of the strawberries picked from the vine and put it all in the ceramic bowl she’d made in college that rested on top of the doily. It was red and white and delicate and elegant but she was always bad at accepting compliments. After the vines slowed for fall, she wanted to do something more rugged, so she called up a friend who knew a contractor and hired him on the promise that she could assist while they installed the side door in my brother’s bedroom, just in case he ever wanted to go outside.
But he hates outside! I said, following them into Joseph’s room for measurements. Why can’t I have a door?
You’re too young for a door, Mom said. My brother held his backpack to his chest, watching, and he gave a short nod when Mom asked if the location was okay. How long will it take? he asked.
We’ll only work on it while you’re in school, she assured us both, pulling out a notebook list of supplies.
It took three weeks of sawing, sanding, destroying and rebuilding, my mother in jeans, her ponytail tucked under the collar of her blouse, the contractor giving long explanations on sizing. Joseph slept under an extra quilted comforter once the wall had broken open, because he preferred his own bed. They worked day after day until the wood was finally fitted, and the window at the top installed, and the doorknob attached, and cheerful little red curtains hung partway down the frame. Mom presented it to Joseph as soon as we came home from school. Ta-da! she said, pulling him by the wrist and bowing. He put his hand on the doorknob and exited through the door and then circled back through the front door of the house and went into the kitchen to eat cereal. Looks good, he called, from the kitchen. Mom and I opened and closed the door fifty times, locking it and pulling the curtains shut; unlocking it and pulling the curtains open. When Dad got home at his usual time, six feet tall and nearly ducking under door frames, he made a few calls in the bedroom, and when Mom dragged him out to see the finished product, he said nice, nicely done, and then folded his arms.
What? Mom said.
Nothing.
It has a key lock, I said, pointing.
Just funny, said Dad, wrinkling his nose. All this work for a door in a room only one of us goes into.
You can use it, Joseph called, from the kitchen.
In case of a fire, I said.
We did so much sanding, Mom said, tracing the new calluses on her palms.
Very smooth, said Dad, touching the curtains.
After dinner, while Dad finished the rest of his work in the bedroom, Mom stretched out on the living-room carpet in front of the red brick fireplace, and even though it was warm out still, almost seventy degrees, she lit a fire using an old pine log she’d found in the garage. Come sit, Rose, she called to me, and we nestled up together and stared as the flickering flames licked the log into ash. I had nightmares that night, since they say you have nightmares more easily when the house is too warm. I dreamed we were plunging down frozen rivers.
My birthday cake was her latest project because it was not from a mix but instead built from scratch-the flour, the baking soda, lemon-flavored because at eight that had been my request; I had developed a strong love for sour. We’d looked through several cookbooks together to find just the right one, and the smell in the kitchen was overpoweringly pleasant. To be clear: the bite I ate was delicious. Warm citrus-baked batter lightness enfolded by cool deep dark swirled sugar.
But the day was darkening outside, and as I finished that first bite, as that first impression faded, I felt a subtle shift inside, an unexpected reaction. As if a sensor, so far buried deep inside me, raised its scope to scan around, alerting my mouth to something new. Because the goodness of the ingredients-the fine chocolate, the freshest lemons-seemed like a cover over something larger and darker, and the taste of what was underneath was beginning to push up from the bite. I could absolutely taste the chocolate, but in drifts and traces, in an unfurling, or an opening, it seemed that my mouth was also filling with the taste of smallness, the sensation of shrinking, of upset, tasting a distance I somehow knew was connected to my mother, tasting a crowded sense of her thinking, a spiral, like I could almost even taste the grit in her jaw that had created the headache that meant she had to take as many aspirins as were necessary, a white dotted line of them in a row on the nightstand like an ellipsis to her comment: I’m just going to lie down… None of it was a bad taste, so much, but there was a kind of lack of wholeness to the flavors that made it taste hollow, like the lemon and chocolate were just surrounding a hollowness. My mother’s able hands had made the cake, and her mind had known how to balance the ingredients, but she was not there, in it. It so scared me that I took a knife from a drawer and cut out a big slice, ruining the circle, because I had to check again right that second, and I put it on a pink-flowered plate and grabbed a napkin from the napkin drawer. My heart was beating fast. Eddie Oakley shrank to a pinpoint. I was hoping I’d imagined it-maybe it was a bad lemon? or old sugar?-although I knew, even as I thought it, that what I’d tasted had nothing to do with ingredients-and I flipped on the light and took the plate in the other room to my favorite chair, the one with the orange-striped pattern, and with each bite, I thought-mmm, so good, the best ever, yum-but in each bite: absence, hunger, spiraling, hollows. This cake that my mother had made just for me, her daughter, whom she loved so much I could see her clench her fists from overflow sometimes when I came home from school, and when she would hug me hello I could feel how inadequate the hug was for how much she wanted to give.
I ate the whole piece, desperate to prove myself wrong.
When Mom got up, after six, she wandered into the kitchen and saw the slice taken out of the cake and found me slumped at the foot of the orange-striped chair. She knelt down and smoothed the hot hair off my forehead.
Rosie, she said. Sweets. You all right?
I blinked open eyes, with eyelids heavier now, like tiny lead weights had been strung, fishing-line style, onto each lash.
I ate a slice of cake, I said.
She smiled at me. I could still see the headache in her, pulsing in her left eyebrow, but the smile was real.
That’s okay, she said, rubbing the underside of her eye bone. How’d it turn out?
Fine, I said, but my voice wavered.
She went and got herself a piece and sat down with me on the floor, crossing her legs. Sheet lines pressed into her cheek from the nap.
Mmm, she said, taking a small bite. Do you think it’s too sweet?
I could feel the mountain swelling in my throat, an ache spreading into the lining of my neck.
What is it, baby? she asked.
I don’t know.
Joe home from school yet?
Not yet.
What’s wrong? Are you crying? Did something happen at school?
Did you and Dad have a fight?
Not really, she said, wiping her mouth with my napkin. Just a discussion. You don’t have to worry about that.
Are you okay? I said.
Me?
You? I said, sitting up more.
She shrugged. Sure, she said. I just needed a nap. Why?
I shook my head clear. I thought-
She raised her eyebrows, encouraging.
It tastes
The cake? She laughed a little, startled. Is it that bad? Did I miss an ingredient?
No, I said. Not like that. Like you were away? You feel okay?
I kept shaking my head. The words, stupid words, which made no sense.
I’m here, she said, brightly. I feel fine. More?
She held out a forkful, all sunshine and cocoa, but I could not possibly eat it. I swallowed and, with effort, the spit slid around the mountain in my throat.
I guess I shouldn’t spoil my dinner? I said.
Only then-and only for a second-did she look at me oddly. Funny kid, she said. She patted her fingers on the napkin and stood. Well, then. Should we get started?
