Her nerves feel as tangled up as a knotted shoelace, needing to be gently teased apart and smoothed. Jangled, that’s the word for it. The nerves—electric and snarled—are covering up other things: the persistent pulse of worry and the melancholy blue tinge of sadness and possibly even a fiery, flaming red anger, but she hasn’t dug down that far yet, unable to even touch the top layer.
It’s all too present still: All of her siblings sitting together in the kitchen. The steadied look her parents exchanged, as if they’d rehearsed their next lines more than a few times the night before over glasses of Merlot in the kitchen, murmuring to each other: “No, no, Whit will hate that, it sounds patronizing; let’s just explain what happened” or “Best to wait on that, they’ll find out eventually but the girls will panic; should we order pizza first?”
The whole scene swims in and out of her view, blurry and indistinct. Her father spoke in characteristically academic terms, but fumbled over them a bit. It seems that for some time now he’s been, well, exhibiting a dizzying array of symptoms which no one can diagnose but upon which everyone seems to have an opinion.
All she knows right now is that something has gone very wrong with someone they all love very much. She doesn’t know yet that they will switch off spending hours in the anterooms of various test labs (CT, MRI, angiogram) at Mass General, and even more hours in the library-like office of Dr. Schumann, his walls lined with diplomas and mahogany books. (Dr. Schumann is the preeminent scholar in his field, and his waiting list is months long, but Hadley’s family had immediately pulled strings when they heard the news, a privilege for which she felt simultaneously embarrassed and deeply grateful.) She can’t predict how she’ll come to despise the taste of miniature pretzel twists, the only snack which seems relatively palatable in the hospital vending machines, or how many games of gin rummy she’ll lose to Whit while time ticks past in slow motion.
For now, she’s here. Coping.
Comfort, she thinks. I need comfort. She reaches for a sheet of paper, but finds nothing in the drawer of her nightstand other than a matchbook from the Longfellow Bar, a tube of peppermint chapstick, and two novels (one dogeared and nearly finished—The Stationery Shop by Marian Kamali and one untouched—The Lincoln Highway by Amor Towles). She twists her mouth briefly at the sight of the second novel: her pile of I-should-read-this books is always high, but convincing herself to stay in the habit of reading anything at night other than Vogue celebrity home tours and make-up tutorials by little-known British bloggers is a stretch, so she calls any novel finished a victory.
The top of the dresser yields nothing in the way of paper, but she does find half a jar of Kai lotion hidden behind her deodorant and hairbrush which she was sure she had lost. She opens the top and rubs some onto her hands, lifting them to her nose and inhaling the delicate floral scent of white gardenia and jasmine.
A slouchy leather handbag sits on her desk chair: She digs out her laptop, a charger, her wallet, a crumpled receipt from Flour Bakery (a dark chocolate brownie and a large cappuccino), three Ricola cough drops, enough bobby pins to build a miniature replica Eiffel Tower, and a raspberry-pink Sharpie.
No paper. She drops the Sharpie onto her desk—envisioning it becoming uncapped as she rushes to work, leaving Picasso-esque pink stripes across the lusciously soft leather—and tosses the receipt into the trash.
The door to Hadley’s room is slightly ajar. She pushes it open to see the buttery afternoon light slanting through the tall windows, casting amber rectangles of light onto the unmade bed: the pillows pushed against the headboards, the sheets tangled up with a quilt (handmade by Hadley’s aunt in shades of canary yellow, cornflower blue, and petal pink).
Hadley is epically messy: incapable of leaving a room without a trail of her belongings tumbling behind her. This habit is directly at odds with her appearance: She’s impeccably groomed, with beautifully thick arched eyebrows and sleek dark hair that falls neatly into place, whether it’s scraped into a ponytail at work or blown-out into bouncy, beachy waves.
Women are always intimidated when they meet Hadley (or envious: the fire of female competition flashing in their eyes) and men are always floored. Hadley is the sort of person on whom even faded jeans and a worn button-down manage to look pulled-together: She generally looks like she has just stepped out of the pages of a J.Crew catalog, with a hint of something more monied (real diamond studs winking in her ears, a pair of Ferragamo flats casually tossed on at the last minute).
When they first met, she felt like an inept teenager around Hadley, like the little sister whose hair is perpetually somewhat unbrushed and always has a chocolate stain on her t-shirt. Now, knowing her as closely as her own sisters, she delights in the juxtaposition of her polished exterior and chronic untidiness.
She nearly trips over a stack of textbooks, the top one crammed with a handful of papers. She plucks one out and smoothes it against her thigh: It’s a flyer for a residents only event, a picnic at Hurley Park to meet the new head of neurosurgical oncology. The details are printed only on one side, and she’s entirely sure Hadley will not be attending this event and won’t miss the paper, so she carries it down to the kitchen.
Okay, she thinks again. Comfort. Make a list.
The calm, steady voice of her beloved English teacher in high school, who had functioned as half-educator and half-therapist for the students, as one of the only adults most of her teenage peers trusted with their emotions. Mrs. Clarke was neither cool nor young: She had a curly salt-and-pepper bob and wore long, flowing skirts and sweaters that looked like they’d be sold on the streets of Taos or Aspen. A sticker that said “Handel with Care” was affixed to her desk (she was part of the local choral music group) and she was famous for holding an end-of-final-exam dinner at her house where she served trays of lasagna, Parker House rolls, and sweet iced tea.
One of Mrs. Clarke’s famous sayings was “write it down”—which she applied to everything from important themes in Shakespeare to ideas (she was constantly encouraging their creative efforts) to worries to triumphs. Once, after a particularly horrific afternoon involving a low grade on a history test and witnessing Alex Wyman (a somewhat on-again, off-again romantic interest) leaning up against another girl’s locker—she sat and sobbed in Mrs. Clarke’s office. “Let’s write it down, shall we?” Mrs. Clarke had said gently, and she looked at her, confusion on her tear-stained face. “Not those hard things, but a list of good things, things that will make today feel trivial in comparison. Comforting things.”
Coming from any other teacher, she would have scoffed, rolling her eyes at her friends, deflecting sincerity with cynicism, as teenagers are wont to do. With Mrs. Clarke, she listened. Together they made a list, and it did help. She still finds the exercise useful, years later.
The Nespresso machine whirs loudly in the background, and she pours in a slow stream of warmed milk, then scoops out a dollop of creamy foam.
(For a brief, ill-advised two months in college, she had worked as a barista in the local coffee shop, which was the sort of aged hippie establishment with small town notices papering the walls (Hamlet production, town green, Friday 8 PM! and Rocky Ledge Farm CSAs Open Now and Guitar Lessons—aged 12 and up) and slightly stale, puffy croissants and enormous biscotti in glass jars. Her boss—a heavily tattooed woman named Alyssa who seemed to despise her at first glance—was forever scowling when she spilled shots of espresso or fumbled with the change drawer. The saving grace was Adam: a quiet, shy boy who was working at the cafe to pay his way through art school, and was studiously passionate about coffee. In the late morning lulls, he’d taught her about espresso extraction and the difference between washed and honey coffees and how to make an absolutely pitch-perfect flat white: a trick she can now perform with her eyes closed.)
The Sharpie makes a satisfying scratch on the paper: List of Good Things. She draws a heavy underline beneath the heading, then pauses.
The few kettle chips in the bag that get folded over
Le Labo’s basil shower gel
Strands of tiny globe lights outside restaurants at night
The smell of bacon
Small, quirky bookstores with good gift sections
The Will Ferrell Beyonce lip-sync video
The hush in a theater right before the show starts
Extra sugared raisins in a bowl of Raisin Bran
The smell of birthday candles, right after they’re blown out (and licking the frosting)
Fresh flowers, preferably peonies
Putting on lotion right after a shower
A really good grapefruit
Stop lights turning green just before you have to brake
The Sharpie held aloft, she suddenly thinks about last summer. He had met her at the Woods Hole ferry dock; he was wearing a faded blue Black Dog t-shirt and white sneakers, a canvas duffel sitting at his feet. On the ferry ride over, they’d stood on the top deck and passed a Cisco Brewer’s Whale’s Tail Ale back and forth between them, the sun warming the top of her head and shoulders.
The trip had been—in a word, if she had to pick one—blissful, a two-night adventure that she lets herself think about only occasionally, as if to keep it bright and alive like a flame, taking out one or two moments and turning them over in her head, wrapping them around her mentally like a blanket.
Like the first morning, when they woke up and took a long run down Lobsterville Road in Aquinnah, then picked up breakfast sandwiches at 7a Foods and ate them in the quiet pre-summer morning rush at Lucy Vincent Beach. He had spread a blanket out on the sand and she’d rested her bare feet in his lap, holding a cheddar biscuit stuffed with scrambled egg, tomato, and spinach in both hands while he sipped a black iced coffee.
That was the day he’d introduced her to steamer clams (at lunch at Larsen’s Fish Market before biking 10 miles along the ocean), and dressed up for burgers oozing with St. André cheese and truffle aioli at Atria before sharing an ice cream cone (one scoop of mocha chip, one scoop of chocolate) at Mad Martha’s, his hand drifting up the small of her back as they sat on a bench watching summertime revelers wander the narrow sidewalks.
She picks up the Sharpie again.
The crispy cheesy bits on the edges of a warm 7a Foods biscuit
Outdoor showers in the rain/outdoor hot tubs in the snow
Him, cutting his burger in half
Thinking of the perfect Christmas present for him
Him, whooping in the cold water of a July ocean
Him
Him
Him
Buttermilk Cheese Biscuits
Makes about 9 biscuits
3 cups (360g) all-purpose flour
1 tablespoon baking powder
1/2 teaspoon salt
1/2 cup (113g) unsalted butter, cold, cut into cubes
2 cups (226g) grated cheddar cheese (or similar cheese)
1 cup buttermilk
Preheat the oven to 325 degrees F. Line a baking sheet with parchment paper.
In a large bowl, whisk together the flour, baking powder, and salt.
Cut in the butter using a pastry cutter or a fork until it’s in pea-sized chunks; I like to use my fingers to rub a few of the larger chunks into flakes, flattening them and also making sure none are too big.
Stir in the grated cheese, then add the buttermilk and stir with a fork, taking care to break apart any large wet clumps so that the liquid gets distributed, then knead the dough a few times in the bowl so it mostly comes together in a ball but don't overwork it at all. It shouldn’t be cohesive and there should be chunks of drier areas and some wetter areas.
Turn the dough out onto the parchment-lined sheet, and fold it over onto itself until there aren't any dry spots remaining. Don't think of this as kneading: You want to handle it gently and as you fold, the wet/dry areas will disappear. Fold about 10 or 12 times, then gently press the dough down to a rectangle about 2 inches high.
Using a sharp knife, cut the dough into 2" squares and separate them slightly on the baking sheet. Brush with the heavy cream or milk or beaten egg white.
Bake for about 15 to 18 minutes, or until golden brown (the time will depend on your oven, so take them out when you see the corners of the tops turning a deep golden). Let cool slightly, then transfer to a wire rack to finish cooling.