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Daria Lavelle Biography

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“They sat there, the air like ice, Everleigh's Ayane wig When I'm older, I'm gonna dye it purple for real!) and Maura's Super Mario mask (I can't breathe in this thing!) cast aside, eating ever one of their collective peanut butter cups. It felt indulgent. Fun. They licked the chocolate from their fingertips. They threw the paper cups across the floor. They feasted. And then there was just one package left, a full-sized score, two final cups inside. They lifted them, and then, as if they were older, an age Everleigh would never live to see, they clinked them together like glasses of champagne, dinging the chocolate, a toast to themselves. "Let's do this every year," Everleigh declared. "I'm in," Maura agreed, mouth full. "I mean it! Promise. As long as one of us wants to go." "Of course we will. Always." It was the happiest they'd ever been.”

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“For now, Cal detailed Kostya's left arm with an undead cornucopia--- flowering skulls surrounded by fruit and grains and veggies, their eye sockets and mouths and nose holes all blooming with herbs--- rosemary and thyme, Thai basil and cilantro. The bones were nestled among other culinary delights--- fruits de mer, oyster shells and curling pink shrimp, crab legs and lobster claws, cuts of meat, steaks and chops and poultry, dumplings and noodles, pastry and bread; and tools of the trade--- knives and forks and spoons, spatulas, cleavers, balloon whisks, kitchen twine. The detail was otherworldly, each element real enough to touch, and, surrounding it all, the frothy flow of rich, dark wine--- Cabernet, Petit Verdot--- cascading down from an upended glass on his shoulder, dripping along the entire length of his arm.”

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“Charlie picked up his Spectral Sour, and tipped its cherry back into his mouth. He chewed. Tasted. Licked his lip. And Anna blipped back into existence, her face streaked with phosphorescent tears, like someone had broken a glow stick. She looked surprised to be there. "Charlie?" she whispered. "How did you know?" he asked, voice reverberating with pain. "How'd you know I was really going to do it? I didn't even know." "I know you like a book, babe." "You always did." He nodded, sniffing. "Guess it's time for a new chapter." They gazed at one another with the electric intensity of an imminent goodbye. "Have an incredible life, Charlie. And when you're done, find me in the next one, okay?" She pressed her radiant mouth to his, fighting all the boundaries between them, time and space and life and death, to try to make him feel her there, the ghost of their love story, its arc complete.”

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“A memory that costs you something," he said aloud, almost to himself. "One that hurts to remember. That makes you regret what you did or didn't do. Or makes you remember how happy you used to be when they were here. Something that makes you really feel your grief." Those were the memories that summoned the ghosts: the ones that came at a price, that took a little something from the person remembering. These were emotions complex as flavors, sweet articulated by bitter, acid cutting through umami, fat neutralizing heat.”

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“Framed by the threshold, she was like one of Mucha's Seasons: the tingle of Winter, the seduction of Spring, the kiss of Fall, the warmth of Summer. She shrugged out of her coat, her violet hair spreading like ink across her loose white tee. Her lips were so red, stained like cherries, the tart kind that grew by his father's childhood home. Vishnya--- the word came back to him, his dad handing him a newsprint pouch, soft fruit inside. He almost dropped the kitchen towel.”

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“Every time I try to process her death, it only makes it worse. Grief's like leftovers that way. Like you made this four-course meal out of your love, but they only got to eat one little bite. So now you're stuck with all this food you can't bear to throw away, and all you can do is shove it in the back of the fridge to rot, or make yourself sick trying to binge it on your own." "Or maybe," Kostya said gently, "you could invite someone else to dinner. Someone hungry.”

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“The maze reappeared, in ghostly blue this time, the pellets punctuated by countless miniature foods--- not only fruits but pixelated pizza slices, tiny sushi rolls, petite hamburgers. Ms. Pac-Man faded onto the screen, not in the bottom half, where she usually started, but in the central box, where the ghosts usually did. Instead of her trademark yellow, she appeared blinking, in blue. "She's--- she's one of the ghosts?" Maura took up the controls again. Kostya watched her move through the maze, eating everything in sight. "It's a secret level," Maura told him. "Only available in the 1983 rerelease of the Japanese cabinet. It's called the Hungry Ghost Maze." "So it's a bonus round? The point's just to... get more points?" "The points don't matter in the ghost realm. To clear this level, you have to find the Happy Meal. Hidden in one of these fruits is a portal that gets you back to the real world.”

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“The veil between the Living and the Dead drew me in, guided my spirit, deposited me before the welcoming glow of--- I shit you not--- an In-N-Out Burger. Turns out the Afterlife? Where you go when you die? It's a Food Hall. There were good things to eat in every direction. Spirits strolled the streets with the lazy haze of tourists. They ate crepes in waxed paper; they licked swirls of ice cream. They chewed translucent strips of prosciutto folded inside newsprint cones. My stomach growled at the sights; it moaned at the smells. Garlic crisping in foaming slabs of butter. Crusty bread, still steaming from the oven. Glossy discs of chocolate melting over double boil. In the Hall, it was impossible to think about anything but food. Everywhere I looked, something beckoned. And as I passed a storefront--- a sweetshop, the candy arranged in the window like so many jewels--- the cravings won. Just one bite, I thought, and pulled open the door. Inside, on a marble counter, a black box appeared. Nestled inside were four perfect confections--- a sampler surprise. The aroma was decadent--- thick and bittersweet. I didn't even think before shoving one into my mouth. A gourmet peanut cup. Dark chocolate. Crunchy nut interior. Hard, thick outer shell. A bastardization, but enough to trigger a memory so strong I nearly dropped the box. Reese's. Everleigh. Halloween. The whole reason I was there.”

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“Some salt gets mined out of the ground, every crystal perfect, its flavor so predictable it graces every kitchen. But other salt comes out of marshes, gets harvested by hand, tastes like the journey it took to find you, including the wrong turns. I love you more because of where I've been, and I'd stay Hungry forever if it would make you believe that loving you was never about not feeling empty. It was about the chance to feel this full.”

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“Maura was so still he could barely hear her breathe. He spooned whipped cream into her mouth, a cherry varenyk, another sprinkle of salt. He watched the flavors marry as she chewed, saw that smile, spread across her face. He wanted to kiss her, to taste what she tasted. "There it is," she whispered. Fleur de sel," he said, holding up the little jar. "Flowers of salt." She opened her eyes. "That's beautiful." "You're beautiful. It's just salt." He felt his face burn as soon as he said it. He wasn't good at this part. "And I, apparently, am mostly cheese." "I like cheese.”

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“It wasn't lost on him, the poetry, the symmetry of this last bite. Everything had begun with a taste of liver. Now it would end with one. Kostya reached inside himself, to the place in his gut that felt inevitable, an entry point, its emptiness like a door. He reached for his dad. For Frankie. For the other side. He could almost feel the hands of the Dead reaching out for him in turn. He placed the pufferfish liver onto his tongue. Wet, cold, slippery with blood. Toxic, exotic, a once-in-a-lifetime taste. He chewed hard, fast, before he lost his nerve. Fatty, mineral, metallic, cream. Bitter, in the back of his throat. Tears streamed down his face. Liquid fear. Like salt, he told Maura, instead of goodbye, and swallowed.”

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“When he finally saw her, every other person in that plaza seemed to vanish, his gaze tunneling toward her, the way she looked getting out of the cab, pulling a stray strand of violet hair away from her face, crossing the sidewalk in this unbelievable dress. Having no idea how beautiful she looked. She started up the ivory stairs--- layers of pale lavender tulle floating around her, a long skirt she had gathered in front--- like a living confection, a cotton candy dream.”

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“He knew immediately what he should cook for Maura, the journey he would take her on. They could make them together--- varenyky. Thin-skinned dumplings bursting with lightly sugared sour cherries, their warm, dark juice flooding your mouth. Or the cheese kind--- soft, sweet kernels of curd luxuriating in a pool of liquid butter. The meat ones, his dad's take on pelmeni, beef and pork and black pepper and onion, boiled first and then pan-fried, brown and crispy, doused in a poultice of white vinegar and sinus-clearing Russian mustard and thick sour cream. Hell, he'd cook all three.”

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“I'm Ukrainian, actually. And I'm making my signature dish," he said slowly, meeting Ibáñez's stare. "More shocking than Rocky Mountain oysters." He nodded to Volière. "Rarer than ortolan. Maybe just as taboo, though." He turned to Katsuki. "And it does more than just dance around death. It reverses it." There was silence in the kitchen as they waited for the punch line, anxious to learn if the things they'd heard through the grapevine were true. "Well?" Volière prompted. "Qu'est-ce que c'est?" "I don't know." Kostya shrugged. "The Dead haven't fed it to me yet.”

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“When his spirited guests showed up, he'd be their gracious host, their fearless leader. Their P.T. Barnum, full coat and tails and freaky pyrotechnics. Their Virgil, a voice of calm as they navigated the unknowable. Their Pac-Man, drawing them stealthily out of the maze with delicious fruits and no whammies. He'd be the maker of their dreams, the miner of their memories, the mouthpiece for their taste buds and tongues and every gut feeling. Their Chef d'Esprit.”

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“Sweet, tart, tangy soup. Slim strips of boiled cabbage. Carrot. Potato. Cubed and stewed. A single chunk of beef chuck, boiled so long it dissolved in the broth. Beet, cubed and blanched till its color faded to pink and dyed everything else in the pot maroon. Something zesty, below and above--- tomato paste? Pizza sauce? Oh, gross--- ketchup (?!!!) and a swirl of (blasphemy!) Miracle Whip. Borscht. With unorthodox trimmings. "Who puts ketchup in borscht?" Kostya wondered aloud. "Or Miracle Whip?" The petite brunette gasped. "Babushka Fira! But how did you---" she began, though Kostya wasn't listening. The kitchen seemed to go dim, everything muted but Viktor's face across the island, stunned surprise registered in his raised brows, a smirk. "Now we're in business," Kostya said.”

