For two days before Thanksgiving, Ben and I had conversations that mostly consisted of food measurements, egg cracking and butter melting to make desserts for what I hoped would be our annual Thanksgiving visits. I'd sent emails to two local nursing homes and asked them if we could stop by with our goodies. They both responded with "Thanks" and a trail of exclamation points.
The first day we started our baking marathon, he walked into the kitchen wearing one of my aprons. A Jessie Steele retro cherries half-apron with screaming red trim that had been a birthday present from Julie. I didn't recognize it at first because he wore it backside out. Still, his wearing it bothered me. And it bothered me that I was bothered.
I snapped the mixer off. "Hey, buddy. What's up with the outfit?" I said, in a voice more hesitant than I'd planned.
Ben glanced at the apron, then looked at me, and rubbed his forehead like Harrison used to when caught between confusion and surprise. The gesture soaked through my skin.
"Well," he said, and drew out the word one letter at a time, "you're always telling me not to wipe my hands on my clothes. I looked in your office, but I couldn't find a boy thing to wear." He planted his hands at his waist and shrugged his shoulders." You want me to take it off?"
I opened a fourth box of cream cheese, plopped it in the mixing bowl, and mentally slapped myself in the head. "Nah. Good thinking ahead. This isn't about clothes. It's about cooking." Got it, Harrison. Follow my own advice. "Wash your hands, then grab a carton of eggs out the fridge."
He headed to the sink, and I mixed the cream cheese, thankful that my feelings didn't magically transfer into my food. Definitely not an effective marketing ploy if every bite of my cheesecakes evoked feelings of parental inadequacy. Therapy. I needed therapy, that's what Julie suggested. In fact, she mentioned the name of a therapist before they'd left for the beach. I needed to find where I shoved that business card.
Four cheesecakes, two pecan pies, and one pound cake later, a flour-dusted and sugar-coated Ben fell asleep as he sat at the table. His head pillowed by his folded arms, his mouth opened, and his feet tucked under his legs. I dispensed with making him take a bath. One night going to bed a sticky mess wasn't nearly as hazardous as waking him up.
He weighed too much now for me to cradle him in my arms to carry him to his room. I missed the warm bundle of him snuggled against my chest. I wondered, is this parenting? Longing for your children to grow and then feeling aching sadness when they do?
I managed to steer him into his room in his semi-consciousness, removed the now gooey apron, and helped him roll between his sheets. He squirmed, sighed, and opened his eyes for a flicker of time. "Night, Mom. We had fun."
My inner mommy cartwheeled at the word "we." I wanted to find something that Ben and I could share. Something that would be our thing. Something that would pave a road, a road that could always lead us back to one another. I didn't care that it reeked of selfishness sprinkled with a bit of sweetness. And if we found it in cooking, then what a blessing that would be. Unlike a sport or a hobby or a game that might shift or disappear at any point, there would always be food.
"Good night, sweet Ben," I whispered, kissed his forehead, and headed to my office. While I'd been cleaning the kitchen, I remembered Lori telling me about an Etsy shop online where I could find aprons for boys. When I started catering, she and David wanted to buy one for Ben. I think my response then was something along the lines of, "As if Ben would wear an apron." All these months later, I cringed just recycling the conversation in my brain.
I found the shop and ordered Ben a chef's apron in navy blue fabric decorated with bats, balls, caps, and catchers' mitts. After another ten minutes of mindless clicking from one link to another, I checked my email. School didn't start until next week, so I didn't expect any meal orders, but Joyce, one of our book club members, promised she'd refer me to her sister Kirby who belonged to Junior League.
Every year, the week before Christmas, the League—a charitable nonprofit—hosted Book Du Jour, a luncheon to raise money for literacy. Instead of having the event at a local restaurant, the planning committee elected to use the new library and serve catered food instead of a seated luncheon. Joyce told me the original caterer backed out on them, and they didn't know if they'd be able to find anyone this late. I didn't care if they considered me the caterer of last resort. The opportunity for contacts and publicity mattered most. In fact, it would be worth having to donate a percentage of my profit to their campaign to secure the contract.
I scrolled slowly, my hope shrinking along with the list of unread emails. I didn't realize I'd been holding my breath until I saw the subject line: "Upcoming Junior League Event" and exhaled. The committee wanted to arrange a meeting one day next week to discuss a catering contract.
"Yes!" I followed with a fist pump so energetic I almost shattered my elbow on my desk. I grabbed my cell phone to text Julie, but it was almost midnight. Too late. My enthusiasm sputtered. Another instance of the collateral damage of being alone. Good news is meant to be shared. Like boiled crawfish. Without the mess.
