Julia’s Kitchen Page 6

  By the time I’d finished everything, it was eleven-thirty. Dad must have gone to bed without saying good night to me, or maybe he’d fallen asleep on the couch. I knew I’d be exhausted tomorrow. But if I skipped my shower in the morning and got my backpack organized now, I’d be able to sleep a little later. So I checked my assignment notebook and my folder to make sure I had everything I needed. My folder was stuffed with old papers from school. Mom used to look at all the notes and graded papers, but now they just sat in the folder.

  I grabbed the papers and walked to the wastebasket. It wasn’t as if Dad would care about them. But one piece of pink paper caught my eye. It was a flyer about the Valentine’s Day Bake Sale. It would be this Friday, and everyone was invited to bring in baked goods. I thought about Mom’s cookies from last year’s sale. Janie and I had been so excited when everyone wanted to know who had made the giant, delicious, heart-shaped cookies.

  That very night, we talked Mom into starting Julia’s Kitchen. We sat around the dinner table, all four of us, coming up with names for the business. “That’s the Way the Cookie Crumbles” was Dad’s suggestion. We cracked up over that one. We thought of “Cookies and More,” “Cookies Galore,” “Segal’s Sweets,” and “Just Desserts.” Then I came up with “Julia’s Kitchen.” Mom said she liked it because it sounded “sophisticated, sweet, and homey.”

  I had pictured Mom as the next Mrs. Field or Famous Amos. Not dead within a year. I crumpled the flyer and tossed it into the trash with the rest of my papers. Taking off Mom’s necklace, I stared at the picture of her on the raft in Florida, and went to sleep.

  seven

  The day before our Valentine’s Day celebration at school, Marlee and I signed valentines for the class party at her kitchen table. Personally, I thought we were too old to pass out those silly valentines, but Mr. Temby said that signing valentines was our homework assignment that night. The cards I’d bought at Snyder’s weren’t too cutesy. No little teddy bears or ducks or anything. And no hearts or lovey-dovey things either. They were just plain cards with a tie-dyed design that said, Happy Valentine’s Day, Friend! Marlee’s valentines were the kind you stick a lollipop through.

  While we worked, the stuffed pasta shells Mrs. Rosen was making for dinner bubbled and baked in the oven, and we breathed in the smells of garlic and melted mozzarella. I was halfway through the class list, going alphabetically. Marlee didn’t look at the list. She just wrote out the cards as she thought of the kids in our class.

  Max came into the kitchen and swiped a lollipop off the table.

  “Hey, give it!” Marlee said.

  Max ripped open the plastic and shoved the lollipop into his mouth. “Oops! Too late,” he said, grinning. “Unless you want it now.” He held the wet candy in front of Marlee’s face.

  “You’re disgusting,” she said.

  I tried not to smile. Max was funny even if he was annoying. He pulled out a chair, turned it around, and sat on it backwards. “So, you’re getting all ready for the annual Foster Valentine’s party? I remember it like it was yesterday.”

  “Duh, Max. You’re just one year ahead of us,” Marlee said. She rolled her eyes at me.

  “Yeah, but junior high is another world. You’ll see.”

  “Whatever.” Marlee stuck another lollipop through a valentine. “Don’t you have any homework, Mr. Cool Junior High Student? Or maybe you should practice for your Bar Mitzvah. Just be sure you put any glass away before you start singing.”

  Max ignored Marlee’s last comment. “I’m taking a break,” he said. “I wanted to know what you guys are baking for the bake sale. Wondering when there will be a spoon to lick.”

  Marlee looked at me. I stared at my valentines and picked my nails. Marlee and I had already discussed the bake sale. I’d told her I wasn’t baking, and she had seemed to understand. But now I thought maybe she wanted to bake and felt I wasn’t letting her.

  “What?” Max asked. “They still have the bake sale, don’t they?”

  “Yes,” Marlee said, glaring at Max. “They still have the bake sale.”

  “So what are you making?”

  “I don’t know!” Marlee shouted.

  I noticed she hadn’t said, Nothing.

  “Jeez. Calm down,” Max said, getting up from the table. “I was just asking.”

  Max left the room and whispered under his breath, “Brownies are always a good choice.”

