Food Delivery

After Scott’s death, food wasn’t important to me. I was in so much pain, I had no appetite. Our refrigerator was full. The pantry was well-stocked. I had enough food in the cabin to last for almost a month. 

The only thing I wanted was coffee. Up until late at night, sobbing, talking to Scott, and incapacitated by grief, I would look at the night sky through our bedroom window. Through the glass, I could see a sky full of stars and the glow of the moon. The cabin, mountains, and trees were clothed in shadows and stillness. 

In the silence, I would whisper into the darkness and the stars above.

“Do to me what you wish. I give my life to you for whatever you want with me now.”

The life I knew was gone. The power that took Scott away from me was so immense and all knowing, I couldn’t even grasp the enormity of what happened to us at the time.

I felt something growing deep inside of me at the same time knowing everything had changed and I had no control or idea of what was to come next. 

Patting his side of the bed like I always did if he got up in the middle of the night, checking to see if he returned. I would fall asleep, only to wake up again feeling his absence.  

I made myself stay in bed every morning until 5 a.m. before brewing my pot of coffee. Through the night and early morning hours, I would doze off and on, checking the time on my cellphone, anxiously waiting to perform one of the few remaining rituals I had left to hold on to. 

In the morning, I could hear Scott's voice inside me. Simple words. Simple phrases.

“Get a glass of water.” 

I would reach for a glass from the kitchen cabinet and fill it with spring water. “Put the glass on the table next to the couch.” I would place the glass next to my reading glasses and my laptop. Before Scott’s death, I wrote frequently on my blog about our life and back road travels. Now, I was writing about his death and the signs and communications we were receiving. I logged most of my experiences to keep me going and to have a record of what was going on with us after his transition.

“Cut up a banana.” In a daze, I would cut up the banana and place it on a plate next to my glass of water on the table holding my computer and reading glasses.

Sips of water and bananas. It was all I could handle for the next three days or so, until my sister arrived with a fresh bag of groceries and my half-and-half for coffee.

As my sister retrieved the groceries and started placing each item in the refrigerator, I noticed the large bag of grapefruits on the counter.

“I didn’t mean to buy grapefruit. I swear I grabbed a bag of oranges. I don't know what happened.”

Scott bought me grapefruit, one piece of fruit at a time. It was good for my heart. I had high blood pressure and a heart murmur.

“I don't know what kind of noodles these are. While I was walking down the aisle, I froze in front of the Asian food section., I heard Scott tell me to buy a couple packages of these. I stood there for a long time, and finally decided to buy them.”

I recognized the Udon noodles. We make soup with them.  

My sister opened the fridge, and there was one remaining package of Udon noodles—the exact same brand.

Over time, as my grief gradually lessened and my spirit lifted; these shopping expeditions made me laugh. They were sweet surprises from Scott.

A couple of years ago, I had a sudden urge to have lunch at one of the pizza chains Scott and I would meet up at during his lunch hour. The lunch special included a soda, all-you-can-eat pizza, and a salad bar. Scott loved deals, so we met up there often when he was finishing up  a route close to the pizza parlor.

Finishing up some writing and the rest of my chores for the day, I heard the dogs whine and my mom opening the front door. 

Meeting her in the kitchen, I noticed her carrying a personal pizza in a take-out box.

“I don’t know why I picked this up for you. It was out of my way.”

I laughed. “It’s Scott; he knew I wanted a pizza.”

The pizza in the box was from the same pizza parlor we frequented for the buffet special during Scott’s lunch breaks.

While writing a chapter for this book reliving an experience merging with Scott while eating take-out Chinese, my mom returned from a shopping trip.  Calling out for me to help unload the groceries, I noticed a bag stuffed with egg rolls, orange mandarin chicken, and pot stickers.

“Chinese food. I thought we were back on the healthy diet.”

“I don’t know why I bought it. I don’t even like Chinese food.”

 A while back ago, my best friend invited me to a french patisserie for tea and fancy pastries. Searching through the display case, I asked the owner if she ever made opera cakes. She explained to me how intricate and detailed the almond sponge cake is to make, requiring microscopic precision to master six distinct, delicate components so every slice is uniform in appearance.

I picked out a chocolate croissant and joined my friend at our favorite table by the window.

A few months later, my friend who hates Valentine's Day unintentionally invited me out for coffee and pastries on a day she loathes. She picked the same French pastry shop. After ordering our coffee drinks, I looked in the display case. One slice of cake was left on a tray in the bakery case window.

It was perfect, covered in french buttercream with gold cursive lettering and a small pink heart rested on the tip of the letter e at the end. The gold writing spelled out LOVE.

“Is that an Opera Cake?” I asked.

“Yes, we decided to bake one this morning. That’s the only piece left.”