A Chocolate Covered Zoloft: An Angry Novel, with Recipes

By Denise Gwen

What's a girl to do when there's nothing to lose? Hannah Shoemaker is thirty-eight, unemployed, and madder than hell. She's been fired from her reporter job at Cincy Beat. She finds a job at the local coffee shop. After a stressful day, she loses it in front of a guy she's crushing on, and he tells her she'd better start seeing a therapist, before he starts dating her . . .

• Language: English
• Publisher: Denise Gwen
• Release date: Jul 4, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005352394

Denise Gwen

Denise Gwen writes!!!

Book preview

1

H annah, Stephanie called out, I need a large-soy-three-Stevia-one-hundred-eighty-degrees-no-foam latté.

One large-soy-three-Stevia-one-hundred-eighty-degrees-no-foam-latté, I repeated back to her, punching the buttons to steam the espresso beans, then yanking open the door to the mini-fridge below me and grabbing the container of soy milk.

Hannah? Is that you?

I set the container of soy milk onto the counter beside me, glanced over at my customer, then did a double-take as a flash of shame engulfed me. Oh, hi Maggie. How are you?

Maggie arched her perfectly groomed eyebrows. I’m fine, Hannah. Just sent some copy in under deadline and thought I’d treat myself to some Coffee Bean.

Oh, that’s great, isn’t it? I popped open the spout and poured a measure of soy milk into the small metal carafe and pushed it up under the nozzle for steaming.

Hm? Maggie asked.

Making, your deadline, I mean.

Oh, yeah, I know, Maggie said, and as she launched into one of her typical streams-of-consciousness nonsensical bullshit prattlings, I focused on the fizzing and bubbling milk under the jet.

"Yeah, ever since you left—well, anyway, I guess you didn’t exactly leave, did you, not of your own accord, I mean, yeah, sorry, I’ve got a way of just talking and talking, without really thinking—but anyway, I’ve taken over part of your beat and Angel Burroughs got the other half, and well, I just gotta say, we’ve been swamped and all, not that I’m complaining, you know, but we’re just kind of rushing to get things in under the wire, you know?"

Yeah, I know.

Or, rather, I used to know.

With half an eye on the temperature gauge—apparently, the excessively obsessive-compulsive Maggie Burns wanted her soy milk at one-hundred-and-eighty-degrees-let’s-talk-about-major-scorch-time—and half my attention focused on Maggie, my body slowly turned numb, all over again. It hurt; it just plain hurt, to hear from my old life. It embarrassed me and it humiliated me, and it was always there.

And then I had to hurry back to OTR—

OTR? I asked.

"Um, yeah, well, you know, Over-the-Rhine has gotten so gentrified and cool and low-down, you know, everyone’s just started calling it OTR these days, and I was covering the Second Sunday on Main series, and there were so many more artists displaying their wares—so many more than the last time—that it took me all afternoon to cover it, and I got so hot and uncomfortable, and the sun was simply killing me and roasting my skin, thank God I had on a long-sleeved skirt suit, but my God, was it ever hot."

Oh, uh, huh, I said, not paying attention, and making the appropriate sounds to let Maggie know that I agreed completely with her. Yeah, it must be a real drag to wander around Main Street on a sunny Sunday in April, talking to artists about their work. Talk about torture. Oh, it was just the worst. As I dimly recalled, that’d been one part of my job—the job I used to have—that I’d loved the best.

There’re lots of new artists, by the way, you should see some of the amazing things that are coming out—

The shot glasses were filling up nicely. When Stephanie trained me, she regaled me with stories of how hard it’d been, back in the dark ages, when the Baristas had to measure out the espresso by hand, then tamp it down just so, to get the right density of espresso, and how, after they invented this new machine, it came with the ability to simply dribble out the proper measure of espresso, the black, rich beans dripping into the shot glasses one drip at a time. It saved a Barista so much time.