I answered the email, turned off the office lights and headed to my bedroom. My relief over the good news tonight trailed behind me like a new puppy. Maybe there was something at work here bigger than Joyce or Kirby. Or someone. Could God really be conducting this orchestra that was my life? So much of me was out of tune, out of time, out of tempo. Could He really wave that baton enough to create music instead of mayhem?
I mumbled to my reflection in the bathroom mirror as I brushed my teeth. "If Ben can have a reprieve from a bath, so can you." Talking to myself and skipping a shower. Two more wonders of widowhood. Widowhood which, like my apathetic hair, was entirely too long.
Julie would have said, "Stop whining. They're both your fault. You won't date. You won't even commit to a hair salon." I tried dating. Twice. The first time I met a friend of Lori's sister for coffee at Starbucks. He drank decaf. And he talked too much like Billy Bob Thornton in Sling Blade. A hoarse voice that grunted. A lot.
Leonard Nimoy, the Star Trek Vulcan years, was my second date. Not the real one, of course, but definitely a double. A doctor Trey met playing golf, Barry, was a proctologist who informed me he'd prefer to be called a colorectal surgeon. Nice man, obviously intelligent. I didn't ask him about his work, but he told me anyway. More than I wanted to know. Ever.
I guess I knew Julie too well or spent too much time with her or both to be able to have a conversation when she was two states away. Doubtful that she talked to me when I wasn't around. She had Trey. And tonight I had Chase and Bianca, who were somewhere on a beach in Mexico when I last opened the pages of Forever in the Heat of Love. Definitely not literary fiction, but when I realized Harrison and I might never share a bed again, I wasn't looking for high concept. I was looking for something I could curl up with at the end of an emotionally exhausting day.
Over the last few years, the book club fed my brain. My romance books fed my body.
And then there were the times when I wondered what fed my soul.
12
Baking in November should be happening inside the house. Not outside of it.
But by the afternoon of day two of the great Ben and Mommy Bake-a-thon, the two of us almost changed into bathing suits just to tolerate the heat in and out of the kitchen. Only in the Deep South could the weather on the day before Thanksgiving make you long for a built-in swimming pool.
The scent of pure vanilla and burnt crumbs swelled in the oven heat that was making the kitchen walls sweat. And me. We'd measured, mixed, and mashed since after breakfast. I wanted to cheer when the timer buzzed to signal the last cake was ready. But when I took it out of the oven, it resembled a cream cheese relief version of the Grand Canyon.
Ben stared at the gaping cracks in the cheesecake. "I didn't know these could break," he said. "Can we fix it?"
"Let's see." I tugged the springform pan closer. The crack looked like an open mouth laughing at me. "It's pretty
deep. I don't think the sour cream topping's going to fill that."
"We need cheesecake glue, huh?"
"You know, Ben, you might be onto something there," I said and laughed. "Let's put that on our list of things to invent."
The two of us gazed at the cheesecake as if it would soon be revealing the secrets of the universe—or at least tell us why it always rained the week of Jazz Fest—then Ben darted into the pantry and walked out with a box of chocolate graham crackers." We could put these on top."
My face must have morphed into a question mark.
"Mom," he said as he opened the box, "we can bash these up and make an upside-down cheesecake. Like when you do those things with the pineapples on top."
I opened my mouth to tell him why I didn't think it would work, but as I watched him shimmy himself onto the kitchen stool and sample a graham cracker, I stopped. I weighed the options: Cheesecake. Child. Cheesecake. Child. Not a brain buster, Caryn.
"Hey, you know what? That's a clever idea," I said. "I'll see if I can do some crack repair, and you," I handed him the wooden roller, "can start bashing those cookies into crumbs."
"Cool." He grabbed the handles of the roller and lifted it over his head like winning prize fighters hold the belts they're awarded. "I'm the cheesecake hero!" He opened a clear plastic bag and dumped in a pack of cookies. "Wait'll Nick hears I'm almost like a chef now. He's gonna ask if he can be here next time, huh, Mom?"
"You betcha," I answered as I searched for another carton of sour cream in the refrigerator, glad that Ben wouldn't see that conviction in my voice belied the doubt on my face.
Ben asked if we could have our Thanksgiving meal for dinner instead of lunch since we'd be driving around and delivering during the day.
"Sounds like a perfect new tradition," I said, and I meant it. Making desserts exhausted more than meals. A chance to sleep in promised to be as delicious as anything we'd be delivering.
That morning we ate thick slices of toasted pumpkin pound cake slathered with butter for breakfast. We called the Pierces to tell them Happy Thanksgiving, but it was mostly so Nick and Ben could continue their tradition of lame turkey jokes. Ben found, "What smells the best at a Thanksgiving dinner? Your nose!" I handed him the phone before I talked to Julie to spare myself watching him writhe about, a victim of his own impatience. He usually roamed around the house when he and Nick talked, but finishing breakfast kept him anchored to the kitchen table.
