Not Perfect(47)

Tabitha thought again. Beef, scallions, ginger, sesame.

“I’m sure,” Tabitha said.

“Oh, thank God,” the woman said. “Thank you.” The call ended.

Tabitha held the phone in her hand. The feeling that she was forgetting something was so strong. As she turned back toward Stuart, putting her phone on the granite counter, she saw it. Right there, next to the stove. Clear as day. Peanut oil, and not particularly refined oil, she knew that, because she preferred the way this one cooked. She liked to use peanut oil, especially for Asian dishes. And it was perfect to fry the spring rolls. It left them light and crispy, without a hint of grease. That was why she was so careful with the app—there was a place to write allergies. It was not optional. It was part of the required field. She did that on purpose. The order wouldn’t go through unless someone either filled it out or checked the box that said no allergies. Then she had a program that cross referenced any allergies with the ingredients of the day—and if there was a problem it would alert her and she would cancel the order. But they hadn’t used the app. When they called she never even asked them about allergies. Had they told her? She didn’t think so. She reached for the peanut oil, then pulled her hand away. She picked up her phone.

“What? What is it?” Stuart asked.

She didn’t answer him. She found the most recent number on her phone and called back. It rang and rang. She hung up and tried again. Still, no answer and no voicemail.

“Tabitha, what is it?”

“I have to reach them,” she said, finding it hard to breathe herself. She thought of the man, he had been young—what could it have been, his twenty-ninth birthday? His thirtieth? He had just the hint of facial hair, the kind that looked good, that was there on purpose. And his hair was dark and a little long, hanging over his eyes when he paid her. She thought about him not being able to breathe. Where was he now? What was going on? She tried the number again. Still nothing.

“It was about a customer,” she said, feeling sick, feeling like she wanted to go back in time and change something, anything, but mostly the peanut oil. “He’s allergic to peanuts but I didn’t know because he didn’t use the app, he just called to place the order. That was someone—his girlfriend, maybe—asking if there were peanuts in the dish. I didn’t list it. I realize I didn’t list it with the ingredients. He’s having an allergic reaction. They’re at the hospital, I heard a hospital through the phone. I said no. When she was talking to me I couldn’t think of any peanuts. But—” She stopped. Stuart’s eyes moved to the peanut oil.

She picked up her phone again and was about to dial when she felt Stuart’s hand on her wrist.

“Don’t,” he said.

“What?”

“You’ve tried,” he said. “And you meant no harm. There are a million things he could be allergic to.”

“What? That’s crazy. If they know what it is they might—” She stopped midsentence when she saw Stuart bend down to get a plastic bag from under the sink. “What are you doing?”

“What’s done is done,” Stuart said. “He’s getting help.”

“I have to tell them,” she said.

“You’ll lose your business,” Stuart said. “Or worse.”

It was the or worse that got her. Stuart was the lawyer in the family. He knew about the things that could happen even when you didn’t mean to commit a crime. She watched as he put the peanut oil into a plastic bag. She couldn’t stand it. She let the number ring through again. She had to tell them. The words There were peanuts, I used peanut oil, I am so sorry, god, I am so sorry were right there in her mouth, waiting to be said. Stuart gently took the phone out of her hand and ended the call. As it was they were going to see that she had tried to call back. That could be bad, right? Please let him be okay, she chanted to herself, Please let him be okay.

Stuart held the bag casually, with his hand around the neck of the bottle wrapped in plastic. He kept it at arm’s length, just at his hip.

“Come with me,” he said.

“Where to?” For a brief second she thought they would go to the hospital. She should bring the oil. She knew the oil itself could make a difference in determining his reaction—the more refined the less likely to cause a problem. There were only two logical hospitals someone would go to from the neighborhood, maybe three, possibly four. They could go to each one and track him down, bring answers, somehow fix everything. But really she knew that wasn’t what Stuart was doing. They walked to the door, but he didn’t even put on his shoes. He left the door slightly ajar, not even calling to the kids to tell them they would be right back. She followed as he walked down the hall to the garbage room, pulled the door open, and dropped the bottle in. They heard it rush through the chute and explode at the bottom.

Tabitha didn’t sleep that night, but Stuart was strangely and unusually solicitous toward her. He kept checking in with her, telling her it would all be okay, to never mention it again, to try not to think about it. He wanted her to just keep going as planned, to make the cilantro chicken and rice that she had on the menu for the following day. But she knew she wouldn’t. She was pretty sure she would never do it again. Still, she felt like he was looking out for her and protecting her in a way he didn’t usually bother to do, not that she usually needed protection. He held her hand the whole night, she knew because she didn’t doze off once, and in the morning she felt closer to him than she had in a long time, maybe ever. She felt like they were a team.