  Marlee blew her bangs out of her eyes. “We don’t have to bake anything,” she said to me.

  “But you want to,” I said.

  Marlee grinned, caught. “Well, it is fun to bake brownies. And we haven’t done anything really fun since … well, you know.”

  No, I thought. It would not be fun. It would be sad and empty and unfair to Mom.

  “I wouldn’t make you do it, Cara. I mean, it’s totally up to you. I know you said you didn’t want to bake, and I get it, but … Mr. Temby did promise extra credit to kids who brought in baked goods, and I sure could use some of that.” Marlee raised her eyebrows and tilted her head to the side. “So?”

  I was torn between wanting to satisfy Marlee and needing to be loyal to Mom. “Can’t you just bake tonight, after I leave?”

  Marlee sighed. “I guess. But, Cara, come on. It’d be more fun if we did it together. We’ve never done that. And who knows? It might actually make you happy.”

  I doubted that. But Marlee was my best friend. I supposed I could do this for her. “Oh, fine, fine, fine! Let’s do it.” I tossed my pen aside and stacked my valentines in a pile.

  “Really?”

  “Really. Before I change my mind.”

  Marlee’s grin spread across her face. “All right … if you insist.” She got up and pulled out a box of Duncan Hines brownie mix from the pantry. “Brownies it is!”

  I took a deep breath and set about finding a bowl and spoon.

  “We need two eggs, water, and oil,” Marlee said, reading the box.

  We never used mixes at our house. And we never baked with oil. Pure, unsalted butter, Mom used to say. No substitutions.

  Marlee ripped open the plastic and poured the brownie mix into the Disney Villains bowl I’d found. She poured it in too fast, sending a chocolate dust cloud into her face, which made her sneeze. I measured the oil, then the water, carefully looking at the measuring cup from the side. Marlee cracked the eggs.

  “Oops, I think I got some shell in there,” she said, peering into the bowl. She started to put her finger in the bowl to fish the eggshell out.

  “Wait. Let me see,” I said. I took one of the eggshells and used it as a spoon to remove the other shell. The shells acted like magnets and stuck to each other easily.

  “Cool,” Marlee said.

  “Trick of the trade,” I said. I felt that I’d always known the eggshell trick. Mom must have taught me. I’d never baked anything without her before today. Was she watching me now? If she was, what was she feeling? Was she happy? Sad? Proud? Were her feelings as mixed up as mine?

  We had to stir fifty strokes by hand, so we took turns, twenty-five each. I liked watching the yellow egg disappear into the brown batter as we stirred.

  “I’ll grease the pan,” I said. I opened the refrigerator, which was covered with Disney magnets, and looked for the butter. Mom always kept a stick wrapped in wax paper just for greasing pans, but all I could find in Marlee’s refrigerator was a tub of margarine. So I took a paper towel, scooped out some margarine, and spread it evenly around the pan.

  “Now for my favorite part,” Marlee said, pouring the batter into the pan. She scraped the sides of the bowl with the wooden mixing spoon. I knew a rubber spatula would work better, but I didn’t say so. Besides, I wasn’t sure the Rosens had a rubber spatula.

  Marlee smoothed out the batter, then popped the spoon into her mouth. “Mmm…” she said, licking her lips. “You want the bowl?”

  I shook my head. I had loved licking the bowl clean when Mom and I baked, but this was differ
ent. This didn’t feel like real baking to me. It felt like a shortcut. An imitation. Besides, I reminded myself, I had sworn off desserts forever—baked or raw.

  “You take it,” I said. “Or let’s leave it for Max.”

  “Max who?” Marlee said, digging right in. She had chocolate smeared on her cheeks and chin.

  I opened the oven and slid the brownie pan onto the shelf below the stuffed shells. But as I pulled my hand out, I accidentally brushed the top oven rack.

  “Ow!” I yelled, yanking my hand back. The skin looked pink where it burned. I turned on the cold water and shoved my hand under the faucet.

  “Are you okay?” Marlee asked.

  My heart raced. The cold water numbed my skin and took away the pain. “I guess,” I said.

  Marlee put her arm around me. “You’re shaking,” she said.

  Just then the White Rabbit popped out of his clock and said, “Six o’clock! I’m late! I’m late!”

