P.S. Send More Cookies

by Martha Freeman

  “I guess,” I said.

  My grandmother looked at me. “Emma?”

  “Oh, okay. I know too.”

  “Here’s an idea,” Grandma said. “What if some afternoon after school I take you shopping? You could use a new outfit for special occasions, don’t you think?”

  “Uh . . .” I thought fast. “That is a very kind and generous offer, but I am pretty busy after school.”

  “One of these days,” Grandma said, “you and I will make time.”

  * * *

  The cookies from Grace were the thumbprint kind with red jam in the center.

  Probably raspberry, I thought. But just to be sure I took a bite, and guess what? Not raspberry at all but strawberry! Was it because strawberries were GG’s favorite?

  I rummaged around in the box and pulled out Grace’s letter. It covered both sides of two sheets of white paper—four pages total. Grace had a lot to say!

  Tuesday, Oct. 25

  Dear Emma,

  Flour power won’t fix death, but I got an idea when we were texting.

  In the city my dad is from, Singapore, they celebrate the Hungry Ghost Festival. It is a little like Halloween (what are you going as???), but it happens in late summer. I think it would be acceptable to your GG’s ghost if you celebrate now. Chinese custom says ghosts are hungry all the time, not just during the festival.

  What you do for the festival is two things. First you burn money so that your dead ancestors can buy everything they need to be comfortable in the afterlife. The second thing is you offer food for the ghosts as a bribe so they don’t haunt you. (I think it is a very strange idea that ghosts would want to haunt their own relatives. My dad thinks it is a very strange idea too.)

  I asked about your great-grandmother’s favorite food because it is especially good if that is what you put out as your offering. People in Singapore believe red is lucky, so it must be extra lucky that your great-grandmother liked a red food, strawberries.

  I believe the combination of Hannah’s grandpa’s flour power and Chinese tradition will be very strong—strong enough (I hope!) to help your mother and you, too.

  Now you are wondering: How are things in your life, Grace?

  I will tell you.

  Remember I said I had a fight with Shoshi?

  What happened is because I messed up, her dog got sick, and I made things worse by fibbing about it because I was so embarrassed that I messed up. It was Lucy’s idea for me confess because I would feel better, so I did, and instead I felt much worse because Shoshi got furious and told me to leave her house and did not want to be my friend anymore!

  If that was the end of the story, the moral would be: Do not confess the truth.

  But it is not the end of the story. The next day, Mr. Russen (social studies teacher) assigned a group project on an old temple on the Nile River. Shoshi likes to get the best grade in the class on everything, and she knew if her group was going to get the best grade, she needed me because I am best at writing. (She is best at drawing.)

  I said okay, and then we had to work together, and I guess she realized (1) that even though I fibbed I am still nice, and (2) that I felt really, really bad about what happened when I messed up, and (3) it’s true I am good at group projects.

  We got an A+.

  Now we are friends again, so it turns out Lucy was right and you should tell the truth. After that, I confessed to my parents too, and they made me use my own saved-up money to pay back some people I never met for a carrot cake, which is a long story, and this letter is already long.

  Also, Shoshi’s dog got well just like I hope your mom will.

  Also I made the Rubinsteins cookies and lemonade. I have to go to bed now because tomorrow I have to get up early for choir. Also, my hand is tired!

  Good luck with the hungry ghost of GG.

  Best from the best (ha-ha!), Grace Xi

  P.S. My dad helped me bake these cookies. He says baking is going to be his hobby. He is shopping for a fancy new oven for our kitchen.

  P.P.S. For Halloween, I am going as a sugarplum fairy because I already have the costume and, according to my parents, who has time for one more thing?

  My English teacher, Miss Conley, gives us a new vocabulary word every Friday. This week’s was preposterous, which means ridiculous, absurd, crazy—you get the idea.

  When I finished Grace’s letter, preposterous was the first word that came to mind. According to Miss Conley, it comes from a Latin word that means last before first, in other words, everything upside down and out of order.

