Lost in La La Land(57)

“I think you might need to have a talk with her.” Gilda gave me the motherly look.

“She won’t listen.” I knew she wouldn't. She’d been years at this and was only getting worse. “I’m afraid we have one solution and I can’t be the one to do it. I need to call her parents. This is all my fault. I made the machines and the monster.”

“Emma, that’s not how being an adult works. She chooses to go into the machine. You went in, you liked it, most likely you got crazy with it. Then I’m assuming you realized you couldn’t keep this up and left the machine. You don't go in anymore. She is making this choice, not you.”

“I know, but I feel like I’ve enabled her all this time.”

“Oh, that you’re guilty of, kid, there’s no doubt. But enabling someone isn’t making them pull the trigger. She’s doing this to herself. Have you considered rehab maybe?”

“She’ll kill herself, she has tried before. This is the only thing that prevents her from self-harm.”

“You’re speaking with a British accent again.”

“It’s hard to go back.” I forced myself to be American again.

“Just promise me you’ll figure something out for Lana.”

“I will.” I nodded at Gilda.

“What’s with the date?”

“The contractor who was working here, he wants me to cook him dinner and I’m afraid I've never been a cook. And this gas range makes me nervous, so I keep turning it down, and then the food isn’t cooking right so I turn it up and things are burning so I turn it off. I’m on frying pan number four, and I still don't have a good base to add the chicken to. I go from uncooked or browned to brunt in seconds.”

“Okay, well a good home-cooked meal for a local boy is a chowder in the winter and barbecue with salad and potatoes in the summer. Dessert is pie. I would order a pie, no point in ruining this pretty kitchen with you and a pastry recipe only to make something inedible that will likely choke the poor man. I’m gonna write down the recipe. Trust me, you cannot mess this up and I’ll order you a pie from my friend. She makes them for all the fundraisers around town. Her freezer is full of them, and you can just pop it in the oven and voila, homemade pie.”

“Really?”

“Absolutely. I’ll bring the frozen pie with me tomorrow. This was my husband’s favorite meal. You call that boy and tell him dinner will be served here tomorrow night at six, and he better shower before he gets here.” She winked and left the room, glancing at the monitor.

“Thanks!” I called after her.

“Don’t thank me, deal with Lana,” she called back.

I sat and contemplated what to do about Lana and made myself a smoothie for dinner.

What would I have done had I still been addicted? I would have ignored the world, ignored my health, and hoped no one noticed.

Who did I fear noticing?

The answer to that was obvious, I knew what I had to do.

But I couldn’t do it today. I needed to clean the kitchen and figure out her recipe. And figure out how to turn on the barbecue.

Fortunately, Gilda’s recipe was easy and by the next day I had it all down pat.

When it was time, I started the barbecue out back and noted I felt better about the meal. I’d made the salad in advance, as she had recommended, and had the dressing off to the side so I just had to mix the two before we ate.

The meat had marinated all day so, supposedly, there was no way I could screw it up. I used chicken so even if it cooked a little too long, it would still be better than an overcooked steak.

The potatoes were simple. I sliced them up with onions and wrapped them in tinfoil with butter and salt and pepper and put them in the oven at a low temperature. I would finish them off in the barbecue when the meat went on.

It all sounded simple.

I had even gone to the store, myself, and bought beer, flowers, and sour cream.

That hadn’t been as fun as I hoped. It was more how I imagined—feared it would be. People staring and wondering who I was. Maybe assuming I was the lady from the house on the hill.

I felt naked and my hands sweaty, but I came home with everything I needed. Mike didn't strike me as a wine guy and I wasn't a drinker. A small glass of wine with dinner was my max and only since I went into the machine where we drank wine and ale all the time.

I set the table outside. It was almost summer and the weather was sunny; not too hot but the chill in the air had lifted at last.

When the doorbell finally rang, I jumped, giving myself a once-over in the hallway mirror. I’d checked the house and myself about ten times but once more wouldn’t hurt.

My dark hair was still pinned in a large bun, it had grown back thick and lush, and then some. My makeup was simple—daytime makeup was what the tutorial on the computer called it. My tee shirt and capri-cut jeans were simple, matching the meal according to Gilda.

She said you couldn’t cook something fancy and dress down, the same way you couldn’t make a man barbecue wearing a silk dress. It sounded strict but made sense.

I loved having her around.

She’d turned out exactly as I had expected her to be, no nonsense and yet motherly. She even licked her fingers and wiped food off Lana’s sleeping face once. It was a satisfying moment for me.

I slapped across the marble in my sandals. Smiling and taking a breath, I opened the large front door. I still enjoyed the heaviness of it. The realness of it.