Aftertaste - Meredith Mileti [124]
“I can’t believe you bought those,” Richard says.
“I thought the green racing stripe down the leg would look nice with your hair,” I tell him, flopping down on the bed next to him and making Chloe giggle.
He snorts. “This material feels like spun straw,” he says, holding the sweatshirt at arm’s length. I take the sweatshirt from him and hand him a mug of coffee.
“It’s what your physical therapist told me to get. Besides, I can’t really see you incorporating the sweat suit into your fashion repertoire, so I figured I’d just pick up a couple of cheap ones. We can burn them later, if you like.”
“Yes, on the front lawn. We shall build a pyre to the gods of good taste.” Richard raises his mug of café au lait in mock salute and then, taking a long sip, rolls his eyes upward. “Mmm. Delicious. You are forgiven.” Then, he takes my hand and raises it to his lips. “Thank you, Mira,” he whispers.
Because I’ve been so preoccupied with Richard the last couple of weeks, neglecting almost everything else except Chloe, the move to the loft has been put on hold. My new bedroom set and Chloe’s crib were delivered last week, but I’ve yet to set them up. The Gaggenau man has left several increasingly agitated messages on my voice mail wanting to schedule a time to install the hood to my stove. Even Ben has threatened to send me a bill because, although he still hasn’t been able to hook up the water lines, he finished installing the pasta spigot weeks ago and I haven’t yet made good on my promise to cook him dinner. Even Dr. D-P has been put on hold. The only thing I’ve done, apart from taking care of Chloe and visiting Richard, is work on my columns, mostly because I’m afraid of Enid, but also because I’ve found the cooking, and to my surprise, the writing, to be restorative.
I’d almost missed seeing my first column, which had come out the morning after Richard’s accident. It wasn’t until I listened to my voice mail the next evening, which included congratulatory messages from my father, Ruth, and Ben, that I even remembered it at all. My second column, the one on kid-friendly foods, had also escaped my notice until one morning, arriving at Richard’s with Chloe in tow, I find him holding court at one of the round tables in the solarium, the Post-Gazette Food section spread out in front of him. He’s surrounded by a bunch of little old women, whom he is filling in on the sordid details of my past.
“So sorry, dear, but bully for you for taking matters into your own hands,” a small, bent gnome tells my kneecap.
“Who needs a man?” says another, presenting me with a pen and a newspaper folded neatly around my column, which she asks me to autograph.
It’s hard to be angry at Richard, who doesn’t look the least bit contrite in his dusty adobe-colored sweat outfit. “Actually, you ought to thank me,” he says, when I threaten to withhold his morning cappuccino. “It’s good publicity for you. A real celebrity chef story. You could be a sort of female Anthony Bourdain,” he tells me. “But even better. You’ve actually been to jail. Come to think of it, I’m not sure Bourdain was ever arrested. And if he was, it was drugs. Your story is definitely more colorful.”
“Thanks, but no thanks,” I tell him, feigning annoyance.
Physically, Richard is making good progress. He’s walking with the aid of a walker and slowly regaining the use of his right side. Yet there are times when he seems to curl up into himself, when he can’t or won’t communicate, sitting for hours at a time, his eyes glazed over. It’s as if someone’s hung a “closed” sign across his face. I like to think that Richard has gone somewhere more interesting than the Shadyside Rehabilitation Center, but not so interesting that he won’t eventually come home.
The doctors have diagnosed depression and are plying him with all sorts of drugs, but it will be some weeks before they can judge their effectiveness. When Richard’s health