The Sweetest Thing (23 page)

As I reach down and grab my notebook from my bag, Jack’s bracelet jiggles on my wrist. He smiles big. I feel a twinge of guilt. He wouldn’t be smiling if he knew about my date with Ethan later.

I stare out of the window and sigh. What am I going to do with these two?

“Why a bird?” I ask, the chem book lying useless on my lap.

“Bird?”

“Yeah, why’d you pick a bird charm?”

He shrugs one shoulder. “Just reminded me of you.” He shifts the car, and I listen to the gears grind.

“Why?”

“I dunno.” We stop at a light. “I guess even when we were kids, I thought you’d be the one to, you know”—he flaps his hand and laughs—“fly away or whatever. Always seemed like you could do anything, be anything, go anywhere. That’s why I got it. It reminded me of you.”

“That’s weird.”

“Why?”

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“Because I don’t want to go anywhere.”

“That’s what you say.” He shifts again. “But I don’t believe you.”

“Oh. That’s nice.”

“Hey.” He points to the chem book in my lap. “Lab.”

I turn back to the book. We don’t say a non-chemistry word to each other the rest of the way to the hospital, and by the time we pull into the parking garage, the lab is done. I even mostly understand it, I think.

The sight of the tall building and the big automatic doors makes me forget all about my romantic issues, and my stomach does a weird jig. I look at Jack.

“You okay?” he asks.

“I’m nervous.” The doors open as we walk in.

“Don’t be.” He grabs my hand. He’s never held my hand in all the years that we’ve known each other. But I don’t pull away.

She’s on the fourth floor, and visiting hours end in twenty minutes. A cranky-looking nurse asks who we are, then calls another nurse, who seems nicer.

“I’ll take you to see her,” she says, looking at Jack. “Only family, sweetheart.” She points to a row of chairs behind us.

Jack squeezes my hand, pressing the bird charm into my palm. He lets go and sits down.

The nurse escorts me down a dimly lit hallway. “Lilian?”

she calls, and raps lightly on a door. “Are you up for a visitor?”

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“Who is it?” I hear her voice, but it’s not loud and booming like usual. It sounds weak and watery. I follow the nurse and stop short when I see Nanny. She looks a hundred years old and shrunken to half her size in that big hospital bed.

“Hi.” I am stuck to the floor.

“Get over here, girl,” she whispers. “You look scared as a wild turkey on Thanksgiving morning. Gosh sakes, come here and give me a hug. I’m not gonna break.”

I do what she says, but it seems like just saying those words has worn her out. She smiles big, but when I hug her, I am very careful. There are tubes and wires coming out of her every which way. The nurse has left the room. It’s just the two of us.

Since Dad told me that story of the time I stayed with Nanny as a kid, memories have come back to me in bits and pieces. I do remember some of it. Like the fact that I was really confused. I missed Mom and Dad. But at the same time, I always felt safe and totally loved with Nanny.

She pats the bed and I sit next to her. She reaches for my hand. “I’m gonna be just fine, sweetheart. Now you gotta get that look off your face. You’re scarin’ the bejesus out of me. Do I really look that bad?”

“No. You don’t look so bad.”

“Oh. Not so bad. Well, that’s better than six feet under, I s’pose.” She breathes deeply a few times. “Just so you know, they say if I take care of myself from here on out, my ticker’ll last a hundred years.”

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“Good.”

I look across the room to the windows that overlook Grand Rapids. It’s getting dark.

“Saw your daddy today. Told me he talked to you.” She pats my hand.

I nod. “Yeah. We talked all right.”

“He’s got a bee in his bonnet about you.”

“It’s not a big deal. I’m not going to New York. It’s not something you should worry about.”

“Oh, I’m not worried, because I know my girl ain’t no dummy. She might be stubborn, but she ain’t no dummy.”

I turn back to her, look in her eyes and smirk. “Was that a compliment?”

She laughs quietly, until the laugh becomes a cough.

When she finally settles down, she smiles. “I’m sayin’ you’re bullheaded like your grandmother. But you’d better remember what I’ve taught you. Darlin’, your plans are just plain puny. You can’t even imagine the life that is out there waiting for you.”

I shrug, unable to imagine anything better than making cakes in St. Mary and having my mother and father in my life at the same time.

