The Owl & Moon Cafe: A Novel (No Series) (40 page)

They sat there in silence, the muted lapping of the waves the only sounds of life. At sixteen, Mariah was this uptight fatherless girl who above all didn’t want to attract attention to herself. Five years later, she was pregnant. Her mind bubbled over with the percentages of unwed mothers, how the welfare system didn’t help that many get out of it, and added in the minimum wage having stayed frozen for fifty years while politicians siphoned money out of the government for private jets and vacation homes. It almost made her want to, well, protest.

“I forgive you everything,” Allegra said. “Now you have to forgive me.”

The note from Gammy was taped to Mariah’s bedroom door:

Mariah left the note where it was, slid into her bed fully clothed, and swallowed another aspirin to make sure the headache didn’t find its way back. In a few hours, she would stand in the café kitchen and make bread, cookies, take special orders, and needle Simon until he revealed details of his date with the peace officer. Fergus would be packing for his flight, Theodora following him around morosely because she wasn’t going along. Mariah’d relayed Lindsay’s offer to dog sit, knowing full well she’d end up walking Theo herself—what the hell, the dog was the closest she could get to being with Fergus.

And in just a few hours, Lindsay would lie down on a gurney while a nurse fitted an I.V. into her hand. I.V.’s were for sick people. Sick like Allegra had been. Poking needles into her little girl’s freckled skin. Lindsay wasn’t worried; she was excited. Her grandfather promised to stand there while her insides were inspected and sampled. Where is this child’s mother? one of the nurses would whisper to another, and if Dr. Goodnough heard he might dress her down. Who accompanied her daughter for the procedure was a practical solution to an impossible schedule upon which so many people depended it was dizzying. It makes sense for us to be there, Al had said. Allegra’s will be the last face she sees before she goes under and the first face when she wakes up. Mariah nodded, oh, yes, practical, but all night long all she could think was that even if it meant leaving Simon and Gammy in charge of the café, she couldn’t let that happen.

It was six
AM
, and by now Lindsay was checked into the surgi-center, changed into her paper gown, and a nurse was rubbing her hand, feeling for a willing vein. Mariah could see her daughter pumping her fist, looking at the needle as it pierced her flesh, fascinated. How had she managed to raise this girl who fell in love with dead scientists and would rather pore over her grandfather’s medical textbooks than watch MTV?

“I can’t believe we’re out of shallots,” Simon said as he simmered the chicken broth in one pan and the leeks in another. “Even Bess knows I like to caramelize shallots for cock-a-leekie soup,” he said. “It imparts a touch of earthiness.”

Mariah looked up in wonder. What had happened to Mr. Sourpuss, who could send her mood into a death spiral in under a minute, and who was he playacting for? Oh. The peace officer with the enormous pension was with him. Maybe it was his day off, and he’d tagged along to watch his new beau create culinary masterpieces as part of the afterglow of the previous evening’s sex. She was jealous. Fergus didn’t venture behind the order counter unless he was on his way to the loo. Given her sorry state this morning—dirty hair, swollen eyes from crying and worrying about Lindsay, and the specter of the headache rattling around behind her left ear—she was glad Fergus had arrived late. There was only time to hand off the dog so he didn’t miss his plane. Theo was now upstairs sleeping on Mariah’s bed.

“I adore shallots,” the peace officer said, smiling. His shoulders were broad, but his frame was thin, just like Simon’s. Mariah imagined the two of them sitting on his couch looking through one of the many coffee table books Simon had:
The History of Winemaking, The Amalfi Coast, An Aerial View of San Francisco.
He always told Mariah what to buy him for Christmas.

“Have you ever wrapped them in puff pastry? Divine. Open a bottle of Wild Horse Cabernet Sauv, and you’re in heaven.”

“Mariah,” Simon said. “Terry makes brioche. His Godiva brownies are sin on a plate. And he’s on vacation this week.”

Mariah slid the challah into the oven, set the timer, and turned to retrieve cookie dough from the fridge. “How are you at peanut butter cookies?”

“I enjoy eating them,” he said.