No longer did a Barista dump the old grounds out of the measuring cup every time she made espresso by refilling the coffee scoop. We newly minted Baristas had it so much better, Stephanie went to great pains to remind me, and yeah, oh sure, the grounds in the machine had to be cleaned out periodically, but this new technology made it so much easier to fix espresso drinks for customers, I simply had no idea how good I had it, but of course, Stephanie reminded me so often how lucky I was, that pretty soon I got into the habit of telling her how lucky I was to have this awesome technology, because it made it so much easier to chuck out espresso drinks by the hundreds for all those thirsty customers out there who absolutely had to have their fucking espresso drinks that fucking second.

Back in the day, of course, I used to be one of those asshole customers who had to have her drink prepared a certain fucking way or else the world as I knew it would come to a shattering end. Used to get pretty god-damned pissy about it, too, behaving as if the planets had collided and life was coming to a shrieking halt, and all because some clueless Barista forgot to put three Splendas in my drink and only put two, or put fat-free vanilla syrup into my cup when I wanted vanilla syrup instead.

Now Angel, she kind of prefers the art scene on Fourth Street—

How soon can I get rid of this crazy chick?

The temperature gauge increased steadily as I watched, reading ninety degrees, then ninety-five, then a hundred, then one-hundred-ten, one-twenty, one twenty-five, one-thirty-five—oh, for fuck’s sake, come on—then up to one-fifty-five, then one-sixty, then, oh, praise the dear Lord above, thank goodness and pass the ammunition, the fucking temperature finally hovered at one-hundred-eighty-five-degrees.

Which meant I’d steamed the milk hot enough to singe the porcelain-white skin off Maggie’s exquisitely made-up face, and boy, would that be a mess of blood and gore and burning flesh, followed by a criminal indictment—I’m sure it’d be treated as a felony, I’m almost certain Joe Deters would hold a press conference and tell the world what a rotten fucking bitch I was—followed by jail, followed by, maybe, if I was lucky, a stint in prison.

I was willing to do just about anything to get out of my miserable fucking life.

I set the carafe of obscenely hot soy milk onto the counter, reached for three packets of Stevia, ripped them open, dropped the contents into a Large cup, dolloped in the crèma—the fancy, artsy-fartsy word for espresso—and poured in the boiling hot soy milk, spooning off the foamy cap because Maggie wanted no foam, then pushed the lid down on the cup and slapped it up onto the counter. One Large-soy-three-Stevia-one-hundred-eighty-degrees-no-foam-latté for Maggie.

What? Oh, wow, you mean you’re finished already? Oh, wow, that’s great, oh, that’s so great, Maggie jabbered as she reached for her drink.

It’s hot, I warned her.

Oh, yeah, right, wow, she said, grinning broadly. She sipped. Wow, Hannah, that’s the best latté I’ve ever tasted.

I smiled.

A Master’s Degree in journalism . . . utterly wasted.

Now, I dispense drinks at my local Coffee Bean. At one time in my idle youth, I’d vainly entertained the dream of winning the Pulitzer, but hey, a compliment is still a compliment.

Thanks, Maggie.

"No, I mean it. Honest to Gosh, Hannah. This is the best I’ve ever tasted."

It’s okay, Maggie. You can quit compensating.

Maggie gazed at me, her blue eyes swimming. You know, we really do miss you.

Ah, fuck me.

Fought back the lump in my throat. That’s awfully nice of you to say that, Maggie, but I don’t think everybody at the office would agree with you.

No, I suppose not. But then, I’ve always liked you.

Well, I said, looking away.

Anyway, Maggie said with a wistful smile.

Yeah, it was nice seeing you too, Maggie.

I looked out through the front plate-glass window and saw a sleek black BMW pull up into the handicapped stall in front of the store. Out hopped an able-bodied chick with platinum blonde hair and with a gigantic Prada handbag dangling from the crook of her anorexic arm. She stalked into the store on stilettos and saw someone she recognized, a brunette standing at the front counter with a line of people behind her. Helen, she screeched.

The brunette whirled around. Roberta.

Roberta sashayed up to the counter and sidled in beside her friend. She turned around and flashed a false smile at the woman standing in line behind her, and whose place she had just cut. "You don’t mind, do you?"

With an equally false smile, and in a high, clear voice, the woman said, No, of course I don’t mind, you silly cunt.

