and Rory’s need for order, and I call my boss, too, to discuss my options about the job with my arm in a cast.
To my surprise, she’s very relaxed about it. “Things happen,” she says. “Obviously you can’t work as a barista, but Nathan was telling us that you were known for your nose in the wine business. What about applying that to coffee? Maybe you’d enjoy the roasting and blending, and if you hate it, you can come back to work in the café once you’re able.”
Humbled, grateful, I say, “That would be great.”
“Take a few days to feel better, then give me a call.”
In the early evening, storms roll in, bringing gusty winds and dry lightning arcing over the ocean. I find myself in the kitchen, the Bluetooth synced to my phone and my playlist of cooking tunes, which I haven’t accessed in a long time. It feels good to hear the old favorites, an upbeat mix of soul and rock, much of it taken from the years when my parents had their dinner parties right in this house and would spend the day cooking together, playing music and chopping.
The memory is a happy one, and when the Beatles sing “Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da,” I break from chopping onions in the food processor to spin around the island myself, shimmying my hips, singing along with the music. I don’t even miss wine, not tonight, and I know it’s partly because of The One living inside me right now, but it’s also just letting go of what was. Finding something else, like grapefruit seltzer water over ice with a twist of lime. Delicious.
Outside the rain and thunder create a seascape of tossing waves. Inside I’m simmering onions in butter very slowly, while I crush two dozen cloves of garlic. I’ve been dying for garlic, and this was one of my dad’s best recipes—caramelized onions, a cup of garlic cloves, salt and pepper, and Parmesan cheese topped with cream. The whole room smells amazing. “What do you think, baby?” I say to my belly. “Will you like garlic?”
Struggling a little to do everything left-handed, I peel garlic and toss it into the processor, and then scrape it into the butter. The scent slams into my taste centers, filling my mouth with saliva. It makes me laugh. Maybe my appetite isn’t just my body healing, but the baby, being hungry and growing, too.
Impulsively, I punch the contact for my sponsor. It goes to voice mail, which does happen sometimes, and I leave a cheery message. “Hi, Deborah. It’s Maya. I’m cooking my dad’s garlic soup. I’m all alone in this beautiful house and it feels like heaven. Even the weather is making me happy. Give me a call when you can. I have really interesting news!”
Just as I hang up, another call comes in. The screen says Ayaz, and I hesitate. Maybe Meadow is right—the last thing I need is the complication of a man. But didn’t we get that out in the open earlier today? I could use a friend. A sober friend even more. “Hello, Ayaz,” I say.
“Hello, Maya. I’m calling to see how you’re feeling.”
“It’s modestly painful, but not constant,” I say. “And I’m cooking tonight, which makes me happy.”
“Ah. A good activity for such a stormy night. What are you cooking, if I may be so bold?”
“Garlic soup, with cheese biscuits.” Again my mouth waters. And before I know I’m going to say it, the words come tumbling out of my mouth: “Would you like to join me?”
For a moment, he hesitates, and I feel that something between us. I hurry to excuse him. “No pressure.”