Julia’s Kitchen Read online

  “Excuse me for a minute,” I said, and practically ran to greet Marlee.

  “Ta-da!” she said, handing me the box.

  “Oh, Marlee! Thank you!”

  Mrs. Rosen gave me a kiss and asked, “How’re you doing, sweetie?”

  “Better now,” I said, nodding at the box. “Thanks for bringing it … and Marlee!”

  “Marlee said it’d make your day. I’m so glad.”

  As Marlee and I headed back to the guest room, where we could go through the scrapbook box in private, she told me, “I found the articles in the paper—both of them—about the fire. They were in our recycle bin. Mom wouldn’t let me bring them tonight, but I’m saving them for you.”

  “Did you read them?”

  Marlee nodded.

  “Well?”

  “They didn’t really say anything we don’t already know, but … well … there’s a picture. And, I don’t know, you’ll have to read them. It’s weird. They make it seem so real.”

  Real. Would I ever get used to it?

  I had already made a mental list of everything in the scrapbook box. Besides my newest scrapbook and all the stickers, papers, markers, and scissors, I knew there were two envelopes with photos in there—one from Thanksgiving and Hanukkah, and one from our December vacation to Florida.

  Marlee and I sat on the bed with the box between us. “Well, come on. Open it,” Marlee urged.

  I stared at the box. Then I traced my finger around the top. “It’s just hard to believe this is all there is.”

  “I know,” Marlee said. Then she tilted her head to the side. “But at least you have this.”

  That was true. I snapped off the lid and took in a sharp breath. Right on top were two framed photos—one of Mom relaxing on a raft in the ocean and one of Janie standing proudly next to a sandcastle. Tears instantly filled my eyes and spilled out onto my cheeks.

  Marlee put her arms around me. “Cara, Cara, I’m so sorry! Don’t cry. I thought this would make you happy.”

  I caught my breath and wiped at my tears. “No, it’s okay. I am. I mean, thank you.”

  We sat there together, looking at the pictures, not saying anything for a minute.

  Finally, Marlee said, “There were doubles of these pictures, so I figured it would be okay. My mom helped me frame them.”

  I felt a huge lump in my throat. “I remember this day.” I pointed to the picture of Janie. She was smiling her goofy smile, her tongue squeezing out between her teeth. “Janie and Dad worked on that sandcastle all afternoon. They were so proud of it.

  “And this one,” I said, looking at the picture of Mom. “I remember squishing in with her on the raft right after I took this.”

  “Good memories, huh?”

  “Yeah. Thanks, Mar.” I wiped one last tear from my eye and gave her a hug.

  We looked through my scrapbook. It was a new one, and I’d only filled four pages so far. The picture of my family at the Cubs game reminded me of Sunday morning at Marlee’s. Marlee had written “Go Cubs!” just the way I’d wanted. But now when I looked at the four of us together, the caption seemed wrong. It should have said “Go Segals!”

  I closed the scrapbook and took out the other photographs from the envelopes. There was Mom spreading whipped cream on her pumpkin pie just before I licked the bowl clean. And Janie and Dad putting up the Hanukkah decorations. There was Janie playing in the ocean with Dad. And there was Mom looking at one of my older scrapbooks. I began to see a pattern.

  “Marlee, you know how people have been saying God must have a reason for this that we just don’t understand?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Well, what if that’s true? What if God actually did this for a reason?”

  “No way,” Marlee said, scrunching up her round freckled face. “What reason could there be?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. I got up from the bed and propped the framed photos on the dresser. With my back to Marlee I said, “What if maybe God thought I wasn’t spending enough time alone with my dad? What if he wanted us to be closer?”

  “Cara, what are you talking about?”

  I turned around to face Marlee. “I’m just saying, it was always Mom and me, Dad and Janie. Look at the pictures.”

  Marlee glanced at the photos spread out on the bed. Then she shook her head and looked up at me. “So let me get this straight. You think God started a fire at your house and killed your mom and Janie so that you and your dad could be closer?”

  “Is that crazy?”

