A Perfect Bolognese

A Perfect Bolognese

Abby steadied herself in front of the large frosted door. With a deep inhale, she said to herself, “You can do this.” It was not a cheer but a quiet statement of confidence.

The woman behind that door was her mentor and boss. On any other day, Abby would be looking forward to meeting with Cici, but today wasn’t any other day. Today she wasn’t the confident, capable journalist she was two weeks ago. Today she was just pretending.

With her next exhale, she pushed the door open to find Cici behind the solid mahogany desk, deep in concentration.

“Cici, am I interrupting?”

“No, of course not. It’s great to see you.” Cici stood up and gestured to the casual sitting area. She could tell Cici wanted to hug her but Cici knew better. Abby was not the hugging type. Especially today, a hug would bring tears and erase all of the confidence she had built up to have this conversation.

“How are you?” Cici asked as she poured them both a glass of water from the pitcher on the table between them.

“You don’t need to worry, I’m doing much better now. I just needed a break, I know that now. I feel better than I have in a long time.”

Cici was quiet but Abby could tell she didn’t believe her. It was the look on her face, the same one she saw on her therapist’s face when they discussed Abby going back to work.

“There has to be more than the next article. You are not what you do, you are valuable just as you are, even if you never publish another word.”

As a young journalist, chasing a story had been her reason for existence. It wasn’t a job, it was a calling. Finishing a piece had been all that she needed to sustain her. It was her identity and over the years, it left room for little else. It had paid off, she was at the top of her field. Journalism students studied her work and new journalists aspired to be her. To be interviewed by Abby meant that you were someone who was shaping the social and political landscape. Her shelves were so full of awards, it was easy to miss the lack of family photos or souvenirs.

There was a time when she could say, ‘It’s just an honour to be nominated’ and actually mean it. But now, winning awards was expected. Award season was no longer filled with nervous excitement, only fear of failure.

This season, it had just been too much. She couldn’t eat or sleep. She was using stimulants to start the day and sleeping pills to end it. On the day of nominations, she had taken stimulants to get her going and sedatives to calm her nerves. When she joined Cici in her office that evening to toast her nomination with some champagne, it was too much for her and she collapsed.

“What does your therapist say?” Cici’s question brought Abby back to the present. She had prepared a list of answers that didn’t include the fact that her therapist had told her it would be at least six weeks before she would be ready to go back to work.

“If you go back to your old life, you’ll go back to your old habits. You need to learn the skills and recognize what got you to this point or you will just lose yourself in your work again.” Her therapist’s words echoed in Abby’s head. She prayed Cici wouldn’t ask her directly because she wouldn’t be able to lie.

“That I need to find happiness in the little things. She suggested a gratitude journal.”

“Sounds like a good idea and I think our readers would enjoy hearing about your experience.” Cici started to rise, indicating the meeting had come to an end.

“I’m not sure it’s my kind of story. I’m not really a happy ending type of writer.”

“It would be different for you but I think if you want to come back to work, it’s exactly your kind of story.”

**********

“I read your article.”

It had been less than a week since the meeting and less than a hour since Abby had pressed send. She had turned in the syrupy, self love story that every middle aged woman trying to find herself would cut out and paste on her bulletin board for inspiration. She hoped Cici would see that she was ready to come back.

“When did you learn how to cook?” Cici didn’t wait for Abby to answer. “I had somehow forgotten the satisfaction of creating something out of a random group of ingredients.

I knew there had to be a time when my kitchen would smell of rich tomatoes and Italian spices and was used for anything other than unwrapping and reheating takeout.”

Abby had borrowed that little gem from a random gratitude post she found online. This woman had been a wealth of inspiration with posts about appreciating the sun streaming in her window or the comfort of freshly washed sheets. Abby’s stomach turned as she read through the entries, but saw it as a sign that this was the perfect nonsense readers would love.

“A bit of artistic license, I admit. I can rework it and have it back to you tomorrow.”

“No.”

The pause seemed to last forever but Abby knew better than to defend her piece.

“This is supposed to be your experience. Take a month. Do the work. I don’t want to see another draft until then.”

**********

She waited until Cici put down the pages to hand her a glass of her favourite red wine. Abby sipped on her sparkling water, the smell of rich tomatoes and Italian spices hanging in the air.

“Before you ask, I learned how to make a perfect Bolognese last week.”

Abby laughed, a sound still foreign to her. She had long ago perfected the controlled chuckle that could be strategically placed in a conversation to seem warm and amused. That, she knew, but this new spontaneous giggle was still a stranger to her.

Cici’s rejection had been tough.

Three days in bed tough.

Was it even worth it tough. She could find a job somewhere else, over the years she’d had many offers. They’d given up years ago, realizing that Abby would never leave Cici, but it would only take a couple of phone calls to have offers rolling in. Then she’d be back to writing the serious pieces she was known for.

But in her heart, Abby knew the headhunters were right, she wouldn’t leave Cici. Abby got out of bed, and even though the gratitude journal would be irritating and pointless, she would do it for Cici. Abby had pushed everyone else away, seeing them as distractions from her work. Cici was all she had left. The thought of disappointing, let alone losing Cici was more than she could bear.

Cici hadn’t dictated the direction for the article, just the need for authenticity. So Abby set out to write the kind of expose she was known for. It would show the readers that this toxic positivity created more dysfunction by encouraging people to suppress challenging emotions.

Pulling out a fresh journal, she wrote the date at the top and put three dots below it. She sat for a few minutes unsure of what to write. Taking a sip from her cup, Abby wrote ‘coffee’ beside the first bullet. This was going to be harder than she thought. Distracted by the noises coming from her stomach after not eating for three days, she put the journal down and went in search of something to eat.

She took a couple of steps towards the kitchen and then, with a smirk, ran back and wrote ‘gravity’ beside the next bullet point. Proud of her defiance but disappointed to find nothing edible for lunch, she reached for her phone to order in. This gave her another idea and she went back to her journal and wrote ‘delivery apps/not having to talk to or see people’ beside the third bullet.

After a few days, her sarcastic entries became less amusing for her and were actually more work than just getting out and creating new experiences. She began with a walk around the block and realized that it had been so long since she’d done it, she didn’t even recognize the area. The next day, she went a little slower so she could really take everything in.

That day’s entry was:

• The smell of freshly ground coffee from the quaint little coffee shop.
• The crisp autumn air and sounds of leaves crackling under my feet.
• Selecting fresh produce from the neighbourhood grocer.

Abby waited patiently for Cici’s response.

“The ending is a bit presumptuous, don’t you think?”

“I’d call it hopeful. But either way, I will be fine.”

Cici raised her glass, “If your Bolognese is as perfect as you say, I’ll see you Monday. Cheers!”