on the far end of the boardwalk, at a motel that definitely wouldn’t meet my parents’ approval. I unpack my suitcase, take a quick shower, emerge into this strange and sad little motel room.
What the hell am I doing here?
In the months since the Night of the Perfect Taco, solitary rooms have been the hardest to inhabit. I find myself sitting down, standing up, opening the cupboards, feeling the strangeness of having a body. I’m moments away from that now, or from seeing Felix, or burying myself under the covers for the rest of the day.
So instead, I bolt. I leave my phone behind, grab the single key for the room, exit the motel. Head out on a mission. The motel room’s half kitchen has a couple of shitty saucepans, one medium-sized pot, a casserole dish, a stained wooden spoon, an ancient blender. It’s a sad little space, but at least cooking will give me something to fill the days with.
“Fuck,” I say when I enter the grocery store. I forget how incredible US supermarkets are, how the smell of herbs lingers in the air like a perfume. I head straight for the produce, pick up a bunch of basil, the leaves impossibly big. I take a lap around the store, taking in the ingredients. I remember going on trips to the store with Mom and Felix when I was twelve. Felix would insist on pushing the cart, running and taking his feet off the ground, letting the cart carry him down the aisles. I’d wander behind, dragging my feet to prolong the trip. I didn’t know a thing about cooking back then, but I was drawn to the ingredients in a way I didn’t understand yet.
I’m not sure why, but my instinct today is to go with the taste of home. Some chicken thighs, some poblano peppers, a bag of rice, Mexican crema (I’m surprised to find the real stuff, not that whipped-cream-looking shit they serve in Tex-Mex restaurants). Tortillas and Oaxaca cheese. I lose myself in the aisles, fingers trailing over heirloom tomatoes, herbs and produce and packets of exotic spices I can never find at home.
Back at my motel, I wash the vegetables, set water to boil for the sauce, roast the poblanos the way I’ve seen our maid Rosalba do time and time again, on the open flame of the burner. But I didn’t buy tongs, so I’m doing it by hand, turning the pepper to char the skin, trying to keep my fingertips as far away from the heat as possible.
Put those aside, boil the tomatillos, clean the chicken, preheat the oven. I keep the workspace tidy, not just because the counter can hold little more than my cutting board, but because it feels good to work without clutter; it makes things easier. Felix taught me that. He taught me how to hold a knife, how to trim the fat off a thigh, how to pursue knowledge of this thing I love. I take a look around the kitchen, waiting for him to show himself, make some stupid joke. It’s just the memories, though. I’ll take them over worrying about Dad, and Mexico, and what my life will look like after this trip, if I’ll ever feel like myself again.
I serve myself a plate, sprinkle some chopped cilantro on top. There’s enough left over for at least four more people. Not wanting to eat in my sad little room, I take my plate and a chair out onto the breezeway overlooking the parking lot. It’s almost two in the afternoon, the sun hot in the sky, making the emerald trees practically shimmer.
I thought maybe this would feel triumphant, a real fuck-you to Dad, to the thing in me grief has erased. But it’s not quite that.
Despite his relentless presence, I miss Felix. I wish he were around to see this moment. Not hallucinatory/ghost/whatever Felix, but the real version. My brother. He would have appreciated the cheesiness of a beautiful view and a traditional Mexican dish to celebrate my escape from home. He would have been proud of me.
A young couple squeezes past me in the corridor, beach towels slung over their shoulders. “Smells good,” the guy says, and for a crazy moment I want to tell them that I made way too much and that they can join me. Then of course they pass by, hand in hand, leaving me alone before I can say anything.
PEACH CARDAMOM ROLLS
1 cup butter
1½ cups sugar
1¾ cups boiling water
1 tablespoon salt
2 teaspoons ground cardamom
.75 ounces active dry yeast
2 large eggs
1 can of peaches, drained and diced
7 cups flour
1 teaspoon vegetable oil
1 handful slightly cracked cardamom pods
½ cup powdered sugar
METHOD:
I wake up in the breezeway, more than a little disoriented. The scenery around me is jarring. The plate is by my feet, half the food spilled onto the floor. Families returning from the beach walking through the parking lot. I remember the hostess’s suggestion to check back for a cancellation, so I go inside to clean up and then walk the half hour back to the heart of the town. It’s all hills and trees, gently humid air alive with bugs and scents and color. I like breathing it in, this different world.
When I enter the restaurant, I’m surprised to see the same girl working at the hostess stand. It’s hours later, and though it’s early for dinner—even for Americans—the dining room is packed with people. Eager middle-aged couples crowd by the hostess stand, standing like people waiting to board their flights. The girl makes eye contact with me, and to my surprise she smiles with recognition.
“You’re back,” she says, so quickly that I wonder if we had a longer conversation than I remember. I do that classic look-behind-to-make-sure-it’s-me-she’s-talking-to thing. “Hoping for a cancellation?”
“Yeah,” I say. “Didn’t have anything better to do.”
She gives me a long look, and I wonder if what I said came across weird in some way. Her glasses are perched on her head, loose strands of hair coming out from her ponytail. Something about her feels familiar, but that’s a stupid thought because how could it? I’m in a different world.
“Why don’t you take a seat?” she asks, eyebrows raised. For the second time today, I’ve been staring at her, because clearly I’m not a fully functioning human. I sit down at a nearby chair, wondering if this is just how it’s going to be for me from now on. This is who I am now, the dude who stares and doesn’t know how to interact with strangers.
Her phone rings, and as she picks up the receiver she tucks a pen behind her ear.
I raise my eyes up to take a look around the restaurant. Servers in black shirts carrying plates of artfully arranged food of all shapes and colors, food in all its limitless forms. Everyone in the dining room is the picture of happiness. A table of hip-looking twenty-somethings laughing as they listen to their friend’s story, a woman with orange hair closing her eyes as she savors a dish’s last bite. Felix seats himself next to a couple on the patio, clinks wineglasses with them. Golden light washes over everyone.
I wait. I try to settle in. It’s Sunday evening. My phone is still on airplane mode, so who knows how many calls and texts have come my way over the last twelve hours or so. Right now Mexico City is a world away, an entire life away.
Every now and then, my eyes flit toward the hostess. She greets customers with a brilliant smile, leads them to their tables, rolls her eyes at the jerks when she thinks no one is watching. She answers her phone and chats with another hostess, every now and then looking at me and offering a smile.
It makes me feel a little less see-through, even though I’ve been sitting for nearly an hour like a weirdo, and Felix keeps running around trying to make me laugh or talk.
After a long stretch without a phone call, the hostess comes back from seating a couple and says, “You want some coffee?”
I smile, rise to my feet, though I’m not sure if I should so I kind of end up squatting. “Sure. But aren’t you working?”
She