Oh, me oh my. My long-lost sister by a different mister.

Everyone froze.

Helen’s face went thin with anger. "What did you just say to my friend?"

As well as being rude, are you also deaf? the woman asked coolly.

I can hear perfectly well, Helen said. What I can’t believe is that a lady would use such language. I expect an apology for my friend, here.

"If you’re going to behave like a pair of dumb-assed high-school girls, then expect to be treated like a pair of dumb-assed, high-school girls. The woman jerked her head at the parking lot. And that’s a handicapped parking space, you moron.

But I— Roberta sputtered, and the woman waved her off.

Obviously, you’re the most handicapped person I’ve ever met, at least from the shoulders up. So, well done, you stupid cow. You win the prize, imbecile of the day.

Stephanie, her face pink from tension, cleared her throat. What’ll you have?

Roberta, her face flaming, said, I’ll have a Large Chai tea, please. She nudged her friend. What are you having, Helen?

Helen stared at the woman in line behind her, a look of fury in her eyes.

Come on, a man behind them said. Lady, you let your friend cut, the least you can do is get on with your order.

Stephanie glanced at me. I shook my head with sympathy. Maggie, who’d stopped talking, watched the scene with rapt attention. Dear God.

Helen turned back around to face Stephanie, and, with her chin held high, said, I’ll have a Medium-skim-two-equal-cappuccino.

Hannah, Stephanie called out in an overly perky voice, make a Large Chai tea for me, and a Medium-skim-two-equal cappuccino.

I plunged into the drink order. The now-infamous-duo paid for their drinks and walked over to stand at the pick-up counter.

Everyone got quiet.

Maggie wandered over to a bulletin board, pretending to study a poster for the Cincinnati Shakespeare Company’s latest production of Twelfth Night.

The woman who’d used the See-You-Next-Tuesday word—snaps to her for calling out the blonde, but wow, was that an explosive thing to say—paid for her drink and approached the pick-up stand where Roberta and Helen stood, waiting for me to finish their drinks, and I broke a sweat trying to get their drinks done before the See-You-Next-Tuesday lady reached them, but it was a close thing, and I got them finished just in time and slapped them up. One Large-Chai tea and one Medium-skim-two-equal-Cappuccino.

Thanks, the blonde said, grabbing both drinks and flouncing off to a table overlooking the parking lot where the offending BMW continued to sit there, parked illegally. Her brunette friend drifted after her, casting malevolent looks over her shoulder.

The See-You-Next-Tuesday customer approached the pick-up stand warily as I drizzled chocolate sauce over the foam and secured the lid. One small hot chocolate, I announced, slapping the drink up.

Thanks, she said.

Something in her voice.

I looked up sharply and noticed the tears brimming in her eyes. She smiled ruefully at me as she brushed the tears off her cheeks. "Do you ever find yourself having one of those kinds of days?"

Where nothing goes right, I said. And everything you do gets ruined, no matter how hard you try?

Yes, I think you know what I’m talking about. You have those kinds of days too, don’t you?

Yes, I do. All the time.

She shrugged. Yeah, well. In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m having one of those kinds of days today.

I hope it gets better, I said, meaning it.

The next thing she said knocked me to the floor.

I just left the funeral home. Finished making arrangements for my mother’s funeral.

Oh, I said.

What does one say to something like that?

Have a nice day? No, that doesn’t quite cut it, does it?

Instead of saying anything—which might’ve turned out badly, there’s nothing I could’ve said that would’ve sounded right—I focused instead on maintaining eye contact with this lady, who needed to unburden herself of something she’d been carrying around inside her all day long, and which had just erupted from her mouth like toxic sludge from a cracked nuclear reactor. What she’d said had been ugly and mean and vicious . . . and just plain unladylike.

Ladies didn’t talk like that.

Nice ladies didn’t talk that way.

But this one just did.

I smiled as kindly as I could, hoping my smile might brighten her rotten day; for this lady, who’d just left a funeral home after arranging her mother’s funeral, and who happened to enjoy the rare privilege of running into a pair of twittering twits, and for perhaps the first—and only—time in her life, she’d let the offending parties know exactly what she thought of them.