  This perfectly described Grace’s suggestion. Up till now, I’d always thought she was one of my sensible friends. Feeding a ghost was something Lucy or Olivia would go for—like last summer at camp when Lucy cast a spell over some cookies so that Lance, the cutest boy counselor, would fall in love with Hannah.

  That hadn’t exactly gone as planned. Why would this be any different?

  I read the letter over and thought of something else. Was Grace saying my mom was tired all the time because the ghost of GG was haunting her?

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Emma

  After services the next day, Saturday, I told Caitlin and Julia about Grace’s letter. It was a warm day for October. We were sitting in the sun on a bench in the courtyard at the temple, drinking red punch and chewing ice.

  “I get it,” said Caitlin. “It’s like an exorcism in a scary movie when you make the ghost leave.”

  Julia shook her head. “Feeding the ghost is totally different.”

  I asked Julia how she knew that, which was dumb of me. Julia knows everything.

  “I did a report in second grade,” she said. “Supposedly ghosts are irritable all the time because they don’t like being dead.”

  “Did you say ‘irritable’ in your report in second grade?” Caitlin asked.

  “My mom helped me write it,” Julia said. “I think a cookie offering is a good idea, Emma.”

  “I agree,” said Caitlin. “Plus it’s so close to Halloween, the ghosts will come out for sure.”

  “Are you guys serious?” I said. “The whole thing is preposterous.”

  “No, it’s not. It’s a ritual,” Julia said, “like Sabbath candles or a Christmas tree. Like saluting the flag.”

  “Or burying your pet rat when it dies,” said Caitlin, “and marking its grave with sticks and shiny pebbles.”

  “Are you comparing my great-grandmother to a dead rat?” I asked.

  “I loved my rat,” said Caitlin.

  “Chinese culture is old,” said Julia, “even older than Jewish culture. It stands to reason by now the Chinese know something.”

  “Do you remember from your report what we’re supposed to do exactly?” I asked.

  “I think you need incense,” said Julia.

  “Strawberry incense,” said Caitlin, “since that’s what your GG liked.”

  “And money that you can burn,” said Julia. “But it can be pretend. The ghosts don’t care.”

  “Oh, yeah, right,” I said. “Everybody knows that about ghosts. I think you’re both crazy, and Grace too.”

  “Maybe.” Julia shrugged.

  “But if you decide you do want to try it,” Caitlin said, “we will definitely come over and help. You said Grace sent jam cookies, right? I remember those cookies she sent last year. I bet these are really good.”

  The next day was Sunday—the two-week anniversary of the day that GG died. Nothing had been normal around my house since.

  Was that how it always was when somebody died?

  When would I get my mom back?

  When Dad came downstairs, I asked him how she was doing, and he shrugged. “About the same. She says she might come down later.”

  “She said that yesterday, but she didn’t,” I said.

  “I know that, Emma,” my dad said.

  “So when is she going to? Why can’t you do something? You’re a doctor! Isn’t there a pill or a shot that will make her
better?”

  My dad slumped down in his chair. “There are medications for depression,” he said, “but she should talk to a specialist first, and she says she doesn’t need to.”

  For the past few days a question had been nagging me. The subject was something we didn’t talk about a lot in my family, but now it seemed like we had to. “Dad, was Mom like this after Nathan died?”

  I had thought my dad would look surprised, but he didn’t. Maybe he had been thinking back to that time too. “She wasn’t,” he said. “I was the one who fell apart while she made all the arrangements. She even cooked for the guests while we sat shivah. Then she went back to work. She never missed a beat.”

  “Did you talk about it?” I asked.

  “We talked a lot about how much we missed him,” he said. “It’s just our reactions were different. Remember what I said about grieving on your own schedule? That’s why.”

  Now my dad shrugged and squeezed his eyes shut like they hurt. Suddenly, I felt bad. My parents are older than most of my friends’ parents. I don’t think about it often, but looking at my dad right then I did.

