“No.” He sat back, feeling, for once in a long time, satisfied. He watched her eat in silence, each spin of her fork, each dart of her tongue along her lips.
“Charlie,” Aisha said, putting down her fork. “We’re having a baby.” She had never admitted this fact before — we, his responsibility. “I’m scared.”
He got out of bed and left her lying there alone with her noodles.
“Where are you going now?” she said, sitting up and pushing the bowl aside.
“You need parmesan,” he said, rushing to the kitchen.
“But I’m almost done,” she called after him.
He got distracted once he left the room. The dishwasher needed to be loaded. There was a recipe he wanted to check. He played some online poker. When he got back to the bedroom with the parmesan, Aisha was asleep, the bowl of pasta cold on the bedside table.
Crumbling teeth are a symboclass="underline" someone told him that once, a few years ago now, at an underground dinner party in the West End. The soirée was hosted by a Michelin-star-lauded chef, something overpriced and overrated, and very private and very chic. There was a secret word for the buzz code — chateauneuf or kumquat or bluefin. Basically it was a hundred and twenty dollars to sit on tasselled cushions around an egomaniacal asshole’s coffee table and sample “epicurean delights” as described by said asshole. Charlie wore his most ironic T-shirt.
The conversation that night was appropriately diaphanous. Between the foie gras toasts and the beef tartare, talk turned to worst fears. A woman with impossibly long hair had him wedged into a corner between a sofa and an armchair; the hair tumbled in dark waves nearly to her waist and he could smell her sweat under the citrus of her shampoo. Usually he hated the intimacy of small spaces and discussions like this one, but after five grapefruit soju cocktails he was working on a decent buzz with a freshly cracked beer in hand he’d found hiding at the back of the fridge.
The group wouldn’t accept his first answer: he had no fears. “Everyone has a fear, Charlie,” the host said, stepping out from his kitchen lair. “Charlie,” he said slyly, pointing a wine glass at him, accidentally emptying the last droplets of red onto the white-tiled floor, “come on now, Charlie. What about fear of failure? What about fear of an empty restaurant, Charlie?” Charlie had just started working at Marinacove. He wanted the host to stop taking digs, so he told them about his teeth. The long-haired woman was the only one concerned for him. She was still asking for specifics and inspecting his mouth long after everyone else had moved on to the man who was terrified of Canada geese. “It means something,” she said, flipping her hair importantly from one shoulder to the other. Tiny beads of sweat sprouted on her upper lip. Her mane was like a black cloak around her shoulders. “But what?” he howled, “What does it mean?” The alcohol and the woman’s beautiful hair were causing him to overreact. Later, she played the piano with everyone gathered around like a Christmas cliché, but Charlie felt he was the only other one there — just him, bowed beside Aisha at the keys.
He’s never bothered to look up the meaning of the recurring nightmare, but he is still filled with dread and a sense of suffocation whenever he wakes up searching for his teeth in the sheets. Last night when he came to bed, he fell asleep immediately and had the worst nightmare yet. He kept drifting back to sleep only to be startled awake again and again. In this dream, all his teeth were gone and Rose was sitting across from him, spooning a salmon-coloured purée into his mouth, her tattoos slithering around her skinny arms. He woke in a cold sweat, still able to taste the fishiness, feel the texture in his mouth, the motion of his gums and tongue masticating the thick substance, trying to ease it down his throat. He was beginning to think he may have other fears, ones that were lying dormant and were stirring now, stretching their spindly arms and yawning.
Long after Aisha had fallen asleep Charlie lay wide awake, his hand on her belly while she snored peacefully beside him. The long-armed maple tapped at their window — a warning of the storm to come. A sharp wind off the ocean cut past the apartment buildings and rattled the branches, sending orange showers of leaves to the ground and ushering them down the street like a bunch of boisterous schoolchildren on a field trip. Charlie lay there listening to the scratching along the pavement, his mind a hot element fuelled by the day at the restaurant and by Aisha, her fear, the barnacle. He tried to let his mind cool, thinking of his body in the icemaker at work, chunks of ice clunking him in the forehead. Sleep will come. Clunk. Sleep will come. Clunk. He no longer wanted to close his eyes because of the pink purée nightmare. When the sun rose his eyes would shut. He had his father to thank for that.
In the dark, he stared at Aisha, his hand still resting on her belly. Who was this woman? How did she get there beside him? How was it that some of his DNA was now furiously multiplying inside her body? How could he explain to Aisha that it was all up to her, that no one had taught him how to be a father? He had been taught how to be a ghost, a spectre in the back kitchen. He felt a strong kick and jumped, his hand shooting into the air.
The maple tree outside the window tapped out answers in undecipherable Morse code. As he waited for the first whispers of sun, he imagined buying a chainsaw and climbing up into that goddamn maple tree to get rid of that tap, tap, tapping for good.
CHARLIE LIFTS HIS HEAD off the desk and looks out the window. Sinister grey waves are rising from the surface of the water, taking their time, anticipating their own destruction once they reach their destination. Pain splinters through Charlie’s head. He fell into a deep, dream-saddled sleep — how long was he out for? When he staggers out of the office Topher is gone. Martin is polishing glasses and chatting with Susan. Rich, Tara, and James are cleaning the forgotten corners of the kitchen. The elderly woman is still there, with Rose sitting across from her. Their table is clean and fresh cups of steaming coffee sit in front of them. They’re both staring at the rolling ocean. Charlie can’t even look at them. He busies himself on the line, knocking back the rest of his drink and prepping the sweet garlic purée for tonight’s roast chicken. When Rose walks by he rattles his empty cup at her and before long there is a fresh drink in front of him. He takes a swallow: strong — Rose is trying to push him over the edge. At this point in the evening the restaurant is usually bustling, but tonight a dreary hush floats over the near-empty dining room.
“Tara,” he says, “you can go home.” Her apron is off before he’s even finished the sentence. Out of the corner of his eye he watches Rich and James for any mistakes while they’re cooking. “Vinegar rag that plate, James. I can see your greasy fingertips all over the rim.”
Customers begin to trickle in looking wet and wind-haggard, shaking out their coats and umbrellas. Aged parents with their sullen teenagers, eager-eyed tourists hungry from their day of sightseeing, girlfriends with arms linked in preparation to hunker down for a couple good hours of gossip; everyone wants to sit at the windows for a better view of the storm. Charlie glares at Susan’s back while she jabbers with Martin, trying to burn two perfect circles through her shiny suit jacket. An older couple walks into the restaurant and Charlie can tell by the way they survey the room — disinterest and mild disgust — that they have money. Rose takes them to a quiet corner table, performing the little bows she reserves for the wealthy.
“Coulis,” Charlie snaps at James, watching him plate a raspberry chocolate mousse. He’s forgotten the dot of mango sauce that cheers the presentation. Charlie slices green onions, the blade blurring under his fingertips.