Wow.

It ain’t too often that a woman rips the ladylike mask off her face and lets the animal inside her roar, but when it does happen, it helps to pay attention, because when a woman speaks honestly, it’s refreshing—and kind of liberating, too—albeit in a scary-Jesus-I-didn’t-know-you-had-it-in-you-to-talk-like-a-serial killer.

She placed her hands on the counter and rested her head, then looked up at me with tears in her eyes. The last few months . . . have been hard.

I wanted to say so much to her.

And, she added, I can’t begin to tell you the number of times someone has parked in the handicapped stall, and when they see me, with my mother in her wheelchair, oh, suddenly, they’re so contrite, so sorry.

Yeah, I said. I know what you mean.

Oh? she asked.

Yeah, my mom . . .

She waited a moment, perhaps wanting to talk some more, but I couldn’t say another word, and yet, I wanted to tell her how much I understood what she was going through.

I buried my mother too, four years ago, and sometimes the loss of her feels like it happened only yesterday.

I wanted to tell her it gets better, that she’ll feel better.

I wanted to tell her I loved her and thought she was a wonderful human being, but instead of saying any of these things, I said, Have a nice day.

God, am I ever a fucking moron.

Thanks, honey. She grabbed her drink, turned on her heel, and marched out of the store, with Roberta and Helen shooting venomous looks in her direction.

Yep. Just like in High School, the only difference being, the mean girls have nicer toys.

2

Clocked out at one o’clock. Drove home. Quick shower. Walked back into my bedroom, running my fingers through my damp hair, then made my bed. I’d been brought up to make my bed every morning, no matter what, and I’d been in too big a rush at four this morning, but I wanted to make up for it now. Draped the coverlet just so up against the pillows, then folded the bed sheet over the coverlet so the pattern of little pink Holly Hobbies dancing across the border was visible.

I straightened up, put my hands on my hips, and surveyed the small world I inhabited; my old bedroom in my parents’ house.

A thirty-eight-year-old-woman living back at home is a pathetic excuse for a human being.

But at least my bed was made, and everything set in its proper place.

Too bad I can’t say the same thing about my life.

Threw on a pair of jeans, an H&M tee-shirt—the tee-shirt bought back when I still had a real career and could afford to shop at H&M whenever I wanted—stepped into a pair of mules and walked downstairs to the kitchen.

Daddy sat, facing me, at his accustomed place at the end of the long butcher-block table, fiddling with his insulin and his needles.

Hey, Daddy, I said, in a voice loud enough and deep enough for him to hear me and walked up to him and laid my hand gently on his right shoulder, wincing at the sensation of bone close to the surface of skin; he’d lost a lot of weight since his last hospital visit, and whenever I touched him, it jarred me anew. With his shoulder bones no longer protected by a layer of muscle and fat, the shock of the sharp contours of his shoulder beneath my fingers reminded me, again and again, how frail he’d become in just the past year.

He glanced up at me from over the rim of his bifocals. Good morning, honey. Did you sleep well?

I didn’t bother correcting him; he had such a hard time remembering my work schedule, it wasn’t worth the aggravation. I’d worked today from five in the morning until one o’clock, and if he thought it was morning, who was I to argue? I’d learned, the hard way, not to remind him of all the things he couldn’t keep track of anymore.

I sure did. You need some help there?

Oh no, no, I’ve already checked my blood sugar. It’s a little high, so I’m getting ready to give myself a shot.

Okay.

I watched, transfixed, as he pulled up his flannel shirt and the wife-beater undershirt below that, revealing his ample belly. He measured out a dosage of insulin into a syringe and gave himself a shot right into his stomach. Didn’t even swab the skin first with a cotton ball doused in alcohol to clean the area. What in the world was happening with my physician father?

Gross.

I couldn’t help it; I shuddered with revulsion.

It’s okay, Hannah. It goes into my bloodstream faster that way.

It’s the first time I’ve ever seen you inject yourself like that, Daddy.

I know. Then, softly, he added, There’s a lot that I haven’t let you see . . . ‘till now.

