Diane Davidson - Dying for Chocolate

21.

She shook her head. “You must know I can’t talk to you about patients. Especially,” here she paused for effect, as if I were a criminal, “since the police have already been in.”

“I know, I know,” I said. “But please listen. Philip Miller was a friend of mine. A good friend,” I added earnestly. “And you don’t have to tell me anything about him personally or his medical history. I just want to know a couple of things about his visit.”

She hesitated. Her experience with odd patients was clearly limited.

“You see,” I went on in a rush, “I was behind him when he crashed. I’m trying to help the police.” Sort of, I added mentally.

She was mellowing. “So what do you want to know?”

I picked up the saline-solution bottle. “This—” I said after a minute. “Do you remember this from his appointment?”

“I told the policeman all about it. Miller was the first appointment of the morning.”

In good Rogerian fashion, I said, “The first appointment.”

She took the bottle and shook it. “I always do that before I rinse off the lenses. There was just a little bit left in the bottle when he came in. I used it to rinse off his lenses, and then I threw it away. That’s all. That’s it.”

“And did he put the lenses in?”

She nodded. “I watched him do it.”

Whatever happened, I thought on the way home to the Farquhars, must have been something of a delayed reaction. Philip had not excused himself from the brunch, had not left me for more than a moment. I didn’t believe he could have done anything to his lenses—or had anything done—without my noticing. Still, though, figuring on an hour for the appointment, how could you account for that half hour from leaving the optometrist’s office, coming to Elk Park Prep, and then driving back to Aspen Meadow? Why didn’t Philip feel any pain? Why did he suddenly go blind?

As usual, cooking was the cure for distress. The rain had cleared and the air was filled with a sweet, moist smell. I turned off the security system that guarded the first-floor windows and opened them all. Out back, Arch and Julian were splashing and yelling in the pool.

With Julian in for dinner I decided on a crustless quiche made with Jarlsberg and two other cheeses, a salad of lovely greens the general had picked up on one of his shopping expeditions, and some cloverleaf rolls I had brought frozen from my old house. I grated the Jarlsberg into a golden mountain of creamy strands. To my surprise the phone only rang once. It was my lawyer telling me Three Bears Catering had a legitimate case and it would not cost too much to have my name changed. Of course, to him nothing cost too much. I told him I would think about it.

After plugging in the recorder I let my mind wander back to what it was Elizabeth had said about Philip studying an abused woman. One thing I had noticed about making a marital mistake: you compounded the error by spending even more emotional energy ruminating on why you made the mistake, even if you corrected it by divorce. Furthermore, if Philip was so interested in why I had stayed with John Richard for so long, why hadn’t he asked me himself?

I melted the butter and stirred in flour for the cream sauce that was the actual base for the quiche. While I stirred in the milk, I imagined myself hiking with Philip and having him pose the question to me himself. Why did you stay?

Because, I saw myself saying to him. Because I ignored the evidence. I believed that John Richard would change. Because that was what I wanted to believe, just like those poor suckers who went to great lengths to demonstrate that the world is flat. No matter how strong a person you are, if you want to cling to a falsehood, you will. By the same token, I had known that someday I would have to get out. That realization led me to study catering systematically. If I could cook well enough and learn the business, I could keep Arch and have enough money to live on.

In my mind’s eye I could see Philip, see his questioning look. It reminded me of the questioning look I had received from a male social worker at a National Organization for Women meeting, the first and last one I ever went to. The social worker had talked about spouse abuse.

“Look,” I’d said defensively to the social worker during the break, incipient tears closing my throat, “sometimes it’s hard to leave.”

He had given me a questioning look.

“I guess I need to see a shrink,” I’d whispered to him then. “Are you available?”

Sage that he was, the social worker had said I should work with a woman. Which is what I began to do. It was very hard to be verbally vulnerable, to let down defenses and admit that I was staying in an insane situation. You’re so together, people always said to me. You’re so articulate. No one said to me, You’re so crazy. Until that NOW meeting, I had not admitted that I might indeed be losing my mind.

CRUSTLESS JARLSBERG QUICHE

½ cup (1 stick) unsalted butter

½ cup all-purpose flour

1 ½ cups milk

1 teaspoon baking powder

1 teaspoon salt

2 ½ cups small curd cottage cheese

1 teaspoon Dijon-style mustard

9 eggs

11 ounces cream cheese, softened

¾ pound Jarlsberg cheese, grated

1/3 cup freshly grated Parmesan cheese

Preheat oven to 350° (high altitude: 375°). In a saucepan, melt the butter over medium-low heat, add the flour, and stir just until mixture bubbles. Slowly add milk, stirring constantly. Stir this cream sauce until it thickens. Set aside to cool. Stir baking powder, and mustard, and salt into cottage cheese. Beat eggs well, then beat in softened cream cheese and cottage cheese mixture. Slowly beat in cream sauce, then thoroughly incorporate Jarlsberg and Parmesan. Pour into 2 buttered 10-inch pie plates. Bake for about 45 minutes or until puffed and browned. Cut each quiche into eight large wedges.

Makes 16 servings

“I know what losing your mind is,” Arch had said to me once as I drove him to first grade.

“You do?”

“It’s like when you can’t remember someone’s name, just for a minute. And just for that minute, you’ve lost your mind! Then it comes back.”

“Ah,” I’d said.

It came back. My mind. The counselor was wonderful. The cooking was salvation. André, who trained me in catering, was a friend. In his big Denver kitchen the activity swirled all around me as I tried to keep tears from falling into the bread dough I was mixing.

“You know salt slows down the action of the yeast,” he had said once over my shoulder. He saw me crying but never asked about it, just handed me gifts of food to take home to Arch. He would ask me, How did that dinner for Mrs. Sweeney go? Those chile rellenos stay hot? André offered his presence and his faith in me. It sped up the healing process.

Cooking helped, both before and after I told John Richard I was divorcing him. That was what I would have told Philip, I decided as I scooped the egg, cheese, and sauce mixture into two pie plates. Cooking anesthetized my feelings. I could throw myself into a complicated recipe and within an hour I would feel better.

Wait a minute.

By the time I was done, I would feel better.

The cooking took the pain away.

Anesthetic. That was it.

Philip Miller. He had not felt any pain in his eyes for thirty minutes because he had had anesthetic in his eyes from the glaucoma test. He could see. He just couldn’t feel the damage that was being done to his eyes until it was too late.

I reached for the phone.

Tom Schulz was not at his desk. I left a message and finished preparing the dinner. The quiches puffed up to golden-brown perfection. Arch had two slices, Julian four. When we finished, General Farquhar surprised us with a new jar of macadamia-nut sauce for our pound cake.