Page 9 of A Fine Line

I looked away quickly. “Thanks, Mom. I might take you up on that.”

“What about dessert?” Rachel, Adam’s wife, chimed in. “You have to have both, right?”

I froze with my fork mid-way to my mouth. I…hadn’t considered that.

I’d make some desserts in the past, but my reviews back were less than enthusiastic and I always kind of figured I needed to sell the things I was best at- which was mostly Mexican cuisine.

My first assistant for the truck had his mom teach me everything I know about their food and culture. Like a madman, I researched street taco recipes late in the night and had her taste test everything I made. When she was done she said ‘Esto es increíble, lindo niño blanco.’ Which I didn’t understand but Jose gave me a thumbs up and I’d stuck with Mexican cuisine ever since. Occasionally adding in a random Tuscan dish for my mother’s sake though.

“I’m not sure.” I shoveled another bite into my mouth and spoke around it. “Maybe a dessert taco? So they all match?”

Mom shook her head. “I think you can do something more extravagant than that. Come by tomorrow afternoon and we can go through my old recipes, see what fits you best.”

I swallowed, almost choking on my too-large bite but nodded. “That sounds good, Mom, thanks.”

Dinner continued, my siblings bouncing their discussions one topic to the next. Honeymoons, babies, soccer practices, date nights. One after the other I felt myself squishing down smaller and smaller. I shoveled the rest of my plate into the iron pit that I called a stomach and stood, taking the empty dish to the kitchen sink.

I don’t know what’s wrong with me lately. I’d never been this bad before. This…unnerved. It’s like it follows me everywhere I go. This sense that something in my life just isn’t right. It onlylet up when I was in my private hide out…and one other time but even then it was always just temporary. It made me feel like I was wading through quick sand, struggling and pushing and pulling in any attempt to make myself move but I’d look down and I’d be in the exact same spot. No, worse than that, I was sinking deeper.

I set the plate in the sink and turned the water on its hottest setting, rinsing off the remanence of red pasta sauce and garlic bread. I could still hear the distant thrums of their conversation at the table, my absence hardly acknowledged.

And why should it be? Why did I even care? So my family was all growing up and moving on and I was…still here. What did that matter? I had a happy life on paper. An apartment ten minutes from work, a spare bedroom to fit all of my extra cooking equipment, a comfy Purple mattress, a job I loved, a family I loved, and…yeah. It was enough. It should be enough. It always had been before. But these last few months…I don’t know. It’s like there’s a voice in my head saying you need more. Saying I had to accomplish more. You’re not enough. This fun-boy, chaotic, entertaining to watch train wreck lifestyle wasn’t enough.

It was that stupid psychiatrist fault. I never should have even gone. Before my diagnosis I was totally fine being who I am. I chalked it up to my colorful imagination and life-of-the-party personality. Worked for me for twenty four years. But my curiosity got the best of me, and after the last panic attack- which was over something as simple as me forgetting to bring in a specific pan in to the truck- I realized something had to be off. There was no way everyone did this, right?

“Crew,” my mother’s voice wafted over me like a calm wave crashing into the shore. “Are you alright?”

I looked down to where my fingers gripped the counter, my knuckles white. They loosened under her stare. “Fine.” I smiled.“Just washing my plate before I head out, I’ve got to start prepping for the competition and all.” It’s almost funny how easily they stacked up now, one lie after another.

Mom’s smile lines dipped into place. “You’re going to do excellent, let me go ahead and grab a couple recipes I think you’d enjoy.”

She turned to a cabinet to the right of the fridge, rifling through her organized index cards with recipes passed down in her family generation after generation. Several of the cards looked dilapidated and nearing the end of their, but she held on to them closely.

“Ahh, here we are.” She pulled out three index cards, details covering the front and back with ingredient lists and directions. “I think any of these would match your theme perfectly. And they’re not terribly hard to accomplish, as long as you follow the recipe.”

I cringed at the last part. Following any recipe down to the T was never quite my thing. Measuring with your heart…that was my thing. Recipes could often steer me wrong and, at the risk of sounding like an a-hole, most of the time my additions or subtractions just made the food better anyway. A touch of brown sugar with the chili powder. And apple chopped and added in for extra texture. Two tablespoons more of butter because…well my heart said it needed it. That was the best results I got. And this ticker of a muscle hadn’t steered my wrong yet, culinary wise.

Mom must have sensed my unease because she sighed. “I mean it, Crew. Baking and cooking are two entirely different ball games. You can’t just throw in an extra egg because you feel like it. Too much or too little of anything in these recipes and it’ll turn out horrible, I promise.”

“Yeah, but-”

“I know you can do it.” She handed the cards my way and patted my hand on top of them. “All you have to do is follow it, exactly step by step.”

I nodded and smiled, despite my mind attempting to process how in the world was I going to rein myself in enough to let that happen. “Alright, Mom.”

She reached on hand up and squeezed my dimple. Which was actually more of a double dimple on my left side. “Such a good boy. You’ve always been so creative, Crew. I can’t wait to see what you and that big brain come up with.”

I looked down at the cards in my hands. Tiny pencil scribbles with exact measurements and intense directions one by one marked off. I winced a little, already wondering if I tweaked just a couple things would it really change that much?

“Me too.” I lied.

High on adrenaline, I pulled into my parking spot extra early this morning.

It felt like I’d been hit with laughing gas like I was getting a wisdom tooth out today. You know, minus all the drooling and the high confessions about stealing your mothers cash or losing your virginity on prom night.

Today was day one of my new life. Last night I laid on my floor with my notes app open on my phone. I drafted a new note labeled ‘Winnifred Meadows 2.0’. Because from this day forward- well, technically last night forward- the old Winnie is dead. That’s right, ladies and gents. I am made anew. My alter ego- Wendy is now out. Not really, of course. But I had recently watched the shining and when Winnifred on there was asked if she was Winnie or Freddi and she replied with ‘Wendy’ I did get a little excited. That being said if any debt collectors start calling me I’ll be sure to let them know the old Winnie can’t come to the phone right now. Cause she’s dead.

Approximately thirty minutes after I set all of my stuff up, my dough resting in the fridge and my pipers all cleaned and laid out ready for me, that big green truck across the way pulled in.

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