Julia’s Kitchen Read online

  I looked at Marlee. She had tears in her eyes, too. Then she hiccuped. She closed the journal and handed it to me. “Let’s see what else is in here,” Marlee said, emptying the bag.

  Janie actually had some cool erasers—every size and shape imaginable. I used to think it was dorky that she collected erasers, but now I could see the attraction. The soft, rubbery texture felt good in my hands, and I liked the smell. Marlee and I found an empty jar and decorated it with scrapbook supplies. She wrote Janie’s name in fancy bubble letters, and I placed heart stickers around the top. Then I poured in the erasers. I knew Janie would have liked it.

  Being with Marlee at her house melted something inside of me. It was as if I’d been clenching all my muscles since the morning of the fire, and finally I relaxed.

  six

  So this was my new life: on school days I waited until I heard Dad leave, then I got out of bed and into the shower. I dressed, ate a bowl of Frosted Flakes, made my lunch, then fought the cold winter wind as I walked to school. Every morning was the same. And every morning, when I heard the school noises, I was reminded of the quiet at home. I missed Mom and Janie the way January misses June. I actually wrote that down in class one day, but I crumpled it up before Mr. Temby could see it. I didn’t feel comfortable letting him know my feelings. But I did talk to Mrs. Block every week. And I found I actually looked forward to our meetings. She had a nice way of listening, really listening. I knew I needed to talk to Dad. I needed to show him the newspaper articles. And every morning I told myself I’d do it that night.

  After school on Mondays and Wednesdays, I went to Hebrew school with Marlee. Mrs. Rosen drove us there, and Dad picked us up. It was strange because I wasn’t even sure I believed in God anymore. Yet there I was, learning Hebrew, Torah stories, prayers—doing all the things I was supposed to do to get ready for my Bat Mitzvah in a little over a year. The one Mom and Janie wouldn’t attend.

  On Tuesdays and Thursdays I went to Marlee’s house, and we hung out and did our homework together. Mrs. Rosen drove me home in time for me to make dinner. It was never anything fancy. Just macaroni and cheese or sloppy joes or something like that. I found out I was pretty good at following recipes on boxes or cans.

  There was this little store, Snyder’s Old-Time Market, right down the block from our apartment. Mrs. Rosen would drop me off there, and I would pick up whatever I needed before heading home. Mr. Snyder was a short man with almost no hair and round wire-rimmed glasses. He wore a white apron and kept a pencil behind his ear. He called me Miss Cara, and he made me feel like a character in a Little House on the Prairie book every time I entered his store. He set up an account for us, so I didn’t have to worry about carrying money. I just signed for whatever I bought.

  When I got home, there would always be messages on the answering machine. A lady from synagogue wanting to know if she could organize people to make meals for us. Or someone from the PTO wanting the same thing. Messages from Bubbe, Nana, and Roz. And calls for Julia’s Kitchen. The only calls I ever returned were Bubbe’s. But even with Bubbe, I didn’t have much to say. The calls would go something like this:

  “Hi, Bubbe.”

  “Cara, love! How are you?”

  “Fine.”

  “And your dad? How’s he doing?”

  “He’s fine.”

  “School okay? Doing your homework?”

  “Yep. I’ve got a lot.”

  “Well, I won’t keep you. I just wanted to say I love you, and that Zayde and I are thinking of you.”

  “I love you, too, Bubbe. Bye.”

  The person I wanted to talk to—no, needed to talk to—was Dad, and I always had it in my mind that I’d show him the articles before we finished dinner.

  We’d sit down to eat and Dad would ask me something about my day, and I’d answer him, but I could tell he wasn’t listening. His eyes would be somewhere else. And whether I had aced a test or gotten hit in the face with a snowball, he had the same reaction: “Uh-huh.” So, bite by bite, my courage would slip away. The articles would stay folded up, hidden in the spice drawer where I’d stashed them, and I’d tell myself maybe tomorrow things would be different.

  Every day was pretty much the same. Except the weekends. They were worse. Instead of starting off right, with a big Shabbat dinner complete with Mom’s brisket, brown potatoes, and home-baked challah, we’d order pizza. We didn’t even light Shabbat candles. By Saturday afternoon, with only Ghost-Dad for company, I’d feel as if someone had scooped out my insides and left a hollow shell. So I’d escape to Marlee’s. I’d sleep over on Saturday nights, and I’d tell myself not to worry about Dad, alone in the apartment.

