Aftertaste - Meredith Mileti [120]
“Nah. Too obvious. You’ll come up with something, something probably way too exotic. You could always ask Aunt Fi. She has all kinds of kid recipes. My cousins were very picky eaters, so if she wanted them to eat something besides peanut butter, she had to get creative. She had a recipe for brownies made with tomato soup. You almost couldn’t taste the soup,” he says, depositing his empty plate in the sink. “Thanks for lunch,” Ben says, giving my arm a squeeze.
By the time we get home, it’s almost supper time. I’m making dinner, another version of the casserole, this time with cheddar and mild tomato salsa, when I notice the answering machine light blinking. The first and only message is from Richard. “Mira. I guess you’re not there.” There’s a long pause, as if he’d hoped I’d hear him and pick up. “I need you to do something for me,” he says, only the “something” comes out as “shomething.” Another long pause. “Call me, all right?” Richard doesn’t say good-bye, but before the connection is broken I can hear the sound of the phone being clumsily hung up, as if he tried to place it in the cradle and missed, causing it to fall over on the table. And then, a static fumbling accompanied by a halfhearted “shit.”
From the automated voice on my dad’s machine I know that the call had been received at nine forty-five this morning, which means it had been Richard, and not Ruth, who called as we were on our way out. I haven’t spoken to him since the day at the loft when he’d invited me to dinner to meet his mystery guest. Ordinarily, I’d have called him and tried to worm some additional details out of him, but I’ve been so busy working on my column that I hadn’t given it much thought. I call him back, first at home, then at the shop, and finally, on his cell, where I leave a message.
After Chloe is in bed, I try him again, this time also leaving messages at his home and office from my cell phone. I replay his message several times, studying his diction and trying to talk myself into believing that he just sounds sleepy, and not drunk.
Finally, in search of a distraction, I fool around with some more kid recipes, concocting a breakfast cookie out of oatmeal, honey, raisins, and wheat germ that probably no kid would eat.
Maybe no adult either. When my father comes home, I give him a couple of the cookies with a cup of tea, and he innocently inquires if my next column is cooking for pets. “There aren’t enough good dog biscuits around,” he says, surreptitiously wrapping the remains of his cookie in a piece of paper towel.
I’m in bed reading Fiona’s copy of Good Housekeeping, trolling around for ideas for kid-friendly foods, when my cell rings. It’s Richard’s ring tone.
“Richard, thank God. I was worried about you,” I say.
“Mira Rinaldi, please,” a voice, not Richard’s, asks.
“Speaking. Who’s this?”
“My name is Nate. You’re a friend of Richard Kistler’s?”
“Yes, yes, I am. Who’s this? Where’s Richard?”
Nate takes a deep breath, audible and unsettling, and I can feel the rush of blood to my ears. “I’m calling from the hospital. Well, actually from outside the hospital. You know how they are about cell phones in hospitals.” Nate laughs nervously. I can hear the wail of an ambulance in the distance.
“Where’s Richard? Is he all right?”
“There’s been an accident,” Nate says. His voice, very young sounding, is throaty and hoarse.
“Where is he?”
“Shadyside Hospital.” And then he mumbles something that sounds like “car accident” and “ICU.”
I throw on a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt and wake my father to tell him what’s happened and that I’ll call as soon as I know anything. When I arrive at the hospital, I give the attendant at the front desk my name and Richard’s. She directs me to the fifth floor, the ICU.
“Are you family?” she asks, her face a mask, as she fills out a pass that will allow me access to the unit.
“Yes. How is he?”
“The nurse will let you in and can give you information on Mr. Kistler’s condition. How are you related?” she asks, her pen poised over the pass.
How are we