  I told my dad about the hungry ghost ceremony after breakfast. I was hoping to make him smile. We were in the family room. It has a lot of windows and looks out on our backyard, which is more like a back forest. The trees were black and shiny bare. Their fallen leaves formed a bright-colored carpet on the ground.

  My dad did smile, and then he surprised me. “Why not try it?” he said. “GG loved her sweets—especially anything strawberry. She would have gotten a kick out of the whole thing.”

  “Oh, come on, Dad. You don’t believe in ghosts or haunting,” I said. “It’s totally unscientific.”

  “Totally,” Dad agreed. “But you know what they say, Emma. There are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy.”

  “I didn’t know they said that,” I said. “And who are they anyway?”

  “It’s a quotation from Shakespeare,” Dad said, “from the play called Hamlet. The idea is no matter how hard we study and how scientific we are, there will always be mysteries. So when are you planning to get busy and appease the ghosts?”

  “Uh . . . I guess that depends on what ‘appease’ means,” I said.

  “Make them feel better,” said Dad. “In other words, have the ceremony. The weather’s pretty brisk today—a good time for someone to do some baking.”

  Suddenly things started to make sense. “Someone?” I repeated. “Do you mean me? Is this really about cookies? I’m not supposed to bake more, you know. Grace wants us to use the ones she sent. That’s why she made them with strawberry jam.”

  “I have bad news regarding those cookies, Em,” Dad said. “They are, uh, basically . . . all gone.”

  “Basically?” I said.

  “Totally,” he clarified.

  “How did that happen?” I asked.

  “One at a time?” he said.

  “Da-a-ad! Haven’t you ever heard of emotional intelligence?”

  “Sure,” Dad said, “and that’s just what this was. I had a long, boring paper to read, and I bribed myself with cookies. If that’s not intelligent, I don’t know what is. Tell you what: I’ll make a supermarket run. You just tell me what you need. Strawberry jam, right?”

  “And incense,” I said. If everyone was determined to feed the ghost, I might as well go along.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Emma

  I made Dad a list and sent him to the store. Then, because sunset seemed like a good time for a ghost ceremony, I looked up when it was that day—6:06 p.m.—and sent an e-vite to Caitlin and Julia. After that, I found my brother playing video games in the basement, sat down on the arm of the nearest sofa, and explained to him what we were doing.

  “Ghosts and cookies?” He looked up from the controller. “That’s as good as Halloween monsters and candy.”

  “We’re not doing this for fun,” I said. “We’re doing it to make Mom feel better.”

  “Makes sense,” he said. “Not.”

  “I don’t get how it’s supposed to work either,” I said. “But other people seem to think it might.”

  “If it’s because GG really is haunting Mom,” Ben said slowly, “then I wish she’d haunt me instead. Or—I know—maybe if she wants to haunt somebody new, I could make suggestions. Are we inviting Grandma?”

  “I didn’t think of it,” I said. “What do you think?”

  “I’m not sure Grandma will understand.”

  “Me neither,” I said. “What if we tell her all about it after?”

  “Like when Mom feels better,” Ben said. “Can I help?”

  Whoa—maybe this feed-the-ghost thing was magic. My little brother was offering to help!

  “You can find the old Monopoly game,” I told him. “We need some play money out of it.”

  “Are you sure that’s okay?” Ben frowned. “Monopoly was Nathan’s, wasn’t it?”

  “Just get a few dollars,” I said. “We’ll still be able to play.”

  “Hey,” Ben said. “Did you think of this? Maybe Nathan’s ghost is hungry too.”

  I felt something strange when Ben said that. It was like a twinge in my heart. Till now I’d been thinking of GG, the happy ghost of a happy old lady who had lived a long life. Thinking of Nathan was different. His death had been a tragedy. He was a kid—a year younger than Ben is now. Unlike GG, he couldn’t possibly have been ready for whatever came next. How could he be a happy ghost?

  Ben must have felt the same twinge I did. “Never mind,” he said. “I’ll go get the game.”

  “I think Dad’s back.” I stood up. “I better start baking.”