  I started to cry. I couldn’t help myself. I felt like such a baby.

  “It’s okay,” Marlee said. “Mom!” she called.

  Mrs. Rosen ran into the kitchen. “What’s wrong?” she asked. “What happened?”

  “Cara burned herself on the oven.”

  “Oh dear, let me see,” Mrs. Rosen said. She took my hand and turned it side to side. It already had started to blister.

  I tried to catch my breath.

  “There, now. You’re going to be okay, Cara. Just keep it under the faucet.”

  After my hand was frozen numb, I sat at the kitchen table while Mrs. Rosen squeezed Neosporin onto the burn and covered it with a Band-Aid. I thought about Mom and Janie. In the house. In the fire.

  “I knew I shouldn’t have baked,” I said. Marlee looked hurt, but I didn’t care. “I want to go home.”

  Mrs. Rosen nodded. She looked close to tears, too. “Of course, honey. Let me get my coat.”

  “No,” I said suddenly. “I’ll call my dad.” I didn’t know why, but I wanted my dad.

  * * *

  In the car on the way home, Dad listened to his sports radio station. I leaned my head against the window and looked out, but all I could see was my own reflection staring back at me. What had happened the night of the fire? How had Dad gotten out without Mom and Janie? The pain in my hand returned, throbbing.

  I felt the vibration of every crack in the street as our tires rolled over them, tha-thunk, tha-thunk, tha-thunk. And then I heard a voice. A small voice, like Janie’s. It said, Ask him, ask him, ask him.

  I sat up straight and looked at Dad. He hadn’t heard a thing. Had I imagined the voice, like the Sport look-alike? I leaned back against the window and listened hard. Ask him, ask him, I heard.

  No, I thought. I had tried that. It was too soon. Dad wasn’t ready. Unless, maybe … maybe I’d gone about it in the wrong way. I’d been angry because of the boxes. I’d shoved the articles in his face. Not a very warm invitation to a conversation. Maybe I could be calm, talk to him nice and easy, the way Mrs. Block talked to me.

  I felt butterflies in my stomach. But they weren’t butterflies. They were words. Words that bubbled up and finally spilled out of my mouth. “Dad, can we talk about the fire?” I asked quietly.

  Dad glanced at me, then went back to watching the road.

  I reached over and turned off the radio, surprising myself with my courage. “I need to know what happened.”

  Dad sighed and looked straight ahead. “You know what happened, Cara,” he said wearily.

  “No, I don’t. Not really.”

  “The fire started from the toaster oven.”

  “Well, I know that, but what happened? How did you get out of the house without them?”

  Dad shook his head and didn’t say anything for a minute. Then, “Cara, I can’t … I—I don’t want to … I’m trying my best to forget that night and to remember everything from before. That’s what you should do, too. Just be glad you weren’t there.”

  I felt as though he had punched me in the stomach. How could I forget about the fire when it was such a mystery to me? I always figured that at some point Dad and I would talk about it, and I would finally understand what had happened. A whole month had gone by. I thought that must be enough. But now I knew he would never talk about the fire.

  Stinging tears filled my eyes. If Dad had died in the fire instead of Mom, everything would have been different. Mom would have talked to me. She would have explained it all. She wouldn’t have made me feel like an orphan. She would have made everything okay.

  I turned away from Dad and stared back at my reflection in the window. I didn’t want to see myself, so I closed my eyes.

  “Cara?” Dad asked. “Do you understand?”

  I didn’t answer him. I didn’t want to ever talk to him again.

  * * *

  The next day at school Mr. Temby announced, “Okay, everybody, time to pass out your valentines.”

  My valentines! I’d left them at Marlee’s. Ugh! Would nothing ever go right for me? There was a great rumble of activity as everyone dug their valentines out from their desks. I walked over to Marlee.

  “I think I left my valentines at your house, Mar. Did you bring them?”

  “Oh, really? That stinks! I didn’t see them.”

  “But they were right next to yours.”

  “I don’t think so. I would have noticed.” Marlee pulled her valentines out of a Ziploc bag.

  I stood there picturing my stack of cards hidden under some pile at the Rosens’. “Well, what am I supposed to do?” I asked.

  “How should I know?”

