I loved Fredrick Backman’s novel, My Grandmother Ask Me To Tell You She’s Sorry. After reading that and meeting some amazing people who have done so many amazing things in their life, I had the idea to write a novel similar novel.
That idea has been stewing in my mind for a while. This week, I wanted to work on my fiction writing, something I haven’t been doing lately. I wanted to write an emotional short story about connection, but I couldn’t think of anything to write besides this.
So, I wrote a little story in the world of the apartment that might become a full novel eventually.
So, please enjoy Sautéing Sadness and let me know if you’d like to see more stories from this apartment complex.
Sautéing Sadness by Jarrett S. Smith
The darkness of the hallway offered a great place to break down. Maia threw herself to the cream-colored siding, back first, and then slid down as her legs gave out.
There were four doors in this section of the exterior hallway of her new apartment complex, then a little bump where the apartments expanded out, followed by four more apartments. Rustic metallic stairs led down at either end. The management had tried to hide the age of the supports by painting them black, but the paint had peeled long ago. Maia had made it a point to pick at the paint every time she used the stairs.
She didn’t have the focus to do that now, even though it was within reach. Instead, she fought a losing battle with the tears trying to stream down her cheeks.
She decided that she didn’t want to fight anymore. The tears sensed the surrender and pushed through. They stole her breath as they escaped their captivity. She gasped, choking as air fought its way in and out at the same time.
This place was awful. She grimaced at the door to the apartment her dad had rented for them for now. They had been there for three weeks and in that time, nothing had gone well. She missed her friends, she missed her school. A month ago, she would have killed to miss a day of school; now she just wanted to be back there.
A sudden sound of scraping metal from the parking lot startled her. Ms. Zapata, from apartment 2301, did that every time she drove home. Dad had mentioned once that someone should take her license away. They had only lived there a month, so she didn’t know how he had come to that conclusion.
Maia barely heard the clunk of the car door getting slammed shut because of her own ragged breathing and sniffling.
She tried to control herself before Ms. Zapata reached this floor, but it felt impossible to contain the flood of emotions pouring through her right now. As she tried to focus on her breathing, she couldn’t help but hitch and choke.
Ms. Zapata’s steps vibrated through the stairwell. Each step, slow and methodical. It felt like Maia was living in a horror movie.
She glanced down the hallway towards her apartment. It felt so far away, even though it was only four doors down. She shook her head and attempted to muster the strength to get up and go back home, but every time she got close, her breath would hitch and she would start bawling again.
The sound of the footfalls grew closer. She could hear the effort of the older woman as she grunted with each step as well. Before Maia knew it, Ms. Zapata stood on the landing looking down at her.
Maia glanced up. Their eyes locked and Maia couldn’t look away. The elder lady was short and wide. Her dark black hair had been dyed a few times, but the grey roots were beginning to show. Her brown eyes were darker than her skin. The woman smelled of spices, which was oddly off-putting but comforting at the same time.
After a moment, Ms. Zapata nodded without changing her quizzical expression. She huffed and shuffled towards the nearest door to the left, weighed down by two full plastic bags. She grumbled as she reached into her pocket to get her keys—something Maia hadn’t noticed anyone do anymore. Everyone in the apartment opened their doors with their phones these days.
Maia stopped crying as she watched Ms. Zapata waddle into her apartment. Ms. Zapata held the door open. After a long wait, she finally leaned her head back out of the door towards Maia and said, “Well, come on.”
It took Maia too long to realize Ms. Zapata was talking to her. Between the thick accent and Maia’s confusion as to why she would be talking to her, the words barely registered.
Maia tilted her head and looked at the empty, opened door. She rolled her cheek from side-to-side as she debated her next move. Ultimately, she pushed herself up to her unsteady feet and walked like a baby giraffe into the unknown apartment.
“You should be helping me carry des, if you whant me to halp tu,” Ms. Zapata said just inside the door. She nodded to the plastic bags she had dropped to the floor.
Maia nodded and scooped down to lift them. The bags had been weighed down by fresh produce, mostly onions and peppers. Her arms strained to lift them and carry them inside.
The walls of the apartment were covered in a hodgepodge of photos and frames from different periods. Each picture featured groups of people having the time of their life. A set of kids dominated most of the pictures, and as Maia looked around the room she saw the evolution of the children into teens and then adults. The wall looked like a scrapbook, with no wasted space anywhere.
“Dis whey,” Ms Zapata said and moved into the kitchen area.
Ms. Zapata’s apartment was the flip of Maia’s, so she knew the way around. The smell of seasonings and sautés enveloped her as she entered, and she couldn’t decide whether she liked that or not. The spices burnt her nose, but the smell made her mouth water.
“Here, niña,” Ms Zapata said as she nodded toward the counter next to the electric stove top.
Maia hoisted the bags onto the counter and glanced at the pot on the stove. Several pieces of chicken simmered with a stick of celery. Ms. Zapata pushed her away from the bags on the counter and toward the stove. Then the older woman motioned toward the stove.
