Chapter 2
The kids each took a costume. I loved the smiles on their faces when they received their assigned colors. Some were red, others where white, and the last group were blue. The sequins were the best part.
“Now, remember,” I said, “if you’re one of our white costume group, it’s because we trust you the most not to spill anything on it. Don’t violate our trust, okay, kids? We’re counting on these to stay sparkling clean all through the performance.”
A bunch of moms nodded their assent.
“You’re going to be great.”
One little girl with pigtails—Isla, I think her name was—raised her hand. “We’re dedicating this show to you, Miss Danica.” She smiled. “We are so glad you can remember us again.”
“Thanks, everyone.” I placed a hand on my heart. “You’re wonderful. It’s great to be with you again. I really missed you.” Probably. Not that I could recall any emotion I’d experienced during the black hole of my missing two months. “Let’s make it a great show.”
“But, Miss Danica?” Isla interjected. “Don’t do any gymnastics demonstrations yet, okay?”
“You got it.” I gave her the thumbs up.
The kids and parents left, and Tennille sidled up to me. “How long until you can resume your workouts?”
“I have an appointment with—I guess he’s my neurologist, since I saw his name on a sheet of paper on my desk—Dr. Chen next month. Until then, I’m playing it safe.” Truthfully, the back of my head still hurt. But something told me I’d hit the area near my forehead when I flew from the uneven bars. “Tennille, can you reenact my accident?”
“And hit my head and turn into a whole different person for who knows how long? No, thanks.”
“I mean verbally.” Sheesh.
She described it to me, and sure enough, according to Tennille, who’d been eyewitness to the scene of the disaster, I’d hit my forehead. A bump the size of a plum, for good measure. The back of my head would have nothing to do with that, unless it was some kind of percussive thing, slowly working its way around to the back of my head. The top and front didn’t hurt at all anymore. I rubbed the tender area back there gently.
Nope. Still hurt.
We put away the mats and prepped for the older class, which would be showing up any minute. Then, we stopped beside the water cooler.
“When you looked through your photos on your phone from the last several weeks, did that, by chance, give you any clues to your mysterious connection to Jeremy Hotston?”
A gasp escaped my throat. It was so obvious! Why hadn’t I thought of it? “I haven’t looked through them.”
“Friend. You really do need help from the neurologist. You’re not thinking straight. Do you want me to go with you to your appointment with Dr. Chen? Or should we see if they have an opening for an emergency patient right now?”
I pushed her shoulder. “I’m fine. But you’re right. I should look through those photos.” But not right now. Not until I was somewhere safe. Somewhere I could scream into a pillow if needed.
That night, I found some leftovers in my fridge. Pasta with some kind of cream sauce—delicious. Curl-my-toes and make me sigh like a satisfied woman delicious. If only there were more in another Tupperware somewhere. But alas. However, I did locate a strawberry thing with cream cheese and pretzels that just about leveled me. How did someone mortal make this? It was incredible.
Instead of looking at my photos on my phone like a smart person, I started digging through the kitchen drawers, in case the Cooking Genius had left evidence or recipes or clues.
Nada.
I examined the contents of the fridge, calculating that I had enough amazing leftovers in there to last me about four more meals, but after that, I was back to burnt toast.
This was not acceptable, not after what I’d tasted today. Once a woman had bathed her taste buds in such decadence, how could she return to the scraps and crumbs of her normal life?
From another mystery container, I spooned up a delicious soup. Chicken broth, white beans, a touch of curry. Wait a cotton-picking minute. I now had palate skills and could discern ingredients in delicious soups? No way.
I gobbled the rest of the soup, guessing garlic, onion, a hint of dried mustard, and some sliced green onion were involved in this recipe.
Was there hope for me? Was I a chef in embryo and didn’t know it? Now, now I had real incentive to check out my phone’s camera reel—on the off-chance I’d taken photos of recipes or of myself at the stove wearing an apron, for proof that I was involved in the making of these incredible gastronomic inventions.
Settling down on the sofa, I placed a pillow on my lap—in case of scream needs—and opened my photos app.
My corneas melted. I swear, they seared right off. I’d never see again.