“Nanny? Do you think Mom still loves me?” I touch her hand, hold it in mine, will her to say yes.

“Course she does.” She is breathing heavier and sounds so tired. The beeping sound behind us is keeping rhythm with her heart. “But you know some people just don’t know 243

how to show it.”

“You think that’s a good enough excuse?”

Nanny pats my hand. “No. It’s not good enough. But sweetie, I can’t speak for your mother. All I know is that I adore you. And I want the world for you.”

The bracelet on my wrist catches her eye. She touches it.

“What’s this?”

I lift my wrist and touch the bird. “A present. From Jack.”

She reaches out for the charm and reads it as I bring it in closer. “Dream. Isn’t that nice? What a sweet gift.”

The nurse walks back into the room, starts to mess with a machine by the bed. “Time for your meds, Lilian.”

Nanny looks at me. “I am getting a little tired. You should probably go home, baby girl.”

“I don’t want to leave.” I hold her hand tighter.

“Don’t worry. These folks say I’ll be ready for home on Sunday. Can you believe that? Huh! Modern medicine.” She laughs and then winces. “Go and do your TV show. I can’t wait to see it.” I roll my eyes, but she pokes at my bracelet.

“No, no, don’t roll those eyes. You’ve got to dream big, darlin’. Don’t be afraid to dream big.”

I stand up, lean over, and kiss her soft, sunken cheek.

“Love you,” I say. But she’s already asleep.

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Jack drives me home. He seems to guess that I don’t want to talk, which is good, because he is right. That’s one of the perks of having a best friend since forever. He turns on some mellow music, and I watch my reflection in the passenger window.

I am trying to make sense of everything that’s happened.

Trying to understand why Mom hasn’t called me back. I am so confused.

We pull up to the house. The parking lot is almost empty, which never happens on a Wednesday night. But the restaurant is closed through the weekend because of the show.

I shiver suddenly, afraid that I’m seeing the future: Dad in New York, the restaurant gone, Nanny weak and old. Our little triangle destroyed.

I notice the lights are on in the front room of the house.

Jack doesn’t make a move to kiss me again, which I think is very gentlemanly. But I lean across with my hand out-stretched, touch his cheek, and pull his face to mine. Our lips touch, and once again, my body is zapped with electric charges. So it wasn’t a one-time thing. He smiles. But I still don’t know what all this means. Ethan’s face pops into my mind. If only he wasn’t so good looking.

“See you at school,” I say, pushing open the door and stepping from the car. “Thanks for taking me.”

Jack grabs my hand. “It’s going to be okay, you know,” he says across the darkness.

He sounds so sure. I hope he’s right.

“Yup. Okay,” I say. I close the door, then walk up the front steps and into the house. Dad and the Suits are sitting in the front room. It’s like walking into a spiderweb, and I’m a big, juicy bug. My eyes scan the faces, and I notice there are a few extra Suits. Great, they’re multiplying.

“Here she is.” Amazon stands and walks toward me.

“Here’s Sheridan. And how is Grammy?”

“Nanny.”

“Yes. Nanny. How is she?”

“She’s fine.” But Amazon is not really listening. She escorts me to the sofa.

“Sheridan, I’d like to introduce you to Bob Fisher, the president of ExtremeCuisine TV.”

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This old guy with snow-white hair stands up, holds out his hand. “Ah, the famous Cake Girl of St. Mary. That’s what they call you, I hear?”

I nod and force my mouth into a half smile.

“Well, it is a pleasure to meet you.” He looks from me to Dad. “Donovan, she’s a beauty. Must take after her mother.”

Polite laughter follows. Dad’s eyes dart to mine. Obviously, no one has schooled Bob Fisher on our screwed-up family dynamics.

“I hope you realize, Miss Wells, that your father is about to change your life forever.” He waits for a response. A thank-you? A shout of glee?

I hold the arm of the sofa, tight. “Yes. I do.”

Maybe Amazon is picking up on my sarcasm, because she abruptly changes the subject. “So. On to your wardrobe.

Olga is here somewhere; she’s a seamstress and wil be fitting you.” She walks over to the chair in the corner. “Here are the dresses. Go ahead and try this one on first; it’s my personal favorite.” She holds up a melon-colored halter dress with giant hibiscus blossoms al over the fabric.