“Trust me, they’re a snap.” She handed him the waxed paper–wrapped dough. “Roll these out to half an inch. This spatula is best for making the crisscross design. Don’t wax the cookie sheets; use parchment paper. It’s on the roll over there. Bake them ten to twelve minutes at three seventy-five. The cooling rack is over here. Use it. When you finish, do the sugar cookies. Use the Christmas cutters.” She threw him her apron and he caught it. “If anyone bitches tell them I’ll make the goddamn fudge when I get back, that I’ve gone to be with my daughter at the hospital, and that’s more important than anybody’s sweet tooth. And don’t let Mr. Cashin bully you.”

“You told me she was cute,” Terry said to Simon, “but you didn’t tell me about the Bette Davis eyes.”

“Where are you going?” Simon asked, still using his nice voice.

“CHOMP. Lindsay’s having a test because she might have bleeding ulcers, and I think it’s more important for me to be there than it is to be here.”

“Mariah?” Simon whined, “please take Gammy with you. Terry and I can run orders and the register. Please, Mariah, it’d be a huge favor.”

“All right.” In the café, she pulled her grandmother away from Mr. Cashin, who was in early, and on whom Gammy had chosen to stretch her antagonizing muscles. “Get in the car,” she said. “If we can’t be there when Lindsay goes under we can sure as hell be there when she wakes up.”

“Amen to that,” Gammy said, not even batting an eyelash at Mariah’s mention of the underworld.

L
INDSAY WAS SIPPING
apricot juice from a box when her mother and Gammy came rushing into the recovery room. Her mother had the pinched look that meant she hadn’t slept, and Gammy “rattled her beads,” which was what she called it when she prayed in public, like when the pope was sick in the hospital and couldn’t do the Easter Mass. “Want to see inside my stomach?” she said, holding out a computer-generated image that showed four views of the places where she’d been bleeding.

But Gammy didn’t want to look, and her mother started to cry and then wanted to hug her, which was embarrassing and also seemed overly dramatic to Lindsay since the whole procedure start to finish took about twenty minutes, which wasn’t even as long as it had taken Dr. Ritchie to give them their last-minute instructions for how to present on Science Project Fair night. No last-minute surprises, girls, she’d insisted. Everything will go nice and easy, just like we practiced. Ha. That showed how little she knew.

“I’m going to be fine,” she said. “All I have to do is take medicine and have periodic blood tests.”

“And stop worrying so much,” Allegra added.

“Which is not anybody’s fault,” Dr. G added. “The human body, for all we know of its design and function, is filled with idiosyncrasies. It helps if you think of it in terms of a weak spot. For Mariah, it’s migraines. For Bess—”

Gammy pointed the crucifix on her rosary at him. “Enough speechifying. Just tell us our little girl is going to mend.”

“Of course she is. Now that we know what’s wrong, we can prescribe the right medicine to fix it.”

“Lindsay needs to learn to meditate,” Allegra said. “Acupuncture wouldn’t hurt, either. Krishna Dahvid’ll pick out the right meridians and invoke their chi and—”

“Alice,” Gammy said, “that is a load of woo-woo nonsense and you know it. The child’s going to start attending church with me on Sundays even if I have to pay her ten simoleons to do it.”

“Mama,” Allegra said, “just because church works for you doesn’t mean it works for everyone. Lindsay’s smart enough and old enough to choose her own path.”

“What other path is there but God’s,” Gammy said, “seeing as how He blazed all the trails in the first place?”

“Ladies,” Dr. G said, “right now we all need to calm down and let Lindsay rest.”

Lindsay looked between Gammy and Allegra, feeling like she was watching a speeded up tennis match. Then she saw her mom, her hair clipped up at a funny angle, dark circles under her eyes, flour on her wrist and her shirt sleeves rolled up unevenly. She noticed Lindsay watching her and came perilously close to tears. Then, as she usually did, she shoved them out of the way to some secret location to where they’d build up like a rainy day savings account for the worst storm ever.

“Mom, what do you think I need?” she said, and waited for her to say art lessons or a therapist or a trip to Yorkshire, which she knew all along her mom had been planning until she lost her teaching job.

Her mom touched her right hand to her throat. A floury fingerprint remained when she took her hand away. Her mom looked rattled, the way she did during thesis defense week, when she had to make the pass or fail decisions that allowed a student to get his degree or sent him back to the library. No wonder her mom was happiest when she was in school; school was safer than the outside world. Sure, you had to put up with the Taylor Fosters, and friends like Sally could come and go, but you could know some of the rules. Hold off speaking until everyone else has given her opinion. Go a little wild in art class. Omit certain parts of your science project until the night of presentation because you were going to get into trouble, but maybe, just maybe, you were going to win a scholarship that would allow you to go to SAT camp.

