Aftertaste - Meredith Mileti [96]
“Some of them might be island words. Those aren’t in spell-check,” I tell her, craning my neck, trying to see what she is writing.
“Hmm. You also might want to rethink BITER. It’s a bit of a stretch, don’t you think?” She scribbles some more on my review and then hands it back to me without further comment.
“Look at it later, Mira. This is fine, and the things I marked are all easy to fix. Now, let’s talk about your next steps.”
I don’t want to talk about my next steps. I’m not exactly sure what I wanted from Dr. D-P on the review, although something more positive and encouraging might have been nice. But as usual, she isn’t deterred, running on about interview techniques and follow-up notes should Enid happen to call before our next appointment. Our session runs ten minutes over, and despite her more than usual dose of helpful hints and useful strategies, I leave feeling unsatisfied. I’m halfway to Ruth’s to pick up Chloe before I realize why. I hadn’t talked with Dr. D-P about what was really on my mind—my lunch with Ben. How for the first time I hadn’t choked on my words when talking about Jake.
The day before the big mah-jongg game, Ruth phones me at 7:00 a.m. just as I’m feeding Chloe breakfast. We’d planned on meeting at Gymboree later in the morning and talked about possibly taking the kids to lunch afterward so that I might quiz her on baking techniques and ingredients, in case anyone asks her about her recipes.
“I don’t know what it is this time,” she says. “He was fine when he woke up, but now he’s covered in hives.” Carlos, Ruth has discovered, is an allergic kid, breaking out in hives whenever he tries a new food. “The only things he had to eat yesterday were Cheerios, a couple of Kraft Singles, and some ham, all of which are on the Carlos-approved list.” I’m glad we’re on the phone so Ruth can’t witness my shudder. “Maybe it’s me,” she continues. “I read an article about someone who was allergic to another person, except it was a husband who was allergic to his wife. They had to get divorced. Do you think Carlos could be allergic to me?”
“No, he’s not. It’s probably something in the air, or dust from the carpet or something. He’s fine.”
“Well, anyway, the point of all this is that I can’t go to Gymboree today, which is probably just as well,” Ruth says, groaning. “I stayed up too late last night studying that damned card, and I’ve got circles under my eyes that extend beyond my kneecaps. I look like shit.”
Ruth had ordered the latest official mah-jongg card from the National Mah Jongg Association. “Leah asked me if I had the 2011, so I lied and said yes. I just hope it comes in time,” she had told me last week. It had, but barely, arriving only yesterday. Since receiving it Ruth had tried to enlist my help in learning the various mah-jongg combinations, but I kept mixing up the cracks and the bams, not to mention the flowers and the dragons, so she quickly gave up on me. “You should probably stick to food,” she said. “That’s your strong suit.”
Maybe I should be insulted, but the truth is I admire Ruth’s academic approach to dating. I’m impressed by her desire to learn to cook and to play mah-jongg, not to mention her sifting through reams of fashion magazines and “how-to” books, culling for information designed to make her optimally attractive. “Look,” she says when I point this out to her. “I’ve been in school over half my life. I’m good at research. It’s what I know.” But it makes me think about my own approach to love that, at this point, is nonexistent. I have never been particularly good at studying, and the few things I know outside of cooking, I’ve learned from experience, not from books. Maybe I should give the academic approach a try. If there’s a self-help book out there for me, Ruth probably already owns it.
“Besides,” Ruth continues, “I don’t think Neil’s even going to be there today. When Leah called to confirm the time for the mah-jongg game, she mentioned Neil was going to be out