by Matayo, Amy
“Are you finally ready for your cupcake, James?” I ask. He’s been here nearly an hour and has only had coffee which is not unusual for him. James is the kind who has to slowly justify his sweet tooth, though he always decides that it’s permissible to have one.
“Sure am, Miss Riley. I can’t wait to see what you have for me today.”
I smile. “I had one in mind the moment you walked in the door wearing that red flannel shirt. Don’t you know it’s still hot outside, James? And today it’s especially muggy. You need to retire that shirt so you don’t die of a heat stroke. Hang on a second, and I’ll get the one I picked out for you. Want more coffee too?”
“Of course. It’d be a sin to have dessert without coffee.”
“Basically like breaking the eleventh commandment. There aren’t enough Hail Marys in the world to redeem you from that.”
James looks up at me and laughs, and I walk away to get his cupcake.
I do a thing here. It’s something the customers have grown to expect. It’s like my own little novelty, though, for the life of me I can’t remember how it started. A couple years ago, I think? Maybe Paul’s first day of work when he showed up ten minutes late, and I made a production in front of everyone, quickly scratching a clock out of a nearby bag of black icing on a white cupcake and handing it to him. This says nine o’clock. Maybe now you’ll show up on time tomorrow. The customers laughed, and they’ve been requesting their own cupcakes since.
Make one for me, Miss Riley.
Make me one, Riley Mae.
It’s a mantra of sorts, so I do.
I make cupcakes designed around people’s personalities: good moods, bad moods, loud clothing, crass jokers. None of that matters to anyone, because when I hand them a cupcake that represents whatever I sense in them that day, they laugh. It’s hard to stay down when your dessert becomes your shrink. Cupcakes make everyone happy, even ones decorated with butcher knives, blood, and tears. Just ask James. He came in frazzled and sweaty—partly due to that dang shirt. This will get him in a better mood.
I set a naked, showering, and soaped up Santa in front of him and wait for his reaction.
He blinks at it and narrows his eyes. “Christmas, Miss Riley? In September?
“You look like Santa in that shirt. Lumberjack Santa building his toys.”
“Why’s he taking a shower?”
“Because he’s sweaty and stinky, that’s why.”
“Are you saying I smell bad?”
“Never.” James has gray hair and a short gray beard. He would, in fact, look exactly like Santa if he grew it longer and wore a red sweater. I drop my voice to a whisper. “But if you must know, I have a little crush on the jolly guy. Don’t tell anyone.”
I wink, and he blushes, doing his best to hide a smile. See? Cupcakes change moods for the better. James is still sweating, but I suspect now it’s for an entirely different reason.
Paul walks by with another plate and sets one down at a table by the front window, so I raise my voice to an unnatural volume.
“Especially don’t tell Paul. I wouldn’t want him thinking he has any competition.”
Paul glances up at me and raises an eyebrow. “Don’t tell Paul what?”
I shrug. “About my crush on James—I mean, Santa Claus. Oops, I guess the secret’s out.” I blow James a kiss and walk away to the sound of both men laughing.
“She’s a mess,” I hear Paul say, and I smile when James agrees with him. It’s what I love about owning a bakery, maybe even more than the baking itself. The camaraderie. The friendly banter and lightening of spirits. The sense of family ushered in with familiar faces that show up day in and day out. I’m comfortable here; more than comfortable. I belong. I have a home. It’s been a long time coming for a girl who spent years hoping and praying just to feel included. Loss and abandonment will do that to a girl, even when she has a grandmother who cared enough to stick around through the hard parts. She’s been there for me in ways no one else has, but it’s sometimes easier to focus on the ways we’re slighted.
I’m almost to the kitchen when out of nowhere, lightning strikes loud and unexpected. Startled, I clutch my chest and turn around. What in the world? An elderly customer dropped a fork, everyone else is momentarily frozen and staring out the window. The air is still, but nothing looks particularly out of the ordinary. I rush to retrieve another fork. That little bit of activity snaps everyone out of their trance, and the shop is buzzing with noise again.
“Here you go,” I say, placing the fork next to her half-eaten cupcake, a strawberry one frosted white and laced with pearls. I look out the window and swallow, breathing slowly to calm my heartbeat. Old memories are impossible to shake, particularly ones that change your life. “Is it supposed to storm?”
“The news called for a thirty percent chance of rain today…” the woman mutters, looking out the window. “Well, would you look at that. Looks like more than thirty.”
The sky that was bright and sunny only seconds ago has suddenly turned an odd shade of grayish-green. The air has taken on an almost medicinal hue, like sulfur has settled inside the molecules and decided to hang on for a ride. It’s one o’clock in the afternoon but it looks dark enough to be near sunset. I stare another moment, then shrug and return to the counter. Customers are still waiting, and my staring out the window won’t get anyone fed. I reach for a bowl of sugar packets for table seven just as a low rumble makes its way across the roof. An overhead light begins to sway back and forth.
“Ow!” my grandmother says.
“Be careful,” I call over my shoulder, then set the platter down in front of a family of four. A mom, a dad, and two little girls wearing French braids, one child older than the other. It’s the best part about Saturday afternoons; the way families come out to eat, children filling up the tiny bakery with laughter and mischief. Two crayons are on the floor, along with a half-eaten waffle. How that fell is anyone’s guess.
Glancing up, I see that it’s bright and sunny again. This weather is weird. Paul is still standing by the window, engaged in what seems like a serious conversation with a first-timer. The storm must have been nothing more than a passing cloud, thank goodness. Bad weather tends to chase away customers.
I refill another coffee and walk back to the kitchen to check on my grandmother. She’s leaning against the sink with a wet cloth pressed to her wrist.
“You okay? What happened?”
“Oh, the light flickered back here, and I burned myself trying to get the cinnamon rolls out of the oven.”
I frown at the red skin peeking out from under the towel. “That lightning strike was loud. I’m glad the lights didn’t stay off.” I wave a finger in the air, and she relinquishes her wrist. This isn’t the first time my grandmother has hurt herself at work; she knows the drill. When I pull the cloth off, it’s worse than I imagined. “Did you hold your wrist to the coils just to see how much pain you could take? You really burned it.”
“I didn’t do it on purpose. It took a minute for the light to come on, and I got confused for a second. Instead of jerking my arm back, I went up and accidentally pressed it against the heat.”
The image rolls my stomach. “Stay here. I’ve got a first aid kit in the office, and I’ll doctor it right up.” I flip on the light in the small make-shift office and rummage through the metal desk drawers for bandages and ointment. I bought the desk at a re-sale shop two years ago and never oiled the hinges like I intended to. Consequently, the drawers squeak loudly every time they open and close. Imagine chewing tin foil during a particularly grueling toothache. That’s what it sounds like.
“Are you ever going to oil that desk?” my grandmother calls. “It makes my chest hurt every time I hear it.” It’s the same conversation every single time, and she already knows the answer. Yes. No. Probably. Maybe.
“Yes, when I remember to buy WD-40, which we both know I’ll never do. Keep up with my personality, grandma.”
She laughs, and I’m relieved. At
least the pain hasn’t cut her sense of humor. I lean in close and pull back the cloth to carefully examine her wrist. It’s disgusting. I used to think about becoming a nurse, but it’s a good thing I didn’t. Burns and splinters give me full-body chills, and right now is no exception. At least three layers of skin are burned though, maybe even four. I squeeze antibiotic ointment onto a bandage and smear it around with my finger, then secure it to her wrist, making sure the burn is completely covered. Burns are more common than you might think around here; the last thing anyone needs is an infection.
“Maybe you could get Paul to do it. You know, if you promise to go out with him or something. If nothing else, it would give him a reason to buy oil.”
I raise an eyebrow because surely she didn’t mean…
She did. Her wicked grin practically screams it. “Gross, grandma. I don’t need Paul to take me out or something, and I definitely don’t need him to oil my…desk. So, get your mind out of the gutter.”
I twist the cap back on the tube of medicine a little too roughly. “Do I have to remind you he’s a child? And my employee?”