“Lindsay,” Mariah said, “I think it’s time that you get to decide what will make you happy.” Then she hugged Lindsay around the shoulders, the way Lindsay preferred affection, coming in little bits and lightly offered, something you could leave right there or lean into if you needed more of it.

“Mariah,” Dr. G said, “you’re a wonderful mother.”

That undid her. Lindsay studied her mom as she went from a few tears to a choked sob to allowing Dr. G to give her a hug. All she could think was, I guess I won’t be spending all my allowance on Pepcid anymore. She’d miss the familiar berry taste. Anything you knew that well was going to be hard to forget.

“Girls,” Dr. Ritchie said the afternoon of Science Project Presentation, “get yourselves collected and sit down this minute.”

Her voice rose on the last three syllables and the muttering and fretting immediately stopped. Taylor Foster smiled smugly, while next to her Sally looked bored. Avril ran to the bathroom because she needed to throw up, and Dr. Ritchie asked if there were any final questions before they went to the pizza party.

Belva said, “Everyone should be checked for celiac disease but especially Avril. It doesn’t just cause irritable bowel, you know.”

“Will you shut up about the freaking wheat thing?” Sally said. Dr. Ritchie must have agreed, because she didn’t scold Sally.

“Listen closely, because this is tonight’s schedule,” Dr. Ritchie said. “At four forty-five the pizza dinner will commence in the cafeteria. The video showing of
The Secret Life of Insects
begins at five. At six-thirty you are all to be in the greenroom backstage from the theater. At six forty-five, there will be a brief introduction, and at seven presentations will begin.”

“Who goes first?” Taylor said. “Are we alphabetical by subject or is the order arranged by name? Subject order’s the fairest, if you ask me.”

Of course she’d say that, Lindsay knew, since she’d worded her project title to come in last in the alphabet. If you went last, you could come up with something to make the judges forget everyone else but you. Taylor deliberately titled her project: “Urchins: The Life Cycle of Monterey Bay’s
Allocentrotus fragilis,
aka the Fragile Pink Sea Urchins.” She’d win, too, because the Aquarium had a killer exhibit and probably allowed Taylor to work behind the scenes, even if she had to get her dad to make a donation in order for that to happen. Lindsay didn’t care anymore. She just wanted Science Fair to be over and Christmas vacation to begin. This wasn’t about presents. It was about sleeping with Theodora while she watched New Year’s Rockin’ Eve. She wanted to burn this whole year in the annual bonfire on the beach, and she wanted to read as many books as she could before school started again.

“Yes, we will be going alphabetical by project title,” Dr. Ritchie said. “Now I need you girls to remember—”

“Alphabetical order is archaic,” Sally said. “Think about it, Dr. Ritchie. You’re condoning the tyranny of twenty-six letters. Suppose my project started with ‘zoology,’ and then after the colon, I had the subtitle of ‘Apes.’ Then I’d be last, unless someone else was also ‘zoology,’ had a colon, and what followed that colon was after my colon alphabetically. We should draw numbers. Leaving things to chance is better than bowing down to whatever dictator invented the alphabet.”

Taylor drew back from Sally like a pet snake had bitten her. Once again, Lindsay noted, Sally looked bored, maybe even annoyed. Dr. Ritchie, on the other hand, now looked like she might kill Sally. Her hands shook on the paper she was trying to read and her mouth was drawn so tight her lips seemed to disappear. Lindsay kicked Sally under the table. This was, as Gammy would say, “the eleventeenth hour.”

“Do you want Taylor to tell about the marijuana now, or can you wait a few stupid hours before this is all over?” Lindsay hissed.

Sally looked at Lindsay and said in a monotone, “Sorry, Dr. R. Alphabetical works just fine. Really. Let’s go alphabetical. Come on, everyone. Let’s hear it for the vowels.”

The teacher read on. “I need you girls to remember, should any of you win an award or an honorable mention, to thank the Science Fair’s sponsors, who are the State Council for Science and Mathematics, the PTA, and Pacific Grove’s mayor elect. Additionally, there will be a short presentation by last-minute sponsors who are giving an additional monetary award for special recognition.”