After their joke exchange, a "cool" and two "wow" responses, Ben shared that he and I had baked desserts for the past two days. His enthusiasm jumped ship and defensiveness boarded. Now he was the one not making eye contact with me. He answered "no" twice, each time a frown followed. The last word he mumbled before he handed me the phone was an uncharacteristic "whatever."
I asked Julie to wait a bit while I told Ben to brush his teeth and straighten his room before we left. I put my hand on his chin, lifted his face up, so he could see my lips as they moved to say, "I love you." He nodded once, then slumped into himself, and plodded off toward his bedroom. A piece of me plodded along with him.
"Hey, happy turkey day and all that stuffing," I said, ratcheting up the happy in my voice.
"Funny. You too," said Julie and then she dropped to a whisper, "When we get home, remind me why I subject myself to this torture." One of her in-laws probably hovered nearby. And probably a gaggle of others based on the background noise.
I told her about the Junior League appointment, and after the celebratory "wahoo," she said that she'd tell Trey. "Did you ever get back in touch with Pastor Vince about his daughter's wedding?"
Midway between the table and the sink, dirty breakfast plates in one hand, cell phone in the other, I stopped as if I'd just crashed into a wall. I had. The wall of my forgetfulness.
"Caryn?" Julie's voice reminded me to breathe.
"I'm here," I said, sounding as flat as the floor. I made it to the sink, let go of the dishes, and opened the refrigerator. It might be too late to call Pastor Vince, but it wasn't too early for chocolate therapy.
"Well?"
The question burned my ear as I checked the freezer. Sometimes I'd toss tempting junk food in there under the delusion I'd forget about it. I spied a half-bag of Double Stuff Oreos peeking out from between two bags of fries.
"Still here." I popped a handful of cookies in the microwave, and seconds later, I was feeding my anxiety monster.
"You're not answering me, so that means you didn't call him. Right?"
My brain processed the words, but my heart processed their implication. "I'm such an idiot. I meant to call him. Maybe it's not too late. I could give him a big discount. I'll figure out—"
"Stop. I don't know why you forgot to call. But it doesn't matter. Just make it right. Call him and apologize, even if it is too late."
When "forgot" dropped out of her mouth, I translated it as, "you purposely chose not to remember." I headed to my bedroom and stretched out on my still unmade bed. The pumpkin bread and the Oreos battled one another in my stomach. Maybe if I lay down, they'd declare a cease fire.
"I will. I'll call him. I promise." I stared at the ceiling and thought that would be an ideal place for reminders. Some gizmo could flash notes up there. Steve Jobs needed to create an app for that. Maybe I'll call him, too.
"I don't even know why I'm asking this, but maybe you'll surprise me. Have you talked to your brother yet?"
The war waged on in my gut. "Technically, no. But I'm going to send him a text message. He's not here anyway. He went with that guy Max to New York."
"That guy?" Julie laughed. "Reminds me of high school when I seriously dated this guy my mother didn't like. At all. She'd tell people he was 'Julie's little friend.' Really effective way of distancing herself from the truth. I knew she approved of Trey because she never introduced him that way."
"Can we not talk about this right now? Ben and I need to leave soon—"
"No, we don't have to talk now," she broke in, as abrupt as I was anxious. "We're doing the turkey thing for late lunch."
Before we hung up, I invited them over for an early dinner when they arrived home Sunday. I wanted Ben to have a chance to hang out with Nick before school started Monday. And, once again, I'd try to explain myself to Julie. She didn't get it, and I didn't get her. She's the one who's churchy, not me. Why was she the one on David's side, and I'm guilted because I'm not?
I closed my eyes and hoped the rest of the day wouldn't be as emotionally exhausting. On Thanksgiving, I'd be thankful for that.
That night, I picked up my book and opened to Chase and Bianca exploring their beach house and one another. Then, a tsunami of exhaustion washed over all of us, and swept away their universe.
I blinked a few times, not sure if the hand on my arm steadied me or made me sway.
"Mom. Mom. Wake up."
Ben's pleas jolted me upright.
"What time is it? Did we miss our deliveries? Why aren't you dressed?" I'm out of bed, and I'm not confused any more. I'm panicked.
Ben picked my phone up off the floor. It must have slipped out of my hand when I fell asleep. "It's 10:06." He turned the screen around and showed me the display.
A wave of relief diluted my franticness. I took a deep breath, gave the careening thoughts in my head time to settle. Ben sat cross-legged at the foot of my bed, pushing buttons on my phone.
"Game time's over. Time to change into the clothes we picked out for you last night."
"Okay." He hopped off the bed. "Can I wear another shