The dinner

The window whined to a stop as I pushed the object to its hilt, letting out the smoke that quickly filled the corners of my apartment. The fire alarms didn’t work; they never had — another reason I counted down the days until my lease was up.

I ran back over to the stove, looking at the scorched chicken breast taunting me in the pan. Groaning as I carried it over to the trash, tipping it in along with the other dishes I burned today. I lost focus; cleaning the small area proved to be a larger feat than I recall, but today of all days, everything seemed to stick out like a sore thumb to me.

The pink tufted throw pillows I got just a few weeks ago already seemed dull, and an implacable odor lingered on them. The chipped coffee table screamed at me to cover it, like its bare wood was improper to be exposed. And one of the rug's corners kept lifting, no matter the amount of weight I rested on it.

The final straw was the house and all its contents now being laced with such a potent roasted fragrance I could bottle it and make an air freshening company. Even though I'm uncertain about the potential buyers.

Today wasn’t my day, unfortunately, it was the day. In hindsight, agreeing to host the dinner when I can’t cook was delusional. But I wanted to try; it’s good to try, my mom would say. But if she looked at my small kitchen right now, she would see the disaster my trying led to.

I wanted everything to be perfect, and this was the complete opposite. I looked at the judgmental green digits on the stove and slid down the cabinets. They would be here in an hour and a half. 

Today was everything but perfect.

I looked to my right and saw a crumpled paper under the sofa, and my wallowing dissipated marginally in the crevices of wherever it came from. I scraped myself off of the floors, which already lost their lemon scent from the scouring me and the mop put it through this morning.

I grabbed the loose paper and threw it out before ordering food from an Italian spot I frequented lately. My previously broken spirit lit anew when they told me it would only take thirty minutes. I scrubbed the pot and took out the trash before lighting a few candles and turning on a fan. Hopefully, they wouldn’t notice. It’s been two months since we’ve been in contact, and I needed this to go well.

I was freshly showered and went down to get the food before putting them in my own dishes and tucked the empty containers under the sink. I wouldn’t have time to get to the dumpster, and I planned on taking the credit in making this.

I looked in the mirror one last time to give myself a quick once-over. I gained weight and looked well, at least that’s what my mother told me. As far as I was concerned, I looked just as I remembered, save for a few scars and stretch marks I didn’t remember getting. My hair was shorter, my eyes didn’t shine as much, and my body ached most days. Not being able to take medication for my frequent and intense headaches was also new.

I heard a knock at the door and pulled myself away from the person looking back at me, a version of myself that I was getting to know. I flattened my hands along the front of the dress I had on, smoothing away the wrinkles, and looked around the room to make sure nothing went out of its place while I was grooming. I took a breath and twisted the handle.

"Hello," I smiled, my stomach in knots as my eyes met Aaron’s. They were a warm hazel to match the dusty brown of his slightly tousled hair and neatly trimmed beard. I remembered he was tall, but the lankiness seemed to be gone; he was broader now, older—mature. I had time to make peace with what’s happened to me, but it was still strange seeing this man, seeing a ring on his hand, and seeing his hardened gaze.

"Hello," a quiet voice said, and I looked down and saw my carbon copy staring at me; she was beautiful. I could tell she was sweet, and I wanted to learn everything about her. She held on to her father’s hand and tucked herself so close to him that they could become one. I could see her small hands tight grip on him, and I bit my lip as I felt my eyes start to water. I looked away, ushering them in. "Um, welcome. It’s not much, but please make yourselves comfortable. We can get started in a sec. My mother should be arriving soon, and I-"

My voice trailed off when I turned back around, I saw them staring at me, still close to the door, coats still on their backs. My chest grew tight, and I paused. What could I say to make them stay? I didn’t know them anymore—I didn’t know them at all. Yet my heart ached for them, as I fought to recall everything I lost. "The coat rack is just right here; I can take them if you’d like."

Aaron was eyeing me, a wary look in his narrowed eyes as he scrutinized me. Lena looked up at him, and he nodded his permission. I didn’t remember why—but it was obvious I was something to be feared. My mother didn’t go into much detail, but at this point, I wish she had so I could make matters right with the people in front of me. With my daughter and my husband, even now, the words didn’t seem real, didn’t seem like they belonged to me. I took their coats, and there were no voices to drain out the awkward swish of the fabrics. "Can I get you anything, Lena? Water or soda maybe?" Aaron shook his head, "She doesn’t drink soda."

The accusation in his tone hurt— I should know, I should know this because this is my daughter, and I am her mother. I nod, "Of course not, I’m sorry. Water, then?" I raise my eyebrows in her direction.

"Yes, please."

I thank god for the little escape I make into the kitchen; how could I think this was a good idea? This was a bad idea. I wasn’t ready, I didn’t know enough, I haven’t seen enough. I fill the glass with ice water and steady my shaking hand bringing it to the small table. I set it in front of her, and it leaned a little; the tables legs were rickety. I set it up today, but it was useless. None of the work today could make up for the fact that I didn’t know the people I should know. I noticed Aaron looking at it, "and you, anything for you if you want anything, that is. I have drinks." I was rambling and I was nervous and embarrassed. "No thanks."

The door was opened, "Lacy, I’m here." My mother had a key to my apartment for emergencies, but she used it whenever.