  But even at Marlee’s house, things weren’t normal for me. I had no desire to work on my scrapbook, despite Marlee’s begging. And when we watched movies, I stopped myself from laughing too hard, even at the funniest parts. Once, I thought Marlee seemed exasperated with me, but I couldn’t help it.

  So January turned to February, and on February 1, Dad was watching the Super Bowl with a bag of microwave popcorn in his lap. He looked so alone, sitting on the couch without Janie. She had loved to watch sports with him. She knew every player’s name and position, strengths and weaknesses. I couldn’t care less about that stuff. But I sat down next to Dad anyway.

  “Who’s playing?” I asked.

  Dad looked at me funny. “Panthers and Patriots.”

  “Oh.” Awkward silence. “Which ones are the Panthers?”

  “The ones in the white jerseys.”

  “Oh.” Another awkward silence.

  Then Dad said, “You know, Cara, you don’t have to do this.”

  I looked at him hard.

  “I know you don’t like football.”

  I shook my head. “That’s not true. I just don’t really know football.”

  Dad shrugged.

  I sat there until halftime. Dad was right. I didn’t like football. The game was putting me to sleep. But I didn’t want to admit it. And sitting there so close to Dad, even though I felt in my heart he wished I was Janie, somehow felt good to me. Maybe someday I would like football. Maybe someday Dad would love me the way he had loved Janie. The way Mom had loved me.

  * * *

  A week later, Dad walked into the apartment carefully balancing two huge cartons in his arms.

  “What are those?” I asked as I reached for one.

  “Careful, Cara!”

  “I got it,” I said. But it was heavier than it looked, and I dropped it to the floor with a clatter and a thud. “Oh, sorry,” I said, looking quickly for Dad’s reaction. I was trying so hard to do everything right, not wanting to upset him in any way.

  Dad let out an angry sigh and shook his head.

  “I’m sorry,” I said again. “I was just trying to help. What’s in there?”

  “Those were some things from the house.”

  My eyes opened wide. “Our house?”

  Dad nodded and opened the box to check the contents. “I told you I put some things in storage that first day.”

  I looked at the two boxes, which suddenly didn’t seem so big. “That’s everything?”

  “These and your bike. It’s in a bike room downstairs.”

  I couldn’t believe it.

  Dad pulled a framed wedding photo of him and Mom out of the box. I hadn’t expected any pictures to survive the fire, and now I wondered if there were more.

  “It’s still in one piece,” Dad said. He sat at the kitchen table and smiled a sad sort of smile. Then he looked at me. “Someday you’ll look just like her.” He jutted his chin to the side and stared at the picture.

  My heart thumped heavily. I knew I looked like Mom. Dad used to love that about me. He’d even called me Julia Junior last Thanksgiving when I’d put on lip gloss and blush. But now, I suddenly realized, that might be the problem. Maybe my resembling Mom was why Dad never seemed able to look me in the eyes. I was a constant reminder of what he’d lost.

  I look
ed over Dad’s shoulder at the wedding picture. They were so young. Dad with no gray hair and a thinner face. Mom looking at him with love in her eyes. I put my hand gently on Dad’s back. I wanted him to look at me again. To see me, not Mom. “What else is in there?” I whispered.

  Dad shook his head as if he were waking up from a daydream, and I pulled my hand away. He stood up, holding on to the wedding picture. “Not much. Almost nothing made it from the main floor of the house, and just a few things were worth salvaging from upstairs. Listen, Cara, I’ve decided to sell the house.”

  My mouth opened as if I had something to say, but nothing came out.

  “It would be a huge headache to rebuild,” Dad explained, “and we don’t need all that space anyhow.”

  “Oh,” I said, and forced myself to swallow the lump that had formed in my throat. “But where will we live?”

  “Here for now. We’ll see what the future holds. We won’t be homeless, Cara, I promise.” Dad sighed. “I’m tired. It’s been a long day. Feel free to go through these boxes yourself. I’m going to lie down.”