  “Of course it’s crazy!” Marlee jumped off the bed and put her hands on my shoulders. She blew her bangs out of her eyes and looked me square in the face. “Cara, the fire was an accident. I don’t know why your mom and Janie died. But I am sure that God didn’t do it on purpose.”

  “But then why? Why did it happen?”

  “I don’t know,” Marlee said, shrugging.

  “Well, maybe there is no God,” I said quietly.

  Marlee squinted at me. “What? Cara! Don’t say that! He might be listening!”

  It was my turn to shrug. “Never mind,” I said. “Forget it.”

  But I was thinking. What if whenever I thought God was watching out for me, I was just having good luck? And now my luck had run out? What if God didn’t exist? That would explain the fire, right? The idea sat in the pit of my stomach like a rock, heavy and hard.

  * * *

  The next day, I was resting in the guest room. Then all of a sudden, I was coming home from school. The sweet smell of rising bread met me before I even got through the front door. Our front door. Our house. Mom was baking challah, the braided bread we ate at Friday night Shabbat dinners. I dropped my coat and backpack by the front door.

  “Hi, hon!” Mom called out. “How was your day?”

  I ran back to the kitchen, breathless. Mom stood there, punching down the dough, wearing the “Julia’s Kitchen” apron Janie and I had made for her birthday. I couldn’t believe it—Mom was alive!

  The kitchen was in perfect order, as always. She smiled at me while I stood dumbfounded, staring at her.

  “You’re just in time to help me braid. Are your hands clean?” Mom took out a knife and began cutting the dough into pieces. I washed my hands, and she passed me a piece of dough.

  I rolled the dough between my palms, making a long snake, all the while staring at Mom.

  “I got three more orders today, Cara. Can you believe that? I’m telling you, this little business of mine is really taking off.” Mom took my snake and handed me a new piece of dough to roll. The late afternoon sun streamed through the window and lit up her face. “You know, I never would have started Julia’s Kitchen if you hadn’t convinced me. I can’t believe people are actually paying me to do what I love.”

  She looked up from the challah and locked eyes with me. I memorized her face. The angle of her chin. The smile lines by her eyes. The freckle on the side of her nose. “What are you looking at?” she asked.

  “Just you.”

  “Come here, sweetie.” Mom took my dough and placed it on the counter. Then she wrapped her arms around me. “I love you, delicious girl.”

  “I love you, too, Mom.”

  And then she disappeared. It was a dream. Tears streamed down my cheeks, soaking the pillow. My head throbbed and my heart ached so much it scared me.

  I was still at Nana and Papa’s. But the smell of challah was so real. I wiped my eyes, then opened the bedroom door and followed the smell into the kitchen. I should have guessed—Bubbe.

  “Well, hello, love.”

  “You’re baking challah?”

  “Tonight’s Shabbat.”

  “But I thought we weren’t allowed to bake during shiva.”

  “Well, maybe so, but I wanted to bake challah, so that’s what I’m doing.”

  I put my face close to the loaves of braided dough. “It smells like Mom. Bubbe, I just dreamed about her. She was making challah, too. She was so … alive.”

 
Bubbe gripped the counter with both hands. Then she let out a long sigh and nodded. She beat an egg and brushed it gently on the braided loaves.

  “Did you teach Mom to make challah?”

  “Mmm-hmm. Like my mom taught me. This recipe has been in our family for generations.”

  I thought of all Mom’s recipes. Just ashes now. I wished Mom had taught me to bake challah. Not just the braiding and the egg wash, but the whole thing. She usually made the dough while I was at school. I had figured she’d teach me when I got older.

  Bubbe read my mind. “I can teach you, Cara. When you’re ready.”

  I looked at Bubbe. Her eyes were oceans.

  I loved Bubbe, but she wasn’t Mom. It wouldn’t be the same. “Maybe someday,” I said. But I didn’t mean it.

  * * *

  Sunday was the last full day of shiva. Roz stopped by in the morning before catching a plane back to L.A. She was wearing a purple pantsuit with a white fur collar and spiky purple boots. I could hardly believe it!

