Present Day
Bridgette
“Am I doing this right?” Kaycee asked, her tiny brows etched in concentration.
I looked at the colorful rendition of “The Porkies” against the white watercolor paper and appraised it with a critical eye.
“There’s no right or wrong, Kaycee,” I said in a tender voice. She was a perfectionist. She wanted to do everything right on the first try. It was a good trait to have, but I wanted her to find it in herself to let go and unleash her artistic soul, where there were no lines for right or wrong. Art was like that. There were no boundaries and if you kept yourself contained within a box, you wouldn’t see the soul inside.
“But Miss B…I think I put too much of the green and I messed up the blue.” At the young age of seven, she’d already mastered the fine art of critiquing herself.
I gently patted her forehead. “Kaycee, embrace the imperfections. Your technique is great; you meshed the colors very well. I love it.”
Her scrunched up face didn’t look like she believed me.
“Where is this place?” I asked, knowing that the Porcupine Mountains were the long-kept secret of Michigan’s own. I’d never been there, but it was featured in Nature and Art, one of the magazines I subscribed to and I was awed by the backdrop of the vivid yellow, red, and orange against the green hardwoods. Add in the picturesque view of the Lake of the Clouds and I was a sold tourist. One day, I’d visit it…among many others.
“It’s where my daddy’s from.” She said in a small voice, “We hiked the trails there and I loved every second of it.”
“You miss your daddy, Cee-Cee?” Christopher, the eight year-old who always sat by Kaycee, asked.
Kaycee’s blue eyes slowly welled up in tears and I opened my shoulders so I could give her comfort.
Kaycee’s father passed away from a long battle with bone cancer five months ago. Two months ago, her mother enrolled her in my class after they’d moved from Michigan to be closer to her mother’s side of the family. I’d been a witness to her grief, to several of these kids’ grief whether it be the loss of a loved one or the loss of a perceived ability to do something.
It wasn’t the crying that tore at my heart as it was the way she held herself back when an activity evoked a memory of her father. She’d sit so still and wouldn’t say a word for at least ten minutes, and when she finally did, she acted as if nothing was wrong.
It tugged at my core because maybe I saw glimpses of me in her. The pretense that everything was fine when the truth was that everything was falling apart. The hopeless feeling that gnawed and never fully left.
Seven children of varying ages between seven to nine surrounded Kaycee and gave her a hug.
Some kids didn’t want hugs.
Kaycee wasn’t one of those kids.
She embraced hugs as if they were her lifelines.
Mary, dressed up from head to toe in her favorite color purple and her hair up in pigtails, remarked, “My Nampa says that we all go to heaven.”
Kaycee wiped the tears from her face. She seldom cried and it was good to see her cry, to know that she was able to let it out and channel her emotions through her tears. Eyes wet with sadness, she looked up at me and said, “Is heaven a good place, Ms. B?”
When I took on this job, I didn’t know what it was going to bring me.
I applied because it was close to school, and the hours that they needed me for didn’t conflict with my other job. The ten to fifteen hours I was here every week recharged me enough to face the drilling tasks of classwork and reality.
The 580-square foot room became my niche, and in it I allowed myself to be the person that I wasn’t expected to be.
Not the Bridgette that my mother wanted.
Not the Bridgette that my brother thought I was.
Not the Bridgette that my classmates, co-workers, and friends saw me as.
In here, the paintings and the art lessons that I provided under the supervision of Ms. Eggers, the full-time teacher, opened me up to feel and unravel the emotions I’d bottled up throughout my childhood.
When I watched a child paint their joy and pain through oil, watercolor, pastel, or acrylic, I felt grateful that they got to share that with someone, whether it be me or someone else.
Everyone’s brain was wired differently.
My brother could see an equation and he could determine the answer in an instant. It was the same way when he played hockey, or rugby, or any sport he put his mind to.
Me?
I remembered the tiniest details of everything I saw. From the lint in the carpet to the yellow stain on Nanny Tilda’s wall from the mustard on the turkey sandwich she made me when I was five.
Language was another thing that came easy for me. Chinese was the first language I mastered. Then came French, Latin, and Italian. I excelled at knowing the nuances of the languages, but I failed at the part where I had to talk to people.
Painting was my outlet.
It allowed me to speak when I had no voice.
I saw Kaycee missing her dad through the mix of blues and greens outlined with grey and black shadows. I could picture Christopher’s love for his new puppy, Cookie, after he’d lost his beagle, Marty, through the yellows and oranges he splattered on the blank sheet of paper.
Joey’s misery at having a new brother was evident in the muted colors of brown and black. And Josiah’s anger at being put on timeout for ruining his sister’s Doc Mcstuffins toy was all over the different shades of red he’d shown me.
Kaycee was waiting on me to answer her and I looked at the expectant cherubic faces that surrounded me, “Heaven is a good place. It’s where the best people go. Every time something makes you feel sad, close your eyes, think of the people and things that you love. Make them form a circle just like we’re doing right now. And that…that’s heaven.”
I was going to miss my tiny partners in crime for another week, but that was the way life went.
It wasn’t for the weary.