“He might be younger than you, but he’s hardly a kid. He’d go out with you in a heartbeat if you’d show him some interest.”
“He’s Julia’s grandson! She would kill me, or is that part of your master plan?”
At this, she laughs again, finding way too much delight in my impending demise. Sometimes I wonder what life is like for ordinary people, ones whose grandmothers aren’t so invested in their love lives. Shouldn’t she have taken up knitting by now? Joined a bridge-playing group? Maybe you don’t do that sort of thing when you’ve never mentally matured past age seventeen. More likely, you don’t do that sort of thing when you’re left with the task of raising a granddaughter as your own child. She didn’t ask for that task, but she stepped up all the same.
She pokes me on the arm. “Oh, lighten up. I guess it is a little weird when you put it that way. Fine, you don’t have to date Paul. But could you at least date someone before I die and never get to see you happy?”
There are so many things I could say to this, but I swallow them all and simply say, “I am happy. I don’t need a man for that.”
“I wish someone had told me that when I was younger. Would have saved me a lot of trouble.” She means it as a joke, but I hear the deep regret buried in her words. Her good hand reaches out to stroke my hair in a rare display of seriousness. “Pink. I’m still not used to it, but I have to admit the color looks good on you.”
I smile at the unexpected compliment. “It’s temporary and will probably fade fast, but thank you. I’m glad I finally did it. Took me a while to get brave enough.” I’ve studied every shade of unnaturally-colored hair for months now, desperate to branch out and try something different. Life can get monotonous in a small town for a girl who’s married to her job. This place doesn’t offer much in the way of excitement or social life, not now or in the two decades since I showed up. It came down to skateboarding in Nathanael Greene Park or dyeing my hair a weird color.
It’s sad when pink hair offers you the thrill you’ve been looking for.
My grandmother sighs. “You have more courage in your little fingers than most people I know. Have since you were seven…” Thankfully, her voice trails off. Some things aren’t necessary to revisit, not out loud or inside the mind. “I just want to know that you’re taken care of when I’m gone. It’s all I’ve ever wanted.”
I smile because I know. “You’re not going anywhere, and personally I think I’m doing okay taking care of myself. I have this bakery after so many years of just hoping for it. I have you working here with me and customers who seem to like it. Other than opening up a second location and franchising it one day—fingers crossed—what more could I want?”
She shrugs. “Love?”
“I have you. It’s all the love I need.” My grandmother raised me to be strong and independent like her. It wasn’t like she had a choice in the matter.
“Hush up, child. I’m not enough, and you know it.” She pushes off the counter and waves me away, rubbing her wrist. It hurts, and that might bother me more than anything. I hate seeing her in pain, but it’s becoming more common as she ages. One can act like they’re seventeen all they want, but the body refuses to cooperate when it comes to aging.
“You are enough. You and Paul both. Who knows, maybe in ten years he won’t be too young anymore. If nothing else, maybe he would agree to be my baby daddy. I’ll be nearly forty and desperate at that point.” I wink, and my grandmother shakes her head in exasperation.
“You won’t need a baby daddy.”
“You never know. I could be so busy running my twenty stores across the country, that
having a baby daddy is the only way I’ll have time for kids. Someone should stay behind and help raise them, so why not Paul? Life is unpredictable that way. Plus, I could definitely do worse.”
I could do much worse.
She laughs and walks out of the kitchen while I head back into the office to put away the medical kit. It’s a mess back here, papers on the sofa and floor, the trash can overflowing with litter, and someone needs to clean it. That someone would be me, but whatever. I shove the medical kit in the top drawer and close it with my thigh. I’m leaving the room, picking at a snag on my thumbnail when it happens.
Lightning. Another strike, loud and violent. So violent the building shakes and the stack of papers on the desk float to the ground and scatter in a long wave of white. Wide-eyed and confused, I bend on shaky legs to retrieve them when something shatters in the other room. Loud and deafening, like a window breaking or plates tipping over. The building shakes again as the deafening roar of a freight train barrels through the bakery. I cover my ears to block out the noise, but it doesn’t mute everything.
People scream.
Children cry.
Furniture splinters.
What on earth is happening?
In a panic, I crawl through the swinging doors and suck in a breath, the wind too strong, the noise too loud, every part of me numb at what I see.
Broken glass. Swirling papers. Toppled furniture. Shattered dishes. Fathers are holding to the ankles of flailing, crying, children. Mothers are huddled in heaps underneath tables, trying to protect those around them, trying to get away from the roaring wind and flying debris. Upturned tables that were occupied only a few minutes ago. The picture window is gone. I see what looks like my grandmother’s shoe. I don’t see Paul at all.
Complete and utter chaos is all around me.
This is what shock feels like.
I’m frozen in place, blank for what to do. And then something brushes against my arm and snaps me into action. Paper. A person. A tape dispenser. I’m suddenly aware of everything around me. With pure animal instinct, I scream. I holler out a long stream of instructions to everyone and no one, a litany of demands with no room for argument. Trust me. I know what I’m doing.
“Hurry up! Everyone get in the kitchen! Crawl! Run! Straight through these doors! Keep your heads down!” People crawl past me while I count heads. One, two, seven, nine, where is my grandmother? Where is Paul?
It isn’t until the room empties of people that I see my grandmother. She’s flat on the ground on the other side of the counter, moaning under a barstool that tipped and trapped her beneath it. But that isn’t the worst of it. A large piece of glass juts from her side from the broken picture window, and blood has already fanned in a sunburst on her white button-up shirt.
That’s the worst of it.
“Grandma!” I rush to her side, colliding with a table leg on the way. The bruise feels immediate. Hair blankets my face in a blinding sheet, the wind whipping it into my eyes and mouth. Desperate to see, I hold my hair back in a fist and slide next to my grandmother, patting at her body, quickly trying to assess the damage while yelling in her face. “How bad are you hurt? How bad?” Something wet slides down my face. I grab the barstool, trying not to be carr
ied away.
Tears. I’m crying.
“I’m okay,” she yells back. “I just got in the way of the window. What is going on?”
That’s when they sound. Tornado sirens are blasting the downtown area in an ill-timed warning… two minutes too late. My grandmother blinks up at me, her eyes wide with fright--the details of her face blur through my tears.
“A tornado?”
Water drips from my eyes and nose, but I nod. “I guess so. I’ll get help.”
“No!” she yells, gripping my arms. “Don’t leave me.” It isn’t hard to see where her mind has gone. If I let it, mine will head that direction too. Something I might have allowed if times weren’t desperate, and if I didn’t have people in the back room depending on me.
“Where’s Paul?” I yell when she won’t let go.
“I don’t know. He was standing by the window when it started.” My stomach drops to the floor at her words, and I scan the room. Nothing.
I shake my head to clear it, determination taking over. One thing at a time. “I’ll call 911. Don’t worry. I’ll get someone here. If I have to, I’ll drive you to the hospital myself.”
Crawling on my stomach, I make my way behind the counter and reach for the phone. My grandmother insisted on installing a corded phone when we opened. At the time, I considered the request silly and outdated—doesn’t everyone use a cell phone nowadays? Thank God she didn’t listen to me. This one has stayed locked into the wall and hasn’t blown anywhere.
I dial 911 and press the phone to my ear, thankful the line still works while straining to hear through the deafening noise. Finally, I hear the faint sound of words and start yelling.
“I need help. I’m downtown, and my grandmother is wounded.” I give the operator my address and answer a slew of what seem to be pointless questions. Where is the wound? Are you applying pressure? Are you aware there’s a tornado in the area and the wait may be several minutes?
Despite the alarms, the verbal confirmation of a tornado is sobering.
How many minutes?
I try to offer my grandmother a reassuring smile, one I don’t feel at all. Blood scares me, but chaos scares me more. There’s nothing like panic to bring the memories back, memories that aren’t welcome to either one of us. I shunned them years ago, never intending to acknowledge them again. Yet here I am, staring head-on at catastrophe with no opportunity to look away. Blood snakes a trail down my knuckles, and my pulse trips inside my throat.