  Before she left, she pressed a piece of paper into my hands. “This is my phone number,” she said, looking directly at me. “I want you to use it. Whenever. I mean it. Don’t worry about the time change or the long-distance charges. Your mother used to call constantly, so your father’s used to the bills. You call me, Cara. Okay?”

  “Okay,” I promised.

  Then she hugged me, and I could smell her shampoo, fresh and clean.

  She hugged my dad goodbye, too, and whispered something to him that I couldn’t hear. They both looked at me, so I knew they were talking about me. I pretended not to notice, but I hoped she’d said, Talk to Cara, David. She really needs you now.

  Most of Sunday afternoon I sat with Justin. I guess my big-sister instincts took over because I felt I had to cheer him up. After all, he was only eight, and his best friend had just died. I imagined how I would feel if Marlee died. Out of habit, I pictured my thought floating up to God, but then I reeled it back in quick as I could, reminding myself that I didn’t believe in that silly superstition anymore.

  While we were sitting at Papa’s card table, playing checkers, Justin told me, “You know, I saw the fire. That morning—I was there.”

  I looked up from the board and saw Justin’s face, filled with fear. I hadn’t thought about it, but Justin lived five houses down from us. Of course he’d seen the fire.

  “The sirens woke me up,” he said. “I know this sounds horrible, Cara, but I thought, Cool, a fire!” Justin said it with his eyes wide and sad, as if he couldn’t believe he’d thought that.

  I just nodded. Then, in a voice so quiet I barely recognized it as my own, I asked, “What did you see?”

  Justin took a deep breath. “I was outside with my parents and all the other neighbors. At first, I didn’t even know it was your house … but then I saw your dad. He was sitting on a stretcher, and he was breathing into a mask. I didn’t see Janie. Or you. Or your mom. And I got really scared. My mom kept saying not to worry. But the flames were so hot, and there was thick black smoke coming out of the windows and even the roof. You wouldn’t believe it.”

  Justin studied the checkerboard. I didn’t know if he had finished talking about the fire or not.

  He moved his red piece. “Your turn,” he said.

  My heart skipped a beat. “Wait a minute. Finish the story. What happened next?”

  Justin shook his head. “Uh-uh.”

  “Come on, Justin. Tell.” I stared hard at him, pleading with my eyes.

  Justin looked around the room, then whispered, “All of a sudden my mom grabbed me and started walking me back to our house.” He leaned in as if he were about to tell me a secret. I leaned in, too. Justin blinked, and tears collected in his big brown eyes. “But I saw. I saw them carry Janie out.”

  “Oh, Justin.”

  “Now I can’t forget it. She was like a rag doll or something.”

  Justin wiped his eyes, and I blinked back my own tears. “Justin, you have to get that picture out of your head. Just erase it and think of Janie playing soccer with you instead. Or basketball. Or anything.”

  “I know. I’m trying.”

  “Maybe I can help,” I said. “Wait here.” I got up and went to my scrapbook box. I found a picture of Janie running on the beach in Florida and brought it back to Justin. “This is Janie. She is not a rag doll. She hated dolls, and you know that. So get it out of your head, okay?”

  Justin looked at the picture, and a smile crept into the corners of his mouth. “Okay,” he said. He held the picture and looked at the checkerboard. “It’s still your move.”

  four

  Shiva finally ended on Monday morning, almost one week after the funeral. We all put on our coats and walked around the block. Zayde explained that it symbolized our return to society. I was glad to feel the cold wind bite at my cheeks, glad to be done with shiva, though I couldn’t imagine what would come next.

  The fire inspector and insurance agent had told Dad our house could be rebuilt, but it would take three to six months because of the extensive repairs needed. The first floor was badly burned, and the second floor had suffered structural damage from the heat of the fire. Mrs. Rosen had arranged for us to rent an apartment while Dad figured out what to do next.