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“Salt reminds her. She tastes it in everything, minuscule pyramids of Maldon, coarse grains of Kosher, perfect pink granules of Himalayan Sea, black flecks of Kala Namak, plain old crystals of iodized Morton's, the little yellow salt girl on the label. Her favorite is always fleur de sel, its delicate flakes like petals, and as they melt across her tongue she can feel him, their bond unbroken even in death, and in her mouth he lives again, is right there, his aftertaste. He isn't here, she knows. But he's not gone.”

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“I'm the one with the magic tongue. The one who's been tasting the Dead for twenty years. And it was me--- not you--- that brought one of them back. What've you ever done, Spiritual Artist? Burned some incense? Shuffled some cards? Made a snap judgment about someone and used it to give them bad advice?" Maura glared at him for a deafening moment, something hot simmering behind her eyes. "You have no idea the things I've done." "Try me." "Hard pass." She gave a small, mean smirk. "Fine. Whatever." He slid his chair back, stood up. "But if it'd been me," she added, "tasting those spirits? I sure as hell wouldn't wait twenty years to do something about it." "That's not fair." "No? You just said you didn't try anything till last week. And the result got you so spooked you're, what, consulting a party psychic? Well. You already got my advice, so here's a snap judgment. You're a coward, Konstantin. Afraid of your own potential. More interested in self-preservation than making any sort of meaningful connection. You're paralyzed by--- oh, I dunno?--- something in your past? Death of a loved one? Am I warm? Yeah. And now you think this ghost thing makes you special. That messing with the Afterlife can somehow undo all those shitty years you've chosen to have instead of just moving on. But it won't. It'll only make it worse. So you need to just stop.”

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“You used me. Seduced me. Fucked me to get what you wanted. All these months, you made me think--- God, I'm such an idiot!--- you had me believing you actually loved me! And now you claim some shit went down with ghosts and a veil and you're blaming me for it? And--- and Frankie? Who's dead, by the way, so I'm not exactly sure how he figures. That about sum it up?" "That's not fair." She felt like she was falling. "Something did go down. I saw them. I do love you." "Bullshit." He stood up, everything itching inside, that sick sensation like he was about to hurl. "You love not being Hungry. You love yourself. You love that you can hitch a ride to the Afterlife whenever you feel like taking off my pants." "No! Konstantin, that isn't--- that might be how it started, but it isn't how it stayed! I fell for you. It would have been so much easier if I hadn't." "Glad we're just doing what's easy now." He walked around the station, angry-clearing plates. The glasses of champagne. He needed to move. To keep busy. To not look at her. Maura steadied herself on the edge of the counter, the steel a block of ice beneath her grip. "It wasn't easy. Any of it. I'd give anything to take it back." It was hard to breathe; she couldn't get enough air. "The Hunger... it took so much from me---" Konstantin slapped a wet kitchen towel down, the sound so loud it made her jump. "Yeah? As much as tasting the Dead for a couple decades? Or thinking you're insane every time some mystery flavor appeared? And let's not even talk about my assorted paranoias and trust issues. But hey, you're the only one who's ever suffered, right? At least you know what you did to deserve it. My mouth just happened to be me.”

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“I love you, Konstantin. I love you like salt. And I'm going to fix this." Salt. More than salt. Morton's. Himalayan. Sweat. Blood. Capers. Roe. Maura. So much more than salt. Something shakes loose inside of him. An instinct to feed her. He only has one memory left, enough for a single ingredient. Something salty--- he was salty in it--- all attitude. But with an undertone of regret, a dash of guilt. A longing for affection. He recalls it--- the kitchen, the refrigerator door, the way the cold air felt along his skin--- lets it travel along his tongue--- his father and that awful tie, the kids and all of their unkindness, his own fear and shame and loneliness--- rolls it like a marble inside his mouth--- the anger that exploded from his chest, his dad's defeat, his own terrible regret--- and feels it harden, rough and textured, crystalline, saline, its nooks and crannies and hand-harvested flakes seasoned to taste, flavored by this memory--- the ache for attention, for connection, for love. It's a subtle salt. Delicate. Fleur de sel.”

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“When you get to the Food Hall, you eat and you drink. You're starving by the time you arrive, so you pretty much stuff your face with everything. Pomegranate pips. Mushroom caps. Blood-red wine. Soda pop. Cinnabuns. Spicy Girl rolls. This thing you had once on vacation with your parents, at a bed-and-breakfast that hasn't been there for a decade. This other thing you couldn't have eaten while you were alive, even if you wanted to, because the restaurant that makes it won't open for years. That's the cool thing about the Food Hall. It serves, like, everything. Anything. Whatever you want. Whatever you feel. It's full of coffee shops and grocery stores and restaurants. There's bodegas and clam bakes and a whole island of cheese. Imagined places to hit up for imaginary meals. Carbon copies of your favorites from the Living world. It's endless. All-you-can-eat. Edible Eden, basically. And it's all there to feed you because that's the whole reason the Food Hall exists--- to nourish the spirits of the Afterlife. To help us get full so we can move On to our next lives.”

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