Lena jumped up and rushed to hug her. I wish that was me. I wish she felt safe with me, and I wish I could remember birthing her and watching her first steps. A tear fell this time, a brief little thing, and I wiped it away quickly. I looked at Aaron, and he looked at me, and he stared at me like he was memorizing every feature. He didn’t care it seemed that I was watching him do this. He just looked at me while his eyes held a plea in them, “remember me, remember us.” I had to turn away; the ache in my heart and the tingle that radiated down to my fingers was becoming too much.

“Hi, Mom,” I made my way over to her, hugging her softly. She was older too, but I’d gotten used to this; she was my mom, I knew that, no one had to tell me.

Back in the hospital when I woke up and saw Aaron in my hospital room, I didn’t see my husband; I saw the guy I met on my college campus who was taking me on a date later that evening. So what was he doing here? Next to my mother and with a little girl who looked too much like me. Who were they, and why was I there?

It was a heartbreaking reality learning I was now 35, married, a mother; I'd already earned my degree, and I was an addict a year prior, my husband had been about to divorce me, take Lena, and move without telling me the address. They explained I was in an accident and i suffered a severe brain injury, I’d been in a coma six months. Yet the most horrible thing about all this is, at the time, I was most sad that I'd missed out on a decade of my life.

That was why my husband—my date was looking at me like this; he wanted me to remember. He was not alone in this desire. I wanted to know too; I wanted to know what happened to me. One thing was sure though; I had a crush on my husband—even as he looked at me with apprehension. I wanted to learn my family, and I wanted them to teach me about myself so I could be with them.

“Dinner's ready if everyone wants to sit; I’ll bring it out,” I said, taking my mom’s coat and setting it on the rack on my way to the kitchen. I hurried in and took the foil off of the pans, grabbing the utensils I’d need to serve it.

“I need to talk to you,” I jumped at the sound of his voice, deep and serious. “Yeah, sure, let me just—" I set the items back down and gave him my full attention.

“How are your headaches?”

I frowned; that was not what I was expecting. “They’re ok, well, they’re persistent, but it’s ok, I’m ok.”

“You take something for those?”

I understood now what he wanted to know. “No, my doctors cautioned me against them,” I looked down, fiddling with the loose hem of my shirt. “And you still remember nothing about your life after college?” He had a brooding look about him, his large arms crossed over his broad chest. A scowl set deeply on his face, but his eyes, his eyes couldn’t lie; he cared for me.

“Nothing.”

We were quiet, and I heard Lena and my mom laugh about something. I turned my head toward them and closed my eyes. The sound was so pleasing, even if it was through a wall, but at the same time, it felt like a dagger twisted into my heart. “Okay,” he turned to leave, and I rushed over to stop him, grabbing his arm. “Wait.”

He looked down at his arm, and I realized what I’d done; I didn’t want to let go; he felt safe, strong, but I released him. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” I backed away and exhaled a shaky breath. “I—" I looked up, “how did we fall in love?” I asked plainly; I had to get it out; I had to know, and only he could tell me.

Something in him softened. He leaned against the counter, “it’s a long story,” he said, “maybe after dinner I can tell you a bit before me and Lena head home.” Head home, he said it so casually; their home away from here, without me. “No, please, can you tell me just a bit? I need something; I can’t sit at that table when you’re a stranger to me, and I’m someone to you.”

His frown returned, and he straightened to his full height. “You’re not someone to me.” His words were like searing hot bullets to my ears. I nodded rapidly, “I know, I’m sorry; I can’t erase whatever I did, what I must have put you all through with my addiction.” I held in a sob, my chest heaving as I tried to regain control of my breathing. He shook his head and came closer to me; he raised his hands, and I flinched, as he rested them on my cheeks, wiping away at the rivers pooling from my eyes. “You’re everything to me.” I sniffled then, not sure I'd heard him correctly; I looked into his eyes.

“Our first date, I took you to get Italian food, a small family business. You’d never been, and when you told me how much you liked pasta, I had to bring you there.” We’d never been this close before; at least, this version of me hasn’t. But he seemed so familiar, so at ease with me here, and I felt that ease in my soul as he caressed me.

“We talked all night until they closed up shop, about your dream of being like your second-grade teacher, about our classes, and praying we did well that semester. Any and everything was on the table.” His hands lowered from my face and settled on my lower back, and I let him hold me. I rested my head on his chest, and his heart was thumping just as hard as my own. He needed this; I needed this. “After the drive back to campus, I walked you to your dorm, and you kissed me—though later on, you swear to everyone that asks us that I kissed you first.” I laughed, and so did he, and I enjoyed the rumble that came from within him.

“Look at me,” he demanded, and I did, pulling back slightly as he loosened his hold. “The same Italian place you ordered from today,” My eyebrows furrowed slightly, and my lips quivered. The softness in his gaze gave way to a hint of vulnerability; his eyes glistened with unshed tears. Then he kneeled just enough for his lips to graze my own, “this time your story will be true,” his lips pressed against mine, his touch soft yet filled with passion. A sense of warmth and peace settled between us, and I reached up, wrapping my arms around his neck. Our first kiss—my first kiss. He pulled away, and the sullen look he had on his face remained; the hope he had in his eyes earlier now held a new promise, one I don’t think I could live with. Our first kiss was our last.

“Thank you,” I said to him. “Thank you.”