  After lunch, Dad and I got into his car and headed to the new apartment. I didn’t let myself think about the car crashing the way I would have before the fire. I knew God was not listening to my thoughts and worries, protecting me. If Dad’s car were to suddenly swerve on a patch of ice and hit a telephone pole or something, it would be because of the ice, the car, Dad, and the telephone pole. God was not in the picture at all. It was a strange feeling, almost like riding in the car without a seat belt.

  I watched as we left the high-rises and gray slush of the city behind us. When we got closer to our neighborhood I asked, “Can we go by the house?”

  “Why do you want to do that?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know. I want to see it.”

  Dad looked at his watch and sighed. “Okay.”

  He slowed the car as we drove down our street. When our house came into view, I couldn’t believe it. My mouth felt dry and my stomach wobbly. Yellow caution tape fenced the yard. Black smoke stains ran along the brick walls. Wooden boards covered the windows. And teddy bears, flowers, and half-deflated balloons lay in a big pile on the front lawn. I looked at my bedroom window over the garage. I imagined being stuck inside, in the dark, in the smoke. I shuddered.

  I thought Dad would stop the car and we would take some of the bears and things back to the new apartment. But he just looked out the window and shook his head. He slammed his fist on the steering wheel, the way he did sometimes when Janie and I would fight too loudly in the backseat. Then he drove away. I turned around and watched the house get smaller and smaller until it was gone.

  I held back my tears. I concentrated on breathing. I looked out the window and counted the naked trees until we got to the apartment.

  “So what do you think?” Dad asked, opening the door to Apartment 9, Janie’s favorite number.

  “It’s okay, I guess.” I looked around and noticed furniture in all the rooms. People had been donating all kinds of things to us since the fire, but I couldn’t believe they would give us furniture. “Where did all this stuff come from anyway?”

  “The apartment comes this way. It’s furnished.”

  “So none of this belongs to us?”

  “Well, no. We’re renting the apartment and all the things inside of it. Look over here,” Dad said, walking to the window in the living room. “See.” He pointed. “There’s downtown Walden. And there’s your school. You won’t have to take the bus anymore. You can walk or ride your bike.”

  “I don’t have a bike anymore,” I said, thinking of my red mountain bike, probably melted in our garage.

  Dad looked at me. “Your bike is fine, Cara.”

  “It is?”

  “Yes. It’s in storage. When I went to th
e house with the fire inspector, he helped me box up and store whatever could be saved before they boarded up the house.”

  “Really? There’s more than just my socks and underwear?”

  “Yes, but not much. I’ll get everything out of storage soon. But tomorrow I’m going back to work, and you’re going back to school.”

  School? How could I do something as normal as going to school?

  “Do I have to go tomorrow?”

  Dad leaned against the gray wall and closed the window blinds, blocking out the bit of sunshine that had crept into the apartment. “Yes, Cara. Everyone says the sooner we get back to our normal routine, the easier it will be.”

  “But, Dad…”

  He rubbed his temples. “Listen, Cara, I don’t want to argue. I don’t have the energy to argue. You’re going back to school tomorrow, and I’m going back to work. Case closed.”

  He looked at me with his tired eyes, and I knew it was pointless to try to explain that I really needed to spend time with him without a million other people. That I was afraid to face everyone and everything at school. That without Mom and Janie, my routine would never be normal again.

  “Fine,” I mumbled, looking at the gray, worn carpet.

  “I’m going to take a shower,” Dad said. “Why don’t you unpack your bedroom? Bubbe and Zayde are planning to stop by before they head to the airport.”

  From my bedroom window, I could see the building’s swimming pool, covered for the winter. Would we be here in the summer? This place felt like a hotel to me. Not a home. I started to unpack my stuff. Maybe that would help. I put the two framed pictures Marlee had given me on the dresser. I put my scrapbook and supply box next to them. I put my clothes—the ones I’d worn to Marlee’s, the ones I had packed for the sleepover, and my rescued socks and underwear—in the top drawer. That was it. That was all my old stuff. Everything else was either new, handed down by the Rosens, or donated by the synagogue. On the bedside table was a clock radio and a telephone. It was 3:15. Marlee was probably just getting home from school. I dialed her number.