“For real?”

“Trust me. It’ll look like magic once you get it on.”

Yeah, like someone magical y threw up hibiscus flowers onto my dress.

“Go on, try it on. It’s vintage. You’ll look stunning.” She holds it up to my body. “Just stunning. Maybe have to take in the bust a bit. OLGA!”

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She yells so loud I’m surprised my eardrums don’t burst.

I look at my watch. It’s only seven. But I hope they clear out by the time I have to go meet Ethan. Because I need to see him tonight, to figure this out.

The fitting goes fast. And yes, Olga has to take in the bust. A lot.

It’s only eight thirty by the time we are finished. Dad announces to our guests that he’ll cook up a snack if anyone is hungry. Everyone accepts. Thankfully, he has to go to the restaurant to do this because we have no food.

I say no thanks and head upstairs to my room. I reach into my pocket and dig out Mom’s heart-shaped note, sit with it on the edge of my bed. My fingers trace the letters, as they have for years. I pull my cell phone out of my other pocket, check for messages. Of course, I already know there are zero.

I throw the phone onto the bed behind me. Then I stand up to get dressed for my “date” and realize that my closet is a black hole of ugliness. Totally inadequate. Nothing to wear.

Finally, I decide on the same pair of jeans I wore yesterday.

They desperately need to be washed, so I spritz them with a healthy dose of Febreze and hope Ethan won’t notice. I add a tank top under the striped hoodie that Lori gave me for Christmas and sigh. This will have to do.

In the bathroom, I look in the mirror and pat at the dark circles under my eyes. I scramble to plug in the flat-iron. I brush my teeth, my tongue, and my gums and even 248

gag myself trying to reach as far back as possible with the toothbrush. This is not a night for stinky breath. A little eye shadow, eyeliner, mascara. It’s when I put on the lipstick that I am reminded of Jack’s kiss.

Man. What a crazy mess.

It’s not even nine o’clock. I should go to the bakery and crank out another hibiscus. But the house is so quiet and peaceful, I want to stay. I feel a strange pull, and it makes me lie down in the middle of my bed and dig out my art project.

I open to the grape hyacinths.

I see my cake sketchbook on the desk and stretch to grab it. I open it to the first page. There’s the sketch of the John Hancock Building, a skyscraper in Chicago that I re-created out of cake last summer. Then a sketch of my Indiana Dunes cake, complete with a dune buggy. That was great. I flip through the pages: wedding cakes, birthday cakes, baby shower cakes—so many over the years.

Then I close that sketchbook and look at the grape hyacinths. Like the cakes, I drew this picture for someone’s ap-proval. Mrs. Ely gave me no choice. But there’s something about these drawings that makes me feel different.

I love making cakes; I love that they make people happy.

And they make me feel closer to Mom. But when I make art, it’s not about remembering anyone, or pleasing anyone.

I work to please myself. Just me, no one else.

Mrs. Ely’s voice floats through my head, trying to convince me that I can make cakes
and
draw. I mean, duh, right?

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I know I can do both. And I remember Growly talking about how we aren’t meant to be exactly like our parents.
We have
gifts of our own.
My mother always talked about me fol owing in her footsteps. Wouldn’t it make sense, though, that she would also want me to lay some tracks of my own? That maybe she’d want me to do more than she did?

I look up at the clock. It’s nine thirty. A little early, but I need to get out of here. I stuff a pillow under my bed to make it look like I’m sleeping, pull on my Uggs, and head out the back door, in case a Suit (or worse, my father) is peeking out of one of the restaurant’s windows.

As I swing around Main, the town square is quiet, except for a few people exiting Geronimo’s. I skitter into a doorway while they come out, then stick to the shadows. No need for Jack to catch a glimpse of me. A giant-size dollop of guilt hits me head-on.
What am I doing?

I am on the path toward the harbor. The moon is shining bright on the high bluffs. The air smells like sand and fish, a sure sign that warmer weather is coming. But tonight I stick my hands in my coat pockets and put on my mittens because it’s still cold. My eyes follow the line of the water, and I have this terrible thought that it’s all going to disappear; that everything is about to change. I memorize everything: every ripple, every sound, every particle of icy air that lands on my face.

What if I did go to New York City? How would I survive without all of this?

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