  What? Dad was leaving me alone with those boxes? Those two boxes held everything that was left from our house. Everything. It wasn’t fair. None of this was fair! I wanted to grab Dad and make him see me. His living daughter. His daughter who needed him. But I just stood there, shocked into silence.

  He picked up a magazine, went to his room, and closed the door. I stared at the boxes. I noticed my breath coming faster, shallower. I knew I had to do something now!

  I stomped into the kitchen, yanked open the spice drawer, and grabbed the newspaper articles. Then I marched to his room and knocked on the door. Hard.

  “Come in,” Dad said.

  I took a breath and opened the door. “It’s not fair,” I said, holding up the articles.

  Dad looked at me, his face blank.

  I waved the articles in his face. “This is what I know about the fire. This! Two stupid newspaper articles.”

  Dad took the papers from me and slowly unfolded them.

  “It was my house, too, Dad! My mother. My sister. And I wasn’t there.”

  “Thank God,” he said quietly, still looking at the articles.

  “What?”

  “I said, Cara, thank God you weren’t there.”

  “No, Dad! Don’t you get it? If I had been there I could make sense of this. I would know what happened.”

  “This is what happened, Cara.” He turned the article with the photograph around to show me. “It’s all right here.”

  “Daddy, no!” Tears burned my eyes. Questions I wanted to ask flared up inside me. Why did you leave Janie behind? How did you escape? And why did you let Mom go back in the house? But I couldn’t ask them.

  Dad shook his head. “I’m sorry Cara. I don’t know what you want from me. I’m trying my best. Really I am.”

  “Can’t you at least go through the boxes with me? Please?”

  Dad’s face hardened. “No, Cara. I just … can’t.”

  I looked at him but couldn’t find even a spark of the dad I knew before. “Fine,” I said. “Forget it!”

  Mom would have known I didn’t mean “Forget it” at all. But Dad, I think, was relieved.

  I left his room and dragged the boxes into my bedroom. Since he wouldn’t go through them with me, I’d do it myself, and I’d keep whatever I wanted. I stared at the boxes. I was afraid to look inside, but I also couldn’t wait. Once I looked, that would be it. There would be nothing else from the house or from Mom and Janie’s life, nothing. I opened one box just a bit and peeked inside. Ugh, it smelled disgusting, like burnt chemicals. I sat back and picked at my nails. Come on, I told myself, do it!

  Breathing only through my mouth, I opened the box completely. Right on top was my container of seashells. I imagined Dad finding it on my nightstand. I was glad he’d thought to take it. The carved wooden bowl had darkened from smoke, and the seashells needed to be washed. But as I ran my fingers over the shells, I felt myself relax, felt my anger at Dad contract into a small corner of my heart.

  Underneath the shell bowl was a bunch of file folders with labels: “Insurance,” “Investments,” “ADF Benefits,” and more. Dad’s stuff. He had kept his important documents in a green metal file cabinet that must have been fireproof. I had started to push the paperwork aside when I noticed a file labeled “Personal.” It took about two seconds for me to decide to check the contents. After all, it said “Personal,” not “Private: Keep Out.” Inside were dozens of birthday and Father’s Day cards made by Janie and me. And there were cards from Mom, too. He had saved each one. I read them and tried to figure out how the dad we’d loved so much could be the same dad I knew now. It didn’t make sense.

  I returned the cards and tucked the “Personal” file in with the others. Then I pulled out Mom’s jewelry box. The silver box was tarnished black, but inside were a bunch of Mom’s earrings, necklaces, and bracelets. I picked up a gold chain with a small ruby heart pendant, and felt myself smile. Dad had given it to Mom for her birthday last year. I turned the ruby heart back and forth to catch the light. It sparkled. I put it on and looked in the mirror. It was too fancy to wear every day, but I would wear it someday—I knew it. I took the necklace off and placed it carefully back in the jewelry box.

  Then I saw photographs! A whole bunch of the framed photos that had stood on Mom’s dresser. Our family before the fire. A regular family. Most of the frames were stained black from smoke. The glass had melted a bit and the photos were faded, but they looked great to me. I took the photos out of the frames and studied each precious picture, memorizing the composition, the light, the expressions on our faces.

