Page 52 of Meet Me in the Valley
A soft knock thuds at the door. “Logan? Are you okay?”
No. I’m so far from okay.
“Yeah. I’ll be out in a minute.” Flushing the toilet, I pull myself up on shaky legs.
The second my eyes meet my reflection in the mirror, I can’t stand to look at the man staring back. My face falls as I hang my head between my shoulders in defeat.
“Logan?” Krista’s voice cuts through the other side of the door, piercing through my muddled thoughts, pushing the guilt-ridden knife deeper into my chest.
Fuck. What have I done?
Chapter Sixteen
TIA
As soon as I walk in the door to my parent’s house, the familiar smell of my favorite meal melts away any anxiety I had on the drive over. I slip off my shoes at the door, letting the decadent smell lead me toward the kitchen. It’s when I peek around and see my mama wrapped in her favorite apron, music playing, dancing with Dad in the middle of the kitchen, that I lean against the wall with adoration shining in my eyes.
It’s almost as if everything isn’t falling apart around me. My mom looks normal. Happy.Not sick.
Dad spins her once, then twice, a bubbly giggle and beaming smile on her lips. He carefully dips her back, kissing her forehead as he pulls her up. They finally take notice of me as I push off the wall to walk straight into their arms. I breathe them both in, inhaling my mama’s familiar perfume on her neck and Dad’s cigar-scented collar.
“Hisayang. I hope you’re hungry. I made your favorite,” Mama croons, kissing my temple.
I walk over to the stove, my stomach rumbling, mouth watering. There’s nothing in the world like your mother’s cooking. Just the smell alone can heal your inner child. But the taste? It’s like a time capsule that transports you even on yourworst days. And eating my favorite meal made by my mama right now is exactly what I need.
“Mmm, beef rendang. Thanks so much, mama.”
“You know, you need to learn to make this yourself, so one day, when I’m gone, you’ll be able to make this for your future family.”
It shouldn’t hurt so much, but her words pummel my insides to mush. An overwhelming wave of grief crashes into me. My father casts a sympathetic glance my way—he can see how deeply this simple sentiment throws off my axis.
The thing is, Mama doesn’t have a written recipe for anything she cooks. She cooks withfeeling,as she likes to say, yet somehow, it tastesexactlythe same no matter the day. If I were to learn to cook my favorite foods, I’d have to record videos in order to follow her chaotic cooking style.
Kissing her on the cheek, I sneak a piece of beef from the pot, moaning at the heavenly taste of Indonesian spices and familiarity. Off to the side of the stove, I notice a plate with a plump filet of salmon, paired with a hefty portion of sauteed leafy greens.
A small part of me wilts, knowing my mom will have to consider everything that enters her body from here on out. It’s good, though. She needs to do everything she can to make life a little easier for her, even if it requires a tedious food regimen.
“You know, Mama. I was doing some research,” I tell her as I make my way to the cupboard to grab three glasses to fill with water.
“Is that right?” She plucks several tiny leaves off a dill weed plant, garnishing her salmon. Her lips tilt into a smile, which brings me peace in knowing she can talk about her diagnosis without falling off the rails.
I note that today is a good day, so I tread carefully to not spoil it.
“Yeah. I downloaded a whole brain-healthy menu of delicious meals to cook. I know how much food means to you, and I want to make sure you’re not only eating the right things to support your brain, but that you enjoy the taste, too.”
My mom turns to me, kissing both of my cheeks. “Your father isn’t a great cook.”
“I’m not that bad,” my dad chimes in with a laugh as he finishes setting the table for three.
Mom rolls her eyes, and for a split second—I see myself. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. I shift nervously on the balls of my feet, intently watching my mom fix her plate with a squeeze of a lemon and a tiny dash of salt.
“Daddy doesn’t have to make your meals all the time, Mama. I can cook for you, too,” I mumble, gnawing on my thumbnail.
My mom stops fidgeting with the food on her plate, glancing at my thumb and pulling it out of my mouth like she used to do when I was a child.
“You couldn’t do that, Tia. Your life is in Texas.”
Her expression is somber, and I berate myself because this was one of her good days. Her face tells me it’s changing rapidly, so I do my best to rectify.