Bishop texted me earlier asking if we could do brunch before he left for Germany for an exhibition game. Brunches were our thing. He’d asked if he could bring his girlfriend, Kara, to some of them and of course I said yes.
I liked Kara.
She was the perfect match to my brother’s intense personality.
“Bridge, what time are you off tonight?” My roommate, Rianna, asked from her bedroom door. She was probably working on her marketing presentation. It was a big part of her grade. Getting a C would not bode well for her post grad studies.
We met at an art store in Westwood, and after a dinner and a subsequent lunch, she told me that she was looking for a roommate. My lease at my first apartment wasn’t up at that time, but we stayed in touch and once my lease was up, we moved into a two bedroom apartment within walking distance from our school.
She was a nice girl. Shy at first like me, but once I got to know her, she had a potty mouth that could rival a sailor on a bad day.
“Eleven. I’m closing,” I said in a loud voice, trying to locate my work outfit.
“Okay, text me when you get in. Not sure if I can spend another day holed up with this thing…I might go out for a drink with Evan.” Evan was her classmate. He was extremely handsome and extremely gay. They became friends over a design project and bonded over their love for swear words.
“Tell him I said hi. Maybe we could hang out next week,” I sounded out. I was making an empty promise because next week was as hectic as this week but who knew. “I have one day off and I can manage nachos and sangria.”
“Cool.” Her voice drifted off and I knew that she was going to be knee deep in her world of fashion so I took this time to grab my clothes and get in the shower.
It was only two in the afternoon, but it felt like ten o’clock at night already.
As I stood under the warm spray of water, I thought of all the things my mother said the last time she talked to me. My mother loved to talk…about her plans for me. About herself. About all the things she should have done.
The years may have eased the pain, but the emptiness in my heart would never be completely erased.
She’d said that I should move back to New York so Dr. Fortez could make sure I was doing okay.
Dr. Fortez advised me that the best thing to do was leave New York and find myself out on my own.
But my mother refused to listen.
I just wished she listened to me back then.
I wished she spent the time to listen to my brother when he was hurting.
I wished she had the fortitude to be a mother when my brother and I were younger.
As the water dripped down my body, I washed away all of the negative feelings that she invoked.
Wishes were for fools.
And I wasn’t one of them.
“You have Tables 1, 4, 10, and 17,” Chyna said matter-of-factly.
As the head server, she doled out the table assignments for the night.
She was petite like me, and she was fair in handing us our tasks.
I nodded my head and tightened my ponytail, ensuring that the pins would not fall from the sides. I liked to wear my hair down, but being in the food service industry, it was a hindrance.
I loved working at Okihana’s. I’d been working here for a year now. I got to eat the excellent steak pastries during my breaks and share the yummy confections that the Head Chef created for the night with my co-workers.
I didn’t care much for the uniform because the white shirt with red trim was tight across my chest, but it wasn’t the restaurant’s fault that I had boobs.
The tight fitting skirt was also something I could do away with but then again, beggars couldn’t be choosers.
My brother begged to differ. He didn’t agree to me working two days a week in the evening, but it was my life.
I wanted to experience everything in college.
While I could.
I wanted my resume to say, Bridgette Cordello, painter, server, college student.
Rather than Bridgette Cordello, spoiled heiress, child model, daughter of so and so.
“Ohayo gozaimasu. Welcome to Okihana’s,” I started to say to the middle-aged looking couple who was seated at Table 10. They were regular customers. Clarence was an African-American man who loved his sushi baked and Tia was his wife, a Spanish lady who reminded me of Sofia Vergara, and she loved the tuna sashimi.
“Bridgette.” Clarence stated, smiling, his eyes crinkling on the sides, “Our favorite server.”
I rolled my eyes in humor, “You say that to Damon too, Clarence.”
He gave a loud laugh, his shoulders rocking in his dark blue suit. “Are you gossiping about us?”
Tia joined in, “Esta todo bien querida. Don’t mind Clarence. He’s just…how do you call it?” Her eyes sparkling in amusement towards her husband.
“Joking?” Clarence supplied.
“Ah yes. Joking,” Tia agreed. She was an executive at Telemundo and she spoke more Spanish than English and I understood her because I was fluent in it, but sometimes, my ears heated up from all the curse words that she infused her sentences with. The more sake she drank, the looser her tongue got.
They continued to debate on what they were going to order.
After two minutes, Clarence settled on the spicy tuna shishito and shrimp tempura. Tia, the more adventurous of the pair, ordered the wagyu beef nigiri and eel roll.
I left their table and typed their order into the computer.
My phone buzzed inside my back pocket, but I ignored it.
I saw the computer alert that Table 17, the farthest of my tables because it was near the windows and offered a magnificent view of Westwood and its surrounding cities at night, already had occupants.
Okihana’s was a high end Japanese restaurant and steakhouse. It had a month-long waitlist. Amid all the Michelin-starred restaurants in the area, it was one of the longest-running and the most respected.
