Life, on the Line by Grant Achatz (leveled readers .TXT) 📗

They had, of course, warned me about all of this, but I had put it out of my mind. The surgery battered my newfound optimism in a way I didn’t expect. I was once again scared of a new set of unknown challenges—and the answer to whether this was all worth doing.

The surgery was set for 7:00 A.M. My alarm went off at 5:20 and I peeked outside to see the car service I had arranged already waiting outside. As I got dressed, Heather wished me luck, then hugged me forcefully and wouldn’t let go. She was scared too. I jokingly told her that it was unlikely I would die on the operating table after surviving the rest of it. The irony would be too great. I tucked her back into bed and walked outside.

Al, the driver who had taken me to some treatments when I couldn’t drive myself, was familiar with the details of my story and had witnessed firsthand my physical decline. “This is it, Al,” I said as I slid into the backseat. “They’re going to cut me open, pull half of my neck out, and figure out if they cured me.” He was typically a chatty guy, but this statement silenced him for the entire ride to the hospital. As we got off Lake Shore Drive he finally spoke.

“You’re going to be all right, Grant. Since the first time I met you I could sense something different. You are a lucky guy, oddly enough. It isn’t your time.”

With these words I picked my head up and our eyes met in the rearview mirror for a second. I pursed my lips and nodded, hoping Al was clairvoyant.

Dr. Klock, the anesthesiologist who I was reluctantly getting to know, briefed me on the drugs he was going to give me and confirmed that I had no known allergies. We passed the time waiting for Dr. Blair by chatting about his experiences dining at Alinea with his brother, who was a chef. “Good to know he liked it,” I thought.

The curtain flew open and a smiling Dr. Blair walked over and held my hand. “Okay, kiddo, you ready for this? Before you know it you’ll be on a beach in St. Barts.” They each grabbed a side of the gurney and wheeled me to the OR.

“Count backward from ten,” I heard Dr. Klock say, and I was out.

I felt some rustling of the covers over me and I started to dream that my boys were jumping on me while I was in bed. Slowly the noises became clearer and I could make out adult voices.

“Grant? Are you awake? Can you open your eyes?”

The room at first seemed black and white and full of moving shadows, but it slowly became clearer and colors began to appear. Dr. Blair’s voice registered, and as my eyes flickered open I remembered where I was and why I was there. “Can you speak to me?” she asked once my eyes opened.

“How did it go?” I tried to say, but the words wouldn’t form. She knew what I was asking.

She leaned over me while grasping my hand and whispered into my ear, “It’s clean. It looks good, Chef.”

I went into the recovery room and Grant was awake. I was shocked that the skinny guy who was wheeled into surgery suddenly looked like he had gained thirty pounds. He was swollen, bloodied, and had a tube hanging out of the back of his head. But he was aware. And the ordeal was over. He headed home the next morning.

Three days later I walked into the Alinea kitchen to see Grant standing at his station with the tube still hanging out of his head. I was fairly shocked to see him, though not surprised. “Hey, Skeletor,” I said, grabbing his elbow while he worked, “you think the health department thinks it’s a good idea to be working with a head drain in?”

He smiled at me as best he could. I stood at the end of the kitchen and noticed that Pikus was smiling for the first time in a month and the rest of the crew was working vigorously.

When I came back to the restaurant at 10:30 that night I knew Grant would still be there, working. I drove back just to make sure he left. I knew no one else would tell him to go get some sleep. As I walked up to him he looked up at me and raised his eyebrow. “I’m leaving in five minutes,” he garbled.

“Good. Welcome home.”

I didn’t attend the James Beard Awards. I was emotionally spent and couldn’t imagine sitting there hoping Grant would win Best Chef in America. Once he did, the usual press hit, but I was not expecting to see any more news about Grant’s ordeal or subsequent honor in the local papers nearly a week later. I woke up, made coffee, and out of habit opened to the editorial section of the Chicago Tribune. There it was—the top editorial of the day: “The Taste of Triumph,” along with a color picture of a pleased Grant.

I read the piece, smiled, and put down the paper. It felt like closure, the whole of it. The Beard Award for Outstanding Chef was great, but now this summed it all up.

I called Grant. I knew he would still be sleeping, but this was cool. In my mind, this was the best article about Alinea or Grant ever written.

“Hey.”

“Sorry to wake you. I assume you haven’t heard about the Trib yet?”

“No. I am, as you might imagine, sleeping.”

“Well, you’re the top editorial—a wonderful piece. Can I read it to you?”

“Sure,” he said half asleep.

I put the phone on speaker and read aloud:

The Taste of Triumph.

The ¶ has long been used by editors and English teachers to mark the start of a new paragraph. Called an alinea, the symbol connotes a break from the previous chain of thought—a new chapter.

Alinea is