  “Do we eat cookies too, or only the ghosts get to?” Ben asked.

  “Depends on how hungry they are,” I said.

  * * *

  Baking and preparing for the ceremony kept me busy the rest of that day. Even if the whole thing was preposterous, I liked that I was doing something to move things back to normal.

  The setup was complete by five fifteen. Only then did I think of my mom. I mean, since the point of the ceremony was to make her better, I’d been thinking of her all day. At the same time, I’d been so busy I hadn’t actually gone to see her, let alone ask her to come downstairs.

  I could’ve gone to her bedroom right then, but something held me back. I guess I was afraid she’d say no, or even get mad.

  Pondering this, my mind made a turn and asked an easier question. What was the dress code for a hungry ghost ceremony?

  Grace would know that one, so I texted her. The answer came back: Normal clothes. Say to GG.

  Normal clothes?

  Boring!

  I put Mom off again and went up to my room. On my laptop, I brought up the photos I had found when I’d searched how to do the ceremony. Most of them showed men wearing what looked like orange sheets. The captions explained that the men were Buddhist monks. I didn’t have an orange sheet, but I had an old orange nightgown—and guess what? It was a present from GG!

  I found it in my bottom drawer, shook out the wrinkles, and held it up to check the length. I guessed I had grown some; it was a little short. Still, I had to wear it. What would be better for a hungry ghost ceremony honoring GG?

  The doorbell rang while I was fixing my hair. On the porch were Caitlin and Julia, right on time. Each of them held a pizza.

  “OMG, what are you wearing?” asked Caitlin as they followed me into the house. They were wearing normal jeans and T-shirts.

  “It’s what you’re supposed to wear to this kind of a ceremony,” I said. “Only I forgot to put it on the e-vite. How come you brought pizza?”

  “Dad drove us, and he made us get it,” said Julia. “He said the ghosts deserved more than cookies. He thinks he is hilarious.”

  “They’re both just plain cheese,” Caitlin said. “We didn’t know how ghosts felt about toppings.”

  Even still in boxes, the pizza smelled delicious, and I realized
I was hungry for something besides cookies and cookie dough. At the same time, I was annoyed. Who ever heard of pizza at a hungry ghost ceremony?

  In the kitchen, Ike had smelled the pizza too. As he made his way out from under the table, he wagged not only his tail but his whole rear end. His head was bowed in gratitude to any human that just might give him a bite.

  “Good dog, Ike,” said Julia. “You want some pizza, don’t you?”

  “Ghosts do not like pizza, only cookies,” I said.

  “How do you know that?” Caitlin asked.

  “Research,” I said.

  “You are making it up,” Caitlin said.

  “What if she is? We can eat the pizza after,” said Julia.

  By this time it was almost sunset and the mom question had to be dealt with. How I did it was I went to find my brother and I told him to bring her down.

  “Tell her there’s a ghost ceremony. Tell her she needs to be here,” I said.

  “No way.” Ben shook his head. “She will think I’m crazy.”

  “Then skip the ghost part, and tell her to come to the dining room,” I said.

  “I’ll get Dad to.” Ben headed down the hall.

  “Hurry!” I said.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Emma

  We have a pretty big house, I guess, and a pretty big dining room, too. My dad jokes that he can’t see my mom when they are at opposite ends of the table. Twice a year on holidays, my mom announces we are getting rid of the striped wallpaper that was here when they moved in. But we never do.

  I had laid an old linen cloth on the table. On top of it I had placed three sticks of incense in a crystal bud vase, a neat and symmetrical pile of perfect (if I do say so myself) strawberry thumbprint cookies on a china dinner plate, and half a dozen pink Monopoly dollars on a china salad plate. Caitlin, Julia, and I stood around the table, waiting for everybody else. I lit the incense. Two breaths later, the sweet, burned smell overwhelmed my nose.

  “Is that strawberry?” Caitlin asked.

  “Cherry spice,” I said. “The closest my dad could find.”