Again, I fought back a sense of anxiety, a dread feeling that something awful was about to happen. I halfway expected to see a specter standing in the doorway to the dining room, a malevolent shadow of doom.

He dropped the syringe into a plastic trashcan beside the chair and I eased over to the stove.

When I moved back home, I realized I needed to learn some basic cooking skills if I wanted to keep my dad alive and healthy. There hadn’t been the need before, back when I’d been a career gal, working at the newspaper and living in my eclectic fourth-floor walk-up in the Banks area of downtown Cincinnati, with a view of the Paul Brown Stadium and the Ohio River from my living room window. Back then, I’d relied on the Deli on the corner, or the Chinese restaurant down the street, for my sustenance. It got to the point, the woman at the Chinese restaurant recognized my voice when I called and knew, before I even told her, that I wanted the shrimp with lobster sauce and a spring roll for carry-out.

Every eatery, every bar—every place worth visiting within a three-mile radius of the Banks on the Ohio—was on my speed-dial. I’d had a lot more money then, to spend on lovely little meals in takeout containers with silver wires imbedded in the cardboard, and to pop out for a beer or a quick drink with friends after work, elbowing the Reds fans or the Bengals fans out of the way as we huddled together in a banquette booth in the corner, laughing at the lame-assed tourists in their sneakers and their sweatshirts and their fanny packs.

But . . . that was then.

Before I lost my job and had to move back home . . . to the fucking suburbs.

Reached into the fridge and pulled out a carton of eggs. Opened the cupboard and plucked out a small dish with tiny pink roses on it and with a filigree curlicue of yellow roses dancing along the rim.

There.

Just like that.

Something as simple as making a meal for my dad took me straight back to my mother. This had been her favorite china pattern; she’d picked it out at Pogue’s, back in the day, back when there was still such a store as Pogue’s; back in the day when my mother was younger than me, a bride, picking out her bridal registry—that’s how old this china dish was—that I was so cavalierly using to fix my dad’s scrambled eggs.

A momentary brain lapse.

Focus, Hannah.

Roused myself, looked back at Daddy, sitting there beaming at me, cracked two eggs into the dish, held the dish up to my nose, just like I’d seen Hillary doing, and then poured the eggs into a small frying pan and turned up the heat.

I stood at the stove, stirring the eggs gently, when the weight of something heavy and furry pushed against my left shin.

Hey, Leia. ’Bout time you got up old lady, hm?

My ancient calico cat meowed piteously.

Oh, for Pete’s sake. Turned the heat way down on the eggs, walked over to the fridge and pulled out the can of gourmet cat food the vet had recommended, and which cost, to put it mildly, a pretty penny.

This was obviously what Leia wanted, for her meowing increased dramatically as she wound her plump body between my legs, forcing me to fight my way over to the empty cat food bowl. Leia, stop it, you’re tripping me.

Daddy, who’d never cared for cats, and who saw how much effort it was taking me to get to her bowl, helped out by saying, Hey, cat. Hey, cat. Go away. Hey, cat.

I managed to scoop the contents of the can into Leia’s bowl, as Leia, impatient and irritable as ever, nudged her wet little nose into it, sniffing. As I scraped out the last little bit, Leia’s pink tongue lapped greedily at the gooey schmutz.

Just can’t wait, can you? Oh, you’re such a greedy little bitch, I said in a low voice, laughing. You can’t wait one second until I finish getting it into your bowl, can you?

Leia did not disdain an answer, busy as she was, purring and eating.

What’s burning? Daddy asked.

Oh, crap. Hurried back to the stove and stirred the eggs, which were just starting to congeal. Caught them in the nick of time. Poured my pathetic effort onto a china plate, fished a fork out of the silverware drawer, and set the plate and fork down in front of him. Here’s your breakfast, Daddy.

All I did was make the poor man a plateful of boring scrambled eggs, and when he looked up at me with those bright blue eyes of his, warm with love, I couldn’t help it. A lump formed in my throat.

He picked up the fork and looked at the plate. Oh my, now isn’t that nice?

It’s just eggs, Daddy.

This is just fine, honey, this is just fine.

