The next two weeks are Jason-free. I don't try to look for him, convincing myself he doesn't care to hear from me. The morning after our big fight, I stop in to visit Teddy. He's gone back to basics, with a bit of a twist. He assures me he's experimenting more with what I've taught him. Comforted but not wanting to get involved in his subterfuge, I return to my room and write.
Writing is the only thing, other than cookies and my favorite movies, that takes away the throbbing pain in my chest. Not because of Jason. I barely know Batman-wanna-be. Rather because of him. I thought he was my Jacob, in the version of Twilight where Edward never exists and Bella is allowed to love on a human level. Who would have thought a human heart could survive such a massive hole? He took everything when he walked away; when he laid down the ultimatum I could never cower to.
I develop a pattern and focus on the pattern—a healthily coping mechanism. I start my days by grabbing my laptop the moment I wake and working from Leah's with a mug of cocoa. Often I'm up hours before Tea & Tales opens. On the third day of my self-imposed exile to Greenwich Village, Leah discovers me writing as I wait for her on the staircase and decides to give me a key so I can come down and work whenever I want. Thankfully she doesn't ask about what I'm writing. Once the café doors open, I head to the alley with a baked good for Martin. No one should be forced to subsist on a diet of plain bagels. But, when he starts in on his morning brew, I retreat to my room praying Jason isn't in the hall when I enter—and he hasn't been. I spend the rest of the day switching between work and writing until Megs arrives home and we binge watch movies or TV shows while munching on whatever I baked for us. Baking is another essential of my mental well being. It produces sugar, which when eaten numbs the tender edges around the hole in my chest. The night caps off with a phone call home. My pattern may not be much, but it's better than being curled in the fetal position on my bed too drained to cry.
"Cookie?" I hand a brown paper bag to Martin filled with a dozen oatmeal chocolate-chip cookies—my favs.
"Rough night?"
I sit on my designated crate as he shoves his paw-like hand into the bag. "My youngest sister isn't taking this," I motion to myself and the non-Ohio-ness around me, "well."
"How old is she?"
"Five."
"Tough age."
I snort. "Twenty's no walk in the park."
Martin washes the first cookie down with a swig from the thermos of milk I brought him. I've learned that if provided with alternative beverage options, I get more semi-sober time with him. "It's all downhill from five."
"Maybe..." Glimpsing back, I suppose everything started heading downward at a steady pace, with minor peaks, the moment I was thrust into kindergarten. Involuntary shiver. "I kind of hope things turn out better for her, you know?"
A pedestrian enters our alley. He is older, with olive skin, and kind brown eyes.
Martin sets the milk on the blacktop and wipes his mouth on the sleeve of a shirt he let me wash for him—after I threatened not to bring him cookies anymore.
"I'm Frank," the older man says, holding out his hand to me, "Betty's husband."
"Oh." I shake his hand—strong but softened by age. "Hi."
"I hope I'm not interrupting." He glances over at Martin with a benign smile that reminds me of Megs.
Martin shrugs and Frank returns his attention to me.
"Your aunt would like to invite you to our house, which is just across the road," he points at the building with a bookshop at its base, "for supper."
"Thanks... I mean, yes." I'm a bit taken off guard that she would want me to come to her house for dinner. When I got on the plane, I thought my visit to NYC was going to be merely cordial-at-a-distance with my Aunt Betty.
Frank smiles and then glances at Martin. "We'd very much like you to be there as well."
Martin nods. "Sure, sure."
"We will see you tonight then," Frank says before excusing himself. He's on his way to the pizza restaurant.
"Awkward."
"Hmm?" Martin sets the bag of cookies next to the milk.
"My aunt doesn't really like me, so..."
Martin slips a flask out of his jacket pocket.
Sigh. "See you tonight?"
He gives me a thumbs up and guzzles the contents of his flask.
***
Maem is the youngest of eleven daughters. Aunt Betty is the eldest. She left the Amish before Maem was even born, so it's not like I know her well. The two times I've seen her were at funerals. Neither meeting ended well for us. She's got a Snape-like hatred for me as if I'm the offspring of her greatest love and greatest enemy—only I'm not.
