Julia’s Kitchen (9 page)

“And what? You've had enough?”

Marlee crossed her arms. “I don't know. Maybe I have. Look, maybe we just need a little break from each other. I mean, you come over practically every day. Maybe if we saw each other less often, I could be a better friend to you. And think about it—you could spend more time with your dad and maybe work things out.”

I controlled my face as best I could. I would not let her see how much she had hurt me. I took a slow, steadying breath. “You know, you're absolutely right,” I said. “I was getting tired of coming here anyhow.”

Marlee glared at me, and I glared back.

So I stayed, but it was weird. Marlee and I played GameCube with Max, and both of us talked to Max but not to each other. I found myself asking God,
Why are you taking another person I love away from me?
Then I changed my mind and sent a different thought to him:
God, I am overflowing with sadness!

Just before sundown, Mrs. Rosen and Marlee sang the prayer for lighting the Shabbat candles. I tried to sing along, but my voice wouldn't cooperate. My throat felt all closed up, as if I were about to cry. I pictured Mom, Janie, and me lighting the candles on Shabbat, and my heart felt heavy.

The flames on the candles grew, and Mrs. Rosen put her arms around me. “Shabbat Shalom,” she said.

“Shabbat Shalom,” I replied in a whisper.

Max led the kiddush, and his voice didn't break the whole time. Then Mr. Rosen said the motzi, the blessing over the challot, and it was time to eat.

The brisket didn't taste half as good as Mom's, and I couldn't even compare the challah. The conversation centered on Max's upcoming Bar Mitzvah. I ate quietly, keeping my eyes down.

After dinner, Dad picked me up. I went home, buried my head in my pillow, and cried.

*   *   *

I woke up in the morning sure that Marlee would call and apologize. She had just been cranky last night, I figured. She hadn't meant half of what she'd said. But she didn't call. And the next day at Sunday school, she pretended that nothing had happened, which might have been okay if things were normal between us. But they weren't. Not even close. When we had to pick partners for a vocabulary game, Marlee picked Shayna Mages, not me. I was so mad I didn't even say goodbye to her when we dropped her off at her house.

That afternoon Dad went to work. He'd started working even on the weekends, which made it easier for us to avoid each other. I was hungry, but all I could find in the kitchen was leftover pizza and three-day-old Chinese takeout. So I walked to Snyder's to get some bread and peanut butter. At the checkout counter, I saw thick double-sided tape. The picture on the package showed someone attaching a piece of art to a door, and it made me think of the mezuzot. They were still sitting on my dresser. We were supposed to screw the mezuzot into the doorposts, but I didn't have a drill or a screwdriver or anything like that. The double-sided tape would work perfectly, so I bought it.

After eating two peanut butter sandwiches, I hung the copper and bronze mezuzah with the swirly
shin
on our front doorpost. One silver mezuzah went on the door to my bedroom. And the ceramic mosaic one that used to hang on Mom and Dad's door—I laid it on Dad's dresser. I figured he could put it up if he wanted. I knew I was supposed to say a prayer when I hung the mezuzot, but I didn't know what it was. So I made up my own.

Dear God,
I thought,
I'm hanging these mezuzot because I want to. Because I like the tradition of it. I don't know why they were saved and Mom and Janie weren't. I used to think you ran the world like a great big puppet show, but I don't think that anymore. Maybe you had nothing to do with saving these mezuzot from the fire. Maybe you had nothing to do with Mom and Janie dying. And nothing to do with Marlee being so mean. Maybe sometimes things just happen, and you feel as bad about them as we do.

After the fire, I tried not believing in you. But that didn't feel right. Because if you don't exist, where are Mom and Janie now? I hope they are with you, and I hope they understand what you do. Because I sure don't. I mean, I get that you're not a big puppet master, controlling everything, but are you even out there? Listening? Watching? Just what do you do all day? I hope you don't mind these questions. It's just, well, that's what's on my mind. Amen.

I let out a big sigh.

I didn't think Dad would notice the mezuzot. But I had the feeling Mom knew. And she was glad.

*   *   *

On Monday, Marlee still didn't apologize to me. Not on Tuesday either. We were nice to each other at school, in a polite kind of way, but we weren't friends. At recess, I went to the library instead of dealing with the question of whom to hang out with.

As I walked home by myself Tuesday afternoon, I thought about what Marlee had said to me. It was true that I'd been counting the days since the fire. And maybe I had been sulking. But jeez, my house had burned down! My mom and sister had died, and my dad was barely talking to me. What did she expect? She said she missed the old Cara. The way I missed the old Dad. If only I knew how to get us both back.

I went into the empty apartment and pressed
PLAY
on the answering machine.

The first message was from Nana. “Hello, David. This is your mother.” As if he didn't know her voice. “I've tried calling you at work, but you haven't returned my calls. Maybe your secretary isn't giving you the messages.” So, I wasn't the only one who liked to avoid Nana. “Please call me. Oh, and give my love to Cara.”

I pressed
ERASE
and wrote “Dad, call Nana,” on a piece of paper, even though I doubted he'd call her.

The next message was from Bubbe. “Hi, David. Hi, Cara. Haven't heard from you in a while. Call me soon. Love you, love you!”

The third message was a voice I didn't recognize. “Hi. I hope this is Julia's Kitchen. My name is Renee Price.”

As she started to leave her phone number, I almost hit
ERASE
. I was still getting calls for Julia's Kitchen, and it always made me sad that Mom couldn't take their orders. But this voice was gentle and reminded me a little of Bubbe, so I listened.

“I got your number from my friend Sheryl, who swears by your cookies. Well, my daughter just had a baby. A beautiful baby girl. And I'd like to order one of your gift baskets for her. I understand you decorate cookies with names, and I'd like a couple of those in the basket along with an assortment of your other famous cookies. Please call me to let me know if you can help. Thank you. Oh, yes, the baby's name is Julia.”

I fell into the kitchen chair. Julia? My arms broke out in goose bumps. People didn't name their babies Julia anymore. They were all Emmas or Hannahs or Sarahs. Right away I picked up the phone to call Marlee. She had to hear about this. But then I remembered—we were taking a break from each other. I held the phone in my hand. A thought started to form. I could call Renee. I could take her order. I could bake the cookies and deliver them just the way Mom would have. Yes! It felt exactly right. I dialed before I could change my mind. After the second ring, someone picked up.

“Hello?” It was the same gentle voice. Renee's.

“Hi. This is Julia Segal,” I lied. I lowered my voice to seem as grownup as I could without sounding phony. “I'm returning your call about the gift basket.”

“Oh, hello. I'm glad you called back,” said Renee. “As I said in my message, my friend Sheryl Pearlman just raved about your cookies last year. You did a darling basket for her first grandchild. And now I've joined the grandmother club myself! I was so glad I held on to your number.”

“Thank you,” I said. I wondered if I should pretend to remember Sheryl Pearlman, but I figured that might get me into even more trouble, so I just said, “Are you interested in a small, medium, or large basket?”

“Oh, I don't know. How many cookies come in each?”

I paced the kitchen floor. I wasn't sure how many cookies came in each. I just remembered that Mom had three different sizes. “I'm sorry … What did you say?”

“How many cookies come in each basket?”

“Oh … yes … there are … a dozen cookies in a small, two dozen in a medium, and three dozen in a large.” That sounded about right.

“I see. Well, then, I'll take a medium. And that will include some cookies with Julia's name on them, right?”

“Yes. Absolutely.” What was I saying? I didn't know how to decorate cookies like that.

“How much will it be?”

Stumped again. I almost hung up at that point. But instead I said, “I'm sorry. That's my other line. Can you hang on a minute?” I pressed the
HOLD
button and tried to regulate my breathing. Think … think … What did Mom charge for the baskets? I remembered that she'd had a color brochure printed on glossy paper. It had pictures of the baskets and treats, and I knew it had a price list. I just couldn't picture the numbers in my head. So I calculated quickly from what I knew the prices were at Snyder's. I'd have to buy chocolate chips, flour, sugar, oatmeal, raisins, eggs, and butter, not to mention the basket. Hmm … would $25 be enough? Did that sound right? I took a deep breath and clicked back to Renee.