  “Marlee!”

  “What?”

  But I didn’t get to respond because Marlee was on her feet, passing out her valentines, not worried at all about me.

  I sulked at my desk and watched as everyone gave out their stupid cards. Why was Marlee being that way? Was she too excited about Valentine’s Day to care about me? It made me mad to think about it. And jealous. Marlee’s family and her house were intact. She could get excited about Valentine’s Day and bake sales.

  I remembered other Valentine’s Days. Every year Dad would buy those heart-shaped boxes filled with chocolates for Mom, Janie, and me. He’d say that we were the loves of his life. I was pretty sure he would ignore Valentine’s Day this year. And I didn’t want chocolate from him anyway.

  Mrs. Block poked her head into our room just then and asked to “borrow” me. So while everyone else read their valentines and ate sweets from the bake sale, I sat in the sunflower room with Mrs. Block and filled her in on the latest with Dad.

  “I don’t think Dad will ever explain what happened in the fire,” I said.

  Mrs. Block nodded. “He might not. It sounds as if he can’t.”

  “But why not?”

  “I don’t know. Why do you think he can’t?”

  I picked at my nails and thought about Dad. Why couldn’t he talk about the fire? Because it hurt too much? Because he felt guilty? I hadn’t thought about his reasons before. I hadn’t cared. I’d only cared about what I needed—a parent to take care of me. And really, didn’t I deserve that?

  Mrs. Block looked at me, waiting patiently for my answer.

  “It doesn’t matter, does it?” I asked. “His reasons, I mean. Because no matter what, it just stinks. I need him to talk about the fire, and he needs to forget about it. So there we are.”

  Mrs. Block nodded sympathetically. “Yes, there we are.”

  That night Dad and I ordered pizza and ate in front of the TV in the living room. I was sure he didn’t know that tomorrow was Valentine’s Day. And I wasn’t about to tell him.

  eight

  On the way to Hebrew school the next Wednesday, Mrs. Rosen asked me if Dad and I would come for Shabbat dinner on Friday. Dad and I hadn’t done anything Jewish since shiva, and even though I was confused about God, especially since I’d found those mezuzot, I knew I missed Shabbat. I missed the food, the songs, the whole tradition.


  “I’m making a brisket,” Mrs. Rosen added.

  My mouth watered. “Thanks! I’ll check with Dad after Hebrew school,” I said, even though I knew it would be fine. It wasn’t as if we had any other plans.

  But when I told Dad about the invitation as he drove me home, he frowned and said, “I’m not up for social engagements yet, Cara.”

  He must have read the disappointment on my face, because then he said, “Why don’t you go without me?”

  I felt as if there were the thinnest thread holding Dad and me together. And if I went to the Rosens without him for Shabbat, that thread might break. But then again, if Dad didn’t care, why should I?

  So I went home with Marlee straight from school on Friday. Already her house felt like Shabbat. I smelled brisket, sweet potatoes, and something cinnamony. Marlee and I set the dining room table with a white lace tablecloth and Mrs. Rosen’s china. No Disney plates for Shabbat. On top of each plate we placed a silver kiddush cup and filled Max’s, Marlee’s, and mine with grape juice and Mr. and Mrs. Rosen’s with wine. Two white Shabbat candles in silver candlesticks stood in the middle of the table next to two loaves of challah.

  Marlee covered the challot with an embroidered challah cover. “Perfect,” she declared, admiring the table.

  The table did look beautiful. But it was far from perfect. For one thing, the challah was not homemade. Plus, there were eight chairs but only five places set. If Dad had come, there would have been six, a nice even number. And Mom and Janie would have made eight—no empty spaces. But I couldn’t expect Marlee to notice any of that.

  “What?” Marlee said, squinting at me. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Then why are you making that face?”

  “What face?”

  “That face. Like you’re about to cry.”

  “Oh.” I hadn’t realized my feelings were so obvious. “It’s just … you know, I miss my family.”

  Marlee let out a big, tired sigh. “Oh.”

  I felt my stomach tighten. Marlee’s Oh sounded like Oh no, not again.

  “Am I boring you?” I joked.

  But Marlee didn’t smile. “No,” she said. “It’s just hard to hear about it all the time, that’s all.”