Brandon

Somehow, by the grace of God — or my mom’s sweet ghost — I’ve managed to get myself and my no-name woman into the kitchen. I’ve even managed to get her into a seat and pulled up to the dining table without having to go near her or put a hand on her.

But now that we’re here, I’ve got a bigger problem: figuring out what I have available for food, and what she’ll eat. So far, she’s barely said anything to me. And answering my questions is not really something she seems ready and willing to do. Even if they are about what she likes; what she wants to eat.

Good Lord. I open up a few of my cupboards, deciding I better get the lay of my culinary land before I bother asking her anything. Now I know why my mom didn’t like me asking questions about dinner or food. Nobody wants to ask 20 questions just to fill a belly. Just to warm a heart.

In the first cupboard I’ve opened, there’s not much I would offer any guest to eat, let alone a woman whose life I may have just saved. I’ve got nothing but olives, beans, rice and oysters in this one.

I move to another cupboard, a little happier with what I see here. Fixings for sandwiches. Peanut butter. Jelly. Spam. Bread.

The door to another cupboard opens in my hand, revealing yet more canned goodies. Spicy black bean chilies. Some with beef, others with chicken. Some with jalapeno peppers, and others with habanero. Also a box of taco shells. Taco seasoning. Refried beans.

Some of this stuff looks pretty good, I think, heading over to my fridge. I’ve been used to eating what I killed in the woods behind my cabin, and scrounging around for whatever canned goods seemed to make a good side for the meat.

I’m not used to thinking about what other people might like to eat, but, I think I can manage something. I don’t have any fresh meat because I had planned to hunt today after I was done with the firewood, but Mystery Woman here changed all of that.

Let’s see what I have in the old icebox to go with it all. Maybe between the cupboards and the fridge, I’ll be able to scrounge something together that my mystery woman will like. A few options, hopefully. Since she might not want anything too spicy.

Bingo! Ground beef. I do have some left over in the fridge that I can heat up, along with cheese, tomatoes, lettuce. Some sandwich meats two. Turkey. Honey ham. I reach in between a few jars of some of my favorite pickled foods — eggs, asparagus, beets — finding some chipotle mayo, spicy relish, and of course catchup and mustard.

Also, I find an open jar of cherry jam. Something that might go well with peanut butter, but which is definitely not standard.

A quick look in my freezer gives me a few more options. Frozen mac & cheese (which I still sometimes eat as comfort food since it was my favorite meal as a child), some egg rolls, potstickers, and my dad’s personal favorite — cream chipped beef on toast.

My reconnaissance mission for foods complete, I close the freezer door and turn my attention back to my unexpected guest. She’s still seated in her chair at the dinner table, but looks even less “with it” now that we’ve stopped moving. She’s staring at the table, tracing something along its surface, like there are memories there that she doesn’t want but needs.

“Okay.” With this one word that I utter, she brings her eyes to mine, but they still seem so distant. “Here’s the deal.”

I pause, feeling myself getting lost in those eyes. And not necessarily in a good way. They are beautiful, but empty. Vacuous, like she used to have something valuable there, but the gravity dropped out. It fell away, leaving a massive black hole instead.

“I’m going to list off some things I have available to eat, that I can make you for supper, and you have to tell me which one you want, okay?”

My mystery woman makes some kind of gesture, though I wouldn’t necessarily call it a nod. It’s not the clearest sign of understanding, but I’ll take it. At least she seems to know I’m here and trying to help her. For now, anyway.

With her eyes on mine, I list the treasures I found for her. My sandwich supplies, meat and non-meat options. My canned chilis and potted meat. My fixings for tacos, if she wants them. My mac & cheese. Potstickers. But to all of it, she just nods.

She doesn’t say which choices she wants or doesn’t want. That doesn’t help me one bit. In the end, I’m left to make the decision by myself.

So, I choose to make her what my mom would make me when I didn’t know what I wanted, or when she didn’t want to spend too much time preparing food. A ham and cheese sandwich, extra mayo. A side of chips as well. This is something I pull out of one of the cupboards, remembering that I’d seen them peeking out from behind some cans of food where I’d hid them.

No wonder why. They’re sour cream and onion flavored. Not my favorite. My dad loved them though. I look at the expiration date on the unopened bag, realizing Dad must’ve bought these two years ago, at the last family reunion we all had in this cabin before granddad died, and then Mom and Dad died.

While I’m not usually the type to condone serving people “expired” anything — especially food — these haven’t been opened. And I somehow feel that she could use some potato chips. So, regardless of their expired date being already two years past, I pull open the chip back, and dump them on her plate. A good portion of them.