“Hi. So sorry about that. It will be $25.”

“Is that all? Well, at that price, I might as well go for a large.” Renee laughed, and I cringed.

“Okay. The large is … $35.” And then, thinking quickly, I said, “Cash only. And you can pay my delivery girl.”

She told me she wanted the basket next Monday, March 1, and I felt another round of goose bumps. That was Mom's birthday. I scribbled down the address where the basket was to go: 1414 Baer Avenue in Longridge. Longridge! How would I get there? At least school would be closed that day and. I'd have plenty of time.

I hung up the phone and thought about what I'd just done. Was I crazy? How was I supposed to bake three dozen of my mother's best cookies, including those special “name” cookies, prepare the gift basket, and get it to Renee's daughter's house by March 1? And what if Dad found out what I was doing? Impersonating my mother. Lying to a stranger. I was pretty sure he would
not
understand.

Still, I couldn't deny that energy was buzzing through my body. I felt alive. I felt like jumping up and down.

I hurried into my room, took out my scrapbook, and turned to Mom's recipes. Chocolate-chip cookies, oatmeal raisin, peanut butter, snickerdoodle, the choices went on and on. Where would I ever begin? It was funny that so many of the cookies had the same ingredients, more or less. Snickerdoodles were actually chocolate-chip cookies, minus the chocolate chips, plus some cinnamon sugar. And cinnamon sour cream twists were snickerdoodles plus yeast and sour cream.

I sorted through the recipes and finally settled on four I would attempt. Chocolate-chip cookies because they were the first ones I'd ever made with Mom. Snickerdoodles because I always liked that word. And oatmeal raisin for a change of taste. And then, of course, the name cookies, which I realized now were tea cookies with buttercream frosting. I dreaded writing the name Julia on the cookies. How could I write Mom's name on them? It would be so weird. Besides, I wasn't any good at that kind of thing. I had tried to use Mom's decorating tools a few times before, but everything I'd done had come out blotchy and uneven. If only I could ask Marlee to do it.

I was so lost in the recipes that I nearly jumped out of my skin when I heard Dad's key turn in the lock. I slammed the scrapbook shut and opened the nearest book I could find, my social studies textbook. Yuck. I tried to act natural, lying on my bed, flipping through the pages. Dad knocked on my door while opening it. I pretended to be engrossed in social studies and didn't look up.

“Hey, Cara, I'm home.”

“Oh, hi,” I said, giving him a quick glance before looking back at my book.

He stood there a minute, not saying a thing. “I thought you'd be at Marlee's,” he finally said.

“Not today.”

“I was going to order pizza. Does that sound good?”

“Fine,” I said, shrugging. He stood in the doorway waiting for something. I kept reading the same line over and over. I just wanted him to leave so I could make my shopping list.

“I've got a lot of work to do,” I said, looking him in the eye.

As soon as I did that, he looked at the floor. “Yeah, me too.” He motioned to his briefcase. “New campaign for Kellogg's.”

I turned back to my book, and he closed my door. Would we always be like strangers with each other? I tried to remember a time when Dad was his old self, the fun dad other kids thought was so cool. I had to admit,
I
used to think he was cool. He was always smiling and joking around. I remembered the day before the fire. Dad had teased me about spending all my Saturday nights with Marlee, eating pizza and working on our scrapbooks. He'd said, “You gotta live a little, Cara.” Then he'd danced me around the living room, doing some crazy version of the tango. It hadn't even bothered me when Janie cut in, begging, “My turn, Daddy! Dance with me!”

Even though he'd been closer to Janie than to me, it hadn't mattered because I'd had Mom. Now Dad was a totally different person. He wasn't even handsome anymore. He needed a haircut. His face drooped. And he always had a faraway look in his eyes.

Had my appearance changed, too? I looked in the mirror and studied my eyes. Still light brown. But when I looked closer I noticed the thinnest ring of greenish-yellow around the outside edges. Mom had said that when she was sixteen, her eyes changed to hazel. Maybe mine were on their way.

What about the rest of me? I couldn't possibly be as gloomy as my dad, as boring. Could I? Could Marlee be right about me?