  The second box held even more treasures. Janie’s baseball cards. Not all of them, but I couldn’t believe even one had survived. They must have been the cards she’d thrown in her desk drawer—the ones she hadn’t yet stored in her plastic, meltable three-ring binder. It seemed impossible that I was holding something that had been so important to Janie.

  And there were four mezuzot in the box, too. The biggest one was copper and bronze decorated with a swirly Hebrew letter shin. It had been screwed into the doorpost at the front entrance to our house. I rubbed the ash-stained metal with my thumb and saw that it would shine with a little cleaning. Two small silver mezuzot had been affixed to Janie’s and my doorposts. And the ceramic mosaic one had graced the doorway to Mom and Dad’s room. Tucked inside each of the mezuzot was the prayer scroll with the Shema printed on it. I unrolled one of the scrolls and ran my fingers over the Hebrew letters. I knew what they said. “Hear, O Israel. The Lord is our God. The Lord is One.”

  Shivers ran up and down my spine. How had those survived? Was it a message from God? How else could the mezuzot and prayers have stayed in one piece? But what was the message? Maybe God wanted me to know he did exist, only not the way I’d imagined before. Maybe God couldn’t stop my house from burning down, and he couldn’t protect me from a car crash or any other danger, but he was still there—doing … something. But what?

  I rolled up the prayer scrolls and tucked them back inside the mezuzot. I didn’t know what to think. But the possibility of God existing, even if I didn’t understand him, comforted me. Maybe I’d hang the mezuzot in this apartment. Maybe Dad would help. After all, he’d taken them from our home. He must have wanted them if he’d gone to the trouble of unscrewing them from the doorposts.

  Just when I thought I couldn’t be shocked by anything else, I spotted something at the very bottom of the carton. I reached for it and gasped. Mom’s black metal recipe box! I opened it and looked inside. All of Mom’s recipes, in her curvy handwriting, in perfect order. Impossible! My hands shook as I held the black box.

  I found my favorite recipe, chocolate-chip cookies, and read it. I had baked them with Mom about a million times.

  I considered surprising Dad tomorrow when he got home from work with a warm, chewy cookie. He would smell the apartment from the hallway. He would t
hink he was dreaming. He would walk in and see the cookies, Mom’s cookies, and … and … I didn’t know what would happen next. Would it make him happy? Or would it break his heart? Hadn’t he seemed so sad when he said I would look like Mom when I grew up? Besides, hadn’t I sworn I would never eat another dessert?

  It was a bad idea. I could never make her cookies. Who did I think I was, anyway?

  * * *

  On Monday after Hebrew school, Dad and I ate spaghetti for dinner. Then Dad turned on the TV and I went to my room and tried on Mom’s ruby necklace again. I gathered all the photographs, along with Janie’s journal and baseball cards and Mom’s recipes. I got to work putting the photos in my scrapbook. In big block letters I printed AFTER THE FIRE across the top of a double page spread. I wished I could ask Marlee to write it, but she was definitely getting tired of my mourning. I hadn’t even told her about the boxes—although I’d really wanted to.

  Next I matted the pictures of Mom and Janie. I mounted a photo of Janie in the center of one page and one of Mom in the center of the other. Around their pictures, I listed some of the things I wanted to always remember about them.

  On Janie’s side, I wrote: Crooked Teeth, Great Athlete, Tomboy, Best Friends with Justin Wittenberg, Scared of Thunderstorms, Cat-Lover, Wanted to Pitch for the Cubs, Messy, Sweet, Sometimes Annoying.

  On Mom’s side, I wrote: Smelled Like Vanilla, Curly Hair, Hazel Eyes, Best Baker in the World, Helpful, Organized, Loving, Cool Mom, Sometimes Strict.

  Then, across the bottom, I wrote: Died Way Too Soon.

  To the next pages I attached all the rest of the photos, the baseball cards, and my favorite recipes. I even ripped out some pages of Janie’s journal to put in there. I thought about what it would be like to look at this scrapbook next year, or sometime far in the future. I wondered if I would ever forget Mom and Janie. Would they someday be just these pictures and items to me? Would I forget Mom’s smell or the feel of her skin? Would Janie’s giggles fade away forever?