"Grandma loathes tardiness." Megs waits by the fridge fidgeting with her red-rose dress, as if the more she pulls down on it the longer it will grow. Back home, she'd be considered naked.
I plate the last cookie, wrap it in foil, and we're out the door with a minute to spare.
In the hall outside my aunt's door, Megs looks me over and grimaces. "You should have let me dress you."
"What?" I'm wearing my floral blouse again, jeans, and the boat shoes.
Megs knocks, rolling her eyes. "At least there is one thing I can teach you."
The door swings open before I can respond. Frank's warm smile glows like a child eager for Saturday morning cartoons. He pulls Megs in for a hug before he lets her pass, kissing the side of her purple-haired head.
"Granddad," she moans, but I smile.
"Zia." He opens his arms to me, giving me the option for a hug. I go for it. Who couldn't use an extra hug?
When I enter the large apartment, Megs has mysteriously disappeared from the front living room. Sitting on the couch, looking squeaky clean and wearing a button-down shirt and slacks is Martin.
"Woah."
"Don't start, Amish." He yanks at his collar as if it's choking him.
The TV is tuned into Duck Dynasty.
"Betty and Megs are just around the corner in the kitchen." Frank points me in the right direction.
I follow a short hall lined with framed photos of smiling faces—mostly Megs—into a simple yet elegant square kitchen. Megs is sitting on the counter and Betty's bent over pulling a lasagna out of the oven. She rests it on the stove, closes the oven door, and then picks it up and turns toward the hall I'm blocking.
Betty has jet-black hair and Megs's wide green eyes and heart shaped face. It's weird staring at an enemy that looks so much like a person I care for. The only difference is age lines, gold-rimmed glasses, and a few pounds around the middle—oh, and no purple die in her hair or short dress. Betty wears linen pants with sharply ironed creases, a simple blouse, and pearl accessories.
There is a moment where we both pause. Memories of the past play between us. Then an unspoken agreement to pretend no unpleasantness exists. Betty smiles. I force myself to as well.
"Hello, Zia."
"Welcome home," I say, a slight unevenness in my voice. She's a little old lady, Zia, you can take her.
She approaches me cradling the lasagna in a move-or-get-mauled sort of way. "We'll eat in two minutes."
I press against the wall of photos to let her pass.
"Where should I put this?" I ask Megs who shrugs.
Betty returns.
I slap on a smile. "I made rosemary-olive bread and oatmeal chocolate-chip cookies." I hold them a bit higher and push the smile to its full extent.
"Set them on the counter." Betty motions to a corner of the kitchen. "I've already made garlic bread and tarantella for dessert."
Maybe I misinterpreted our nonverbal exchange? Perhaps Betty was thinking, Be thankful you're here and stay out of my way or I'll make you live in the cupboard under the stairs.
"Did I hear oatmeal and chocolate chip in the same sentence with cookie?" Frank enters the kitchen rubbing his hands together with his grandfatherly warmth cranked to high.
"I, um, baked." I hold up my offering.
Betty tsks, takes the plate and bread from my hands and sets them on the counter. "You don't need two desserts, Frank." She grabs a board of freshly cut bread glazed in diced garlic and olive oil.
Frank winks at me and nods toward the dining room. "You can sit next to me, Kiddo."
I smile a much smaller but more real smile and let my uncle guide me to the seat he's designated and pull out my chair. "Guest of honor."
Martin huffs and plops down on the other side of the table. The chair directly across from me, which I assume is for Betty, is left open. I tuck my legs as far under my seat as they can go, just in case she gets any violent ideas.
Megs and Betty carry in the salad, bread, and butter, then join us.
"Let's pray," Frank says and holds out one hand to Betty on his right and the other to me. I've seen Duck Dynasty at Megs's so I know to take her hand and to expect Frank to pray out loud.
Megs's hand is cold and limp in mine, devoid of her bubbly intensity. She's not been herself since she came home to dress for dinner. I thought about asking her if everything was okay, but I hate when people do that to me so I just let it go. Frank's praying, and I'm nibbling on my lip worried that something irreparable is wrong with my...friend? Is that what Megs is to me now? Yes, I think so. I wonder if she feels the same for me, or if I'm just her cousin-roommate.
"Amen." Frank releases my hand with a big grin on his face. "Dig in."