Funny how something small can start a chain reaction. The little act of kindness yesterday, helping Ben at the store and loading the groceries into his car, was somehow selfish, yet selfless and decidedly unlike me. I'm lighter today, and the grey fog around me recedes.
I even see mom's texts and voicemails in a new light. She's persistent. She hasn't given up, and that's more than I can say for her interactions with me in the past. Maybe this time she means it? My head no longer in the depth of despair, I dust off the coursebook on French History, and type up five pages of the next chapter of my thesis. Can I say life's good? Not yet, but it is better.
My interview with the University of Bretagne-Loire isn't perfect, but I'm prepared. I pepper them with questions about the research opportunities. Quote some lines from the book on Medieval Marriage Rites Professor Hallot, who I've approached to be my advisor, wrote. I even manage to get a round of laughs from everyone on the panel. Not the moment to declare victory but there's a sliver of hope where none has been for a while. Two interviews done and two more to go. There's so much to look forward to.
It's Tuesday again. I begin the closing activities half an hour before ten and keep my eye on the door. When Ben comes in, he no longer wears the sling.
"So, what are we cooking this week?" I put my fingers on the handle of his cart.
"Turkey lasagna." He lifts off his left hand, and it dangles limp by his side. "And, Amélie?"
"Yes?"
"I appreciate you helping me again."
"My pleasure." I smile at him. "Where to first?"
"Pre-packaged salads, I'm afraid," says Ben.
"No judgement." I push the card forward. "I'm here to help."
I sneak glances at Ben every time he focuses on his phone to announce the next item on his grocery list. His hands are looking better: the swelling went down, and the knuckles are scabbing over, but I'm right to offer my assistance. His nose is healing up as well, and the bruises on his face have turned yellowish-green from the black-blue of the previous week.
"You said your mom brought you some food last week. Does she live nearby?" I pick up a bunch of basil and chives and add them to his cart.
"Yes, my parents live here, in Chicago. Grab the parsley as well, please. I want to add it to the lasagna." He points to a pile of dark green bunches of leafy stuff right next to me.
"Why aren't they doing the grocery shopping for you? My dad would've done it for me."
"You sound like my mother." Ben veers to the dairy aisle, shows me the screen of his phone and the next two items on his list. "She'd like nothing more than to take care of me and ideally to move me back to their place."
"You don't like your mother?" I find ricotta and mozzarella. Nonna would turn in her grave if I don't make my own ricotta. Which explains why I haven't eaten ricotta in years.
"On the contrary. We are very close, it crushed Mom when I moved out. Can you, please, switch the block of processed mozzarella to the fresh one in the round package over there?" He points to a plastic ball with liquid inside and continues. "My older sister Klara moved to New York when I was six, first to go to college and then to work. She's an investment banker there. She'll be back on Thanksgiving."
We move to the meat section and scan for the plastic trays with ground turkey.
"Imagine what it's like when you are the only child. My dad was on the verge of crying when I rented a place with my best friend Angie a year and a half ago. He couldn't fathom why with both of us in Chicago, I wouldn't just keep living with him."
"I can understand that," says Ben." Mom thinks I'm her baby, and she would do everything for me if I let her."
At least his mom is around to take care of him. I wouldn't mind an extra dollop of coddling. I miss the safety of knowing there's someone in my life who'd drop what they are doing and come save me. His Mom probably spent less days not seeing him than mine actually being on the same continent as me. I stifle the urge to take out my phone and block her number. Not everyone wins a Mom lottery.
***
My weeks now go from Tuesday to Tuesday, and this week Ben's bruises are light-brown, and his range of motion has improved. It seems to have become our ritual that I ramble about my progress in the kitchen as we go around the store together, collecting items from Ben's list.
"The Mac and Cheese was not that hard to make. Finding the time for it was the only challenge, but I'm never going to buy pre-packaged mac-and cheese again. I'm beginning to see that lots of the boxed stuff I'm used to isn't that hard to make."
"What do you want to tackle next? How about a chicken-pot-pie?"
"Isn't that too ambitious? Is there an easier pie I can start with? I assume you're going to have me make the pastry from scratch."
"You assume right. I have a recipe you can start with; I will bring it next time." He makes a note on his phone. He isn't limping or hanging onto the cart anymore. That's a great sign, but I'm a little bit sad to see him improve so fast.
"It's nice to see your brace is gone. How does your leg feel?"
"I'm going to start exercising next week. The doctor gave me an OK for low-impact activity, and I'm ready to go back to my dojang."
"Dojang?'
"The Taekwondo Academy I go to." He points at his canvas bag with the two men imprinted on the front.
"Really? Can't imagine why you'd be so eager to get back to it."
"Exercise helps me stay level-headed. It's not just about the physical state, but the mental relief I get from it."
"If the doctor thinks it's OK," I say, but don't share his enthusiasm.
"I can not stay on my couch any longer. I need to get back to my normal schedule, so I'm going to cook lunch for my parents this week. Tall requested an Irish stew. He says it reminds him of home."
"Tall?"
"Oh, he's my friend. His ancestors came to the US during the potato famine in Ireland in the middle of the nineteenth century. But he likes to talk about how Irish he is. With his name, no one would ever mistake him for anything else."
That confuses me even further.
"Tall's an Irish name?"
"Tall is his nickname. His official name is Patrick Kilpatrick; he was lucky kids chose to single out his height."
Today we stay by my car longer than last time. My hand is on the roof of my reliable old Toyota, but I refuse to open the car's door and be the one to end our conversation. Each time we talk, I find myself wanting to learn more about him but how do I ask without making it awkward? Chris does his customary good-bye with a couple of blinks from his headlights, and we are alone in the semi-darkness.
"It's late." Ben looks around the empty parking lot. He's standing in place but he's not still. He's rarely still.
"Till next week?" A bit too much hope peeks through my voice.
"Till next week." His walk back to his car is confident and fast. There's a strange hollow feeling in my stomach as I realize he won't need my help for much longer