I was hired because I helped out a classmate in one of my classes at UCLA. I wasn’t an English major, but he’d looked so boggled on the first day of class so I helped him sort through the assignments. On one of our study sessions, I let it slip that I was looking for a job. Any job. Akihiko said he’d give me one, if I was willing to serve people, because his dad’s place was hiring three servers. I said yes right away. Turned out that he was the son of Ishiro Tokoyana, the owner of Okihana’s.
A year later, I was still here, explaining to customers the fine art of Japanese cuisine and I loved it.
I’d never had a job, so this was one of my greatest achievements.
Chyna looked harassed; her eyes were already darting side to side, meaning we were going to have full night. It wasn’t an uncommon thing to have a full night, but the way Chyna’s demeanor was, it meant that we had a lot of the upper echelon of Hollywood dining with us.
It was a hit or miss with the Hollywood clientele.
Some of them were really nice and others, outrageously rude.
“Can you take Table 17 now?” Chyna asked in a harried voice. It was too early in the shift for this. “I heard she’s America’s Top Model or something and she wants her celery stick right this second.”
I raised my brow but supplicated.
I walked towards Table 17, the table reserved for privacy. Everywhere in the restaurant was a private area, but there were a few tables that demanded more privacy.
I eyed the tall brunette whose face I recognized from the billboards that lined my drive whenever I had the urge to do some shopping at the Beverly Center.
She was pretty but in a fake way.
Kara, my brother’s girlfriend, was really pretty but in a natural, warm way.
This one reminded me of my mother’s favorite models.
“What’s good to eat here?” She asked in a haughty voice. Not even giving me an inch to say my greetings. “It’s all like fishy…stuff.”
I swallowed an air of retort and smiled, “Welcome to Okihana’s. Would you like a refreshing drink of jasmine tea or one of chef’s favorites?” Jasmine was to give her some calm in her essence. She might need a pitcher of that with the way her eyes were rolling at the menu.
If she didn’t want to eat here then why bother coming here?
“I hate jasmine tea.” Her voice cut in, “I don’t like fruity stuff.”
Jasmine hates you, too. I’m sure it would rather be drunk by someone else.
I’d been around entitled people all my life. From my mother to my father to my classmates in boarding school. Their attitudes weren’t new to me.
But this wasn’t my place to school them.
I was under the clause of my employer and frankly, the way some people walked around feeling so entitled bored me.
She whipped her perfectly manicured hands in the air, “Is there like any real food I can eat here? Like French fries?”
“I’m sure I can ask the chef to make some sweet potato fries for you.” Okihana’s catered to the customer’s whims, and I was sure that the chefs would be laughing at her order, but hey, that’s what she wanted.
“Okay…french fries with no salt, no additives, no spices, not a lot of oil, and can you ask them to make them really thin cut?” She said, her shoulders heaving as if it was such a challenge.
Would you like the potato in it at all?
I bit my tongue instead and said, “I’ll see what I can –“
“Bridgette?” His voice.
Him.
The one who had haunted my dreams for the past two years.
The last time I heard it was when he’d spoken my name after he’d kissed my forehead and asked me to call him.
My feet were firmly planted in my KURU Vienna Flats that I wore for work because they were comfortable.
But my legs started to unbuckle and I gathered all the energy I had to keep standing upright.
He smelled of fresh wood and citrus.
Of vacations in Aspen and strolls in Calgary.
“What are you doing here?” The greens in his eyes were translucent under the ambient lighting, and as his right hand touched my left arm, I felt it again.
The spark that I wanted to deny but couldn’t.
His jaw had a hint of stubble and the way it foreshadowed his jaw made him look more mature, levitating his masculinity in full force.
It had been over two years since he’d brought me home from my brother’s birthday party.
Two years of me living my life, ignoring the fact that he had texted me after draft day, and said he was happy to be living in LA, that maybe we could go out some time.
Two years of grabbing onto bits and pieces of information that Kara unknowingly fed me.
But time didn’t diminish the attraction that I’d tamped down because he and I…we could never be.
I still hadn’t said anything, because any time Scott was around, my tongue got tied to the roof of my mouth.
“You know her? Our little server?” America’s Top Model said and it crashed through my silence.
“Ah. Yes,” I croaked out, Scott’s hands were still on mine when he addressed what I can only assume was his date.
“Her name’s Bridgette.”
His voice held an edge.
“I didn’t get her name.” The tall brunette said and her eyebrows shot through her forehead, “Was I supposed to?”
I glimpsed at Scott’s jaw tightening, “No. But you could act more courteously towards the people around you.”
“Gee.” She huffed and pulled out her phone.
And that was my cue to leave.
I removed his hand from my arm and fled the scene.
My heart was still hammering a hundred beats per minute when I looked down to my computer to type his date’s order.
I had to wrack my brain for a long time.
I stood there trying to figure out what she’d ordered.
Dr. Fortez, the head of the Neuro Department at Johns Hopkins, once stated that my brain had a thicker and larger amount of gray matter than normal people. It was because of this that I could handle more information than the average individual.
I could close my eyes and the flood of information would roll through my mind.
But right now...
I couldn’t.
Because Scott could do what other people couldn’t.
He made me forget.