Would you like some coffee, daddy?

Decaf would be nice. And I also need to eat some fruit. He flashed a perky smile. For my bowels, you see.

Oh, okay.

They haven’t been moving lately. I’m afraid I’m constipated.

Yeah, okay.

A bit too much information, Daddy. TMI.

I bustled around the kitchen as he ate. Leia finished inhaling her gourmet cat food and wandered over to the plate-glass window to gaze at the birds. I put some decaf on to brew, then burrowed around in the back of the fridge, searching for fruit. Found a cantaloupe, sliced it in half, scooped out the gooey insides and threw them away and cut the cantaloupe into thin strips, just like the way my mother used to cut them, arranged them on a plate and brought it over to the table.

Don’t eat all the cantaloupe, Daddy, I said with a joking smile. I want some too, you know.

Oh, you know me too well, Hannah, Daddy said, reaching for a slice.

The coffeepot burped, meaning it was ready, so I poured a cup and set it down in front of him, along with a small pitcher of fat-free cream and a china bowl filled with Equal packets. He smiled up at me as if I’d just bestowed upon him a four-star meal.

Fixed myself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich using a special kind of bread I love, from Jungle Jim’s, cranberry nut. Toasted the bread, then spread a generous heaping of peanut butter on one slice, and a generous dollop of orange marmalade on the other, fit the two pieces together, and voila, a masterpiece of perfection, guaranteed to bring me the joyous taste of toasted cranberry bread, peanut butter, and marmalade in every oozy bite.

I once read somewhere that Diana Vreeland, the famous Vogue Magazine editor-in-chief, ate a PB&J every day for lunch in her office, followed by a shot of whiskey. Because Daddy wouldn’t approve of the alcohol, I contented myself by curling up beside him at my usual place, to his right. I sat beside him in the same place where I sat during family meals from back in the day, back when my mother was still alive.

Old habits die hard.

Old people die, too, I’ve noticed.

And, in the case of my mother, not even old people, but people with cancer.

When do you have to be at work today, honey?

Oh, I just got off my shift, Daddy.

He looked confused.

Don’t you remember? I asked gently. I switched to the early morning shift so I can take you out on your errands and doctors’ appointments in the afternoon.

Oh, that’s right, Daddy said, and beamed. Will you take me into town today? I’ve got some errands to run.

I studied his face, searching for signs of the dementia the doctors warned he’d started developing. I didn’t know what to say; he acted as if he didn’t hear me, or if he did hear me, it was like it didn’t register, what I’d just said to him. Didn’t I just tell him I was taking him into town? Was his mind failing him?

I pushed down the wave of uneasiness and smiled. Sure, Daddy.

Tucked him comfortably into the front passenger seat of his S-600 sleek black Mercedes sedan, the last car he bought before Mom died. Despite the warmth of this lovely day in May, Daddy insisted on being bundled up with a large quilt over his knees and a thick coverlet tucked in at his feet. He wore a pair of elastic-waist sweatpants, a long-sleeved flannel shirt, a pair of flannel slippers that Hillary gave him last Christmas, and a Cincinnati Reds baseball cap. He looked like a little gnome man as I slid behind the wheel.

You comfy, Dad?

Yes, Hannah, I am. He patted his coverlet. Your mother bought this coverlet for me.

Yes, Daddy, I know. I chuckled under my breath. But don’t start crying about it, okay?

Oh, Hannah, that was mean. You shouldn’t have said that.

He plucked absently at the coverlet, staring out the window.

I bit my lip, feeling guilty for being mean.

That was something else about Daddy I’d started noticing. For some time now, and I didn’t know if it was part of the dementia, or just because I’d moved back home—he always liked to say how much I reminded him of Mom—but he’d started falling into fits of weeping. Anything, anything at all, sent him into a paroxysm of tears. I was starting to wonder if Hillary wasn’t right; perhaps Daddy really would be happier in a nursing home. At least in a nursing home, he’d be forced to mingle with other seniors, instead of living all alone like a hermit in this enormous house in Indian Hill, with only his home health-care aide and me to keep him company.

I turned