“Another award?” Taylor said. “For how much? Are there any special circumstances? Because to exclude that information until now isn’t really fair and could easily be contested.”

Dr. Ritchie set her paper down and walked to the window. It was raining. The rabbit was curled around his bedding. Limp carrots lay around him, their green tops nibbled away. Dr. Ritchie didn’t say anything for the longest time. Then what she did say was unexpected. “You’ve all worked very hard and deserve a reward. Lindsay’s mother has thoughtfully provided an assortment of cookies, some of which are clearly marked as wheat-free.” She opened a bag and took out two familiar pink boxes. “She’s also baked brownies for the Science Fair Presentation as well. I think I’ll just sit down for a bit. Just sit here and put my feet up. Talk among yourselves, but try to keep it down to a roar, please.”

There was a general dive-bombing for the cookies, but Lindsay didn’t want any. It surprised her that her mom had managed to get the cookies and brownies to the school without her finding out, but she’d hired a new person a few days ago, an older woman named Esther who Gammy bet wouldn’t last the week. Look at her, she said. Skinny as a rail post, and would it kill her to take a few smiling lessons? But Lindsay’s mom had started out not smiling, and now she could slap one on her face any old time. She pointed out that Esther was walking circles around everyone, including herself, so Gammy had shut up, and begun planning a weeklong trip to see her friend Dove Lyons, down near San Luis Obispo.

What concerned Lindsay was that Dr. Ritchie had her hand over her eyes, and that her color wasn’t its usual porcelain white with twin bright spots of color on her cheeks. Lindsay mentally reviewed all the reasons this could be, which included things as simple as a bad sandwich or stress from preparing for the Science Project Presentation Night to an unplanned pregnancy, which generally started out with nausea. Was it leukemia? Maybe, like Gammy, she needed to take a trip. Scotland was kind of pretty, at least in the books. Theodora, FTF’s dog, was beautiful, but had to be on a lead at all times, which meant no running on the beach like Lindsay had with Khan. Theo was perfect for hugging, though, and she didn’t mind when Lindsay used her as a pillow while she read. Dr. Ritchie might be getting the flu, like Mrs. Shiasaka had. The flu hit older people harder than it did kids. Maybe a friend of hers had died or her boyfriend had said she was getting in the way of his studies. Lindsay walked over to the desk.

“Dr. Ritchie?” she asked. “Do you need to go to the nurse?”

Her teacher looked up and smiled. “I’m fine, Lindsay. I’m simply nervous about tonight. I want things to go well.” Dr. Ritchie pointed to Lindsay’s hem. “You’ll need to get that let down to comply with school regulations,” she said.

“Huh?”

“You’ve grown at least two inches this semester.”

“I’ve grown?” Lindsay stared at her knees, but of course that just made the hem drop lower because she was bent over. Then she heard Sally call out that the pizza was here, and to step on it or she’d end up eating salad with Belva. “You’re my favorite teacher,” Lindsay said quickly.

Dr. Ritchie grinned and the spots of red on her cheeks returned. “Go get your pizza. And good luck tonight.”

Spicy foods and ulcers—Dr. G told Lindsay that was a myth, that she could eat anything she wanted with the exception of fast food, which he didn’t recommend for anybody. Sally had her plate loaded up with the pepperoni and bacon pizza, but Lindsay didn’t think she could eat them even if she didn’t have an ulcer. It wasn’t just the meat, which to be honest grossed her out, but the animals the meat came from. Take the sausage, for example.
Sus scrofa
was naturally lean, unless overfed, and smart, with the verified intelligence of at least a human toddler. One family’s pet pig had saved a kid from drowning. Their sense of smell was so keen they could hunt out truffles, the most delicately scented of fungi. Pigs knew enough to wallow in mud to stay cool, which, given the fact that they had no sweat glands, took some thinking. E. B. White had written
Charlotte’s Web,
a story that always made Lindsay cry, but he was also the author of the essay “Death of a Pig,” which was funny and also sad, but in a way that showed what it meant to be human and tend animals, and she bet that during his lifetime, E. B. White didn’t eat bacon either. She loaded up her plate with salad and went to sit by Belva, who was alone at her end of the cafeteria table. Carl Sagan probably was a geek at age twelve, too. Anyone could be the next great scientist, even Belva.