I then pour her a big glass of milk, before bringing her food to her and setting the plate in front of her. “Sorry if you don’t like any of this stuff,” I say, “but I don’t know what else to do if you won’t talk to me. I just had to guess at what to give you.”

It turns out she doesn’t need words to say what she feels. Before the plate has even been on the table for more than two seconds, she’s already got the sandwich between her strong fingers, and is taking gigantic bites out of it.

It’s like she’s a great white shark trapped in a female’s body, with the way she eats that thing— devours it. She stuffs the big, white edges of bread in her mouth and it’s like I’m watching one of my buddies in the Navy eat a meal— a brother in arms, not a woman in a T-shirt and sweatpants, with an instinct for fighting.

But if I thought that she ate that sandwich fast, she drinks that glass of milk even faster. She actually uses it to help her swallow, to rinse down the thick sandwich bread, savory and sweet ham, creamy cheese and succulent mayo.

Believe me: it really looks every fucking bit the way I’ve described. She has dabs of that mayo on the sides of her mouth. And all that bread and cheese and meat? It puffs out her cheeks in a beautifully disturbing way. I don’t know why it turns me on, but it does.

I’ve always liked a woman who could eat, who wasn’t so worried about being too “lady-like” and whatnot, but I know she’s far from being herself at the moment. Even with her good appetite, her eyes still look distant— glazed over a bit, even as she sets the glass of milk down, already half drained. So, she may or may not be one of those “lady-like” types in actuality. She might just be starving.

It’s a sobering thought that becomes the dominant narrative in my head as I watch her go to town on those chips. If they taste old or stale, she doesn’t show it. She just shoves handfuls in, as if she’s barely tasting what she’s eating.

She gets crumbs everywhere, but I don’t care. I’m not my granddad. Or my mom. Manners don’t matter— not when you’re starving, when you’re begging for something to sustain you, which she must be.

Now that I get a good look at her, she’s probably not eaten or had much to drink in a few days. And that was probably before she came to the mountains. I clear my throat, banishing the thought that she might have decided to come up here to end it more quickly.

I do it just as she’s finished her meal. She practically cleaned everything from her plate, and drank the last of her milk. Something my mom definitely would’ve been proud of, were she here. Though, she’d probably do a better job than I am at trying to figure out what’s going on with this girl. She probably wouldn’t have gotten herself nearly punched out or kicked in the face in the process.

The woman’s eyes are on mine. They’re attentive and a tad wild. It’s like she’s a mountain lioness who’s just wolfed down a carcass, and she’s looking at me like I’m about to steal it right out of her belly.

“I’m gonna guess the you’re pretty tired from today. From whatever you were doing or not doing up on that cliff out there.” I rub at my injured arm, feeling phantom pains from where she hit me— where her hands and fingernails landed. “I’m gonna let you have my room — my bed — for the night. You’ll be in there by yourself, so no worries about privacy.”

She gets up from her seat, watching me. Studying my movements. “Let me show you where,” I add, walking out of the kitchen, and toward my bedroom, down the hall and to the right.

Of course, my mystery woman’s followed me. She’s come to stand next to me, but slightly behind me. She’s probably maintaining that perfect distance in case she decides I’m dangerous, and needs to literally kick my ass to get away.

I open the door, pushing it open and away for her, so that she knows I’m not going to corner her. I let her walk past me, so that she knows I’m not going to grab her, or whatever horror story she is playing in her head on repeat.

“There are things for you to wear to bed in the top drawer of my dresser. The bottom as well. Whatever you like, you can have for the night.” In my dresser are more T-shirts and sweatpants, so, it’s not a big departure from what she’s already wearing, but at least they’re cleaner, and warmer, than what she’s got on. “You should get some sleep. You look like you need it.”

I say this gently, hoping she knows I’m not making fun of her. Making light of whatever she’s got going on.

If I expected any response from her, I’m quickly disappointed. As she’s done throughout most of the time we’ve been together since I found her, she just walks past me into the room, and shuts the door. It’s all with no emotion, and very little awareness.

I sigh, walking away through the kitchen. Well, at least she’s safe. She’s eaten. Now hopefully she’ll be able to sleep just as well. As I walk into the kitchen, I decide I’m gonna get something to eat as well. My mac & cheese TV dinner. I need that comfort food.

If I don’t, I’m going to start worrying about her. I’ll ruminate about why she was sitting on the edge of that cliff, and wonder what the fuck is wrong with this beautiful, mysterious stranger who is sleeping in my bed tonight.

And once I start doing that, I’d start pacing. I don’t think my carpets can take it.