Maia cocked an eyebrow.
“Chu have to turn it on,” Ms. Zapata pointed her chin at the dials. “If chu are going to help cook.”
Maia wiped the back of her hand on her face. “I’m not staying to cook. I just thought you needed help with the groceries.”
“Chu needed help tambien,” she said. She took some onions out of the bag and plopped them on the counter.
Maia watched. Then she reluctantly turned the dial to start the stove. She reached for the wooden spoon in the pot and stirred slowly. For the longest time, neither said a word. Ms. Zapata chopped onions, which made them both tear up. Maia didn’t have many tears left after her cry in the hallway.
As the water began to boil and more of the aroma spread around the room, she could feel the weight of everything lifting. “I’m sorry,” she said to Ms. Zapata and herself.
“Iz okay,” Ms. Zapata said. “It’s just the onions.”
“No. I’m sorry about what you walked in on.”
“A girl crying. It’s nothing. Everyone cries. Even hombres. They just do it in a different way.”
Maia forced a smile, which brightened her mood. “It’s just—I feel so lonely.”
Ms. Zapata nodded without looking at her. “You know nothing of loneliness, child.”
Maia recoiled. The wooden spoon stopped stirring, but the water continued to boil, and the elder woman continued to chop as if she hadn’t said anything hurtful.
“You don’t know me.”
“Correct. I don’t know you. I know lonely.”
Maia scoffed. She thought about her life just a few weeks ago. Things had been great. Then, the reporters came with their cameras and things imploded.
“Well, this is all new to me. I had a life, I had friends. I wasn’t lonely.”
“Si, me either.” Ms. Zapata said. She picked up a handful of chopped onions with her hand and knife. Carefully she slid them all into the pot with the chicken.
“I can’t believe what they said. My dad would never,” she started but stopped. She didn’t want to get into the details of it all. Her father told her not to talk to anyone about it, but that only added to the pressure. “I don’t feel like I can trust anyone.”
“Chu can’t,” she said immediately as she pulled out some type of pepper from the grocery bag and started to chop. Maia had no idea what they were cooking.
Maia blinked as her words registered. Then she chuckled. While Ms. Zapata acted bluntly, she wasn’t wrong.
“I feel like I can trust you,” Maia admitted, although she questioned her conviction. She didn’t really know the woman at all.
“Not according to my niños,” Ms. Zapata said. “They might be right too, but I don’t trust their opinion.”
Neither said anything. Maia didn’t know what to say. Ms. Zapata continued to chop peppers and vegetables. After plopping the last handful into the pot, she finally broke the silence.
“You know nothing about loneliness yet. Take from me.”
“But you told me not to trust you,” Maia said with a smile.
“Is true. You trust me because I know lonely. I left my entire country behind. For a man. I spoke no English when I move here. I had no friends. They didn’t have that FaceTalk thing. I could not call home. It cost money I didn’t have.”
Maia listened to her words. She had never considered Ms. Zapata’s story. Ms. Zapata had always just been the crazy Spanish lady down the hall. Maia hadn’t thought anything about how she had gotten there.
“I’m so sorry,” Maia whispered. Suddenly, all her issues felt petty.
“Is okay,” Ms. Zapata said. “I continue on. I made a life,” she flashed a smile for a moment before her eyes blinked away some pain.
“I saw your pictures,” Maia said. She smiled and looked back towards the living room.
“Ah,” Ms. Zapata said. “Just memories now.” She took the spoon from Maia and pushed her over to the side a little more. “We cook now. Watch. I will teach you.”
Maia smiled, and her eyes turned towards the pot. She watched throughout the entire preparation. She had no idea what they were making. It was a dish she had never heard about before. Each step added a lightness to her and her smile, although she knew each step brought her closer to the end.
Ms. Zapata clapped her hands together, dusting off all the spices. “Must cook, one hour.”
“Oh,” Maia said. Her eyes opened wide as she thought about the hallway and how her parents wouldn’t return home for another few hours. She hugged herself as she tried to prepare for her isolation.
Now that the cooking was done, she had no real reason to stay in Ms. Zapata’s apartment. She smiled at the pot of food. Everything felt frozen in place, and if she left, the loneliness might storm its way back through her.
“You wait conmigo. You fix my phone, I tell you stories of my country,” Ms. Zapata said as she hobbled toward the living room.
“What’s wrong with your phone?” Maia asked, but Ms. Zapata continued down the hall.
Maia eased the grip on her arms. She took in a deep breath of the aromatic air. She looked at the pot and smiled.
“That sounds amazing,” she said, as she followed her new friend into the sitting area.
Further Reading
If you enjoyed this, please take a moment to explore my other fiction at my Fiction Hub, a library of all fiction I’ve written. Also, make sure to share it with a friend.
If you want to read more warming stories like this one, I might suggest checking out Offline, the story of a father and son bonding together through a game of make-believe. There’s also, The Sign, a short story about a father missing all the signs that his son loves him.
Also, let me know what you thought about this story. Would you like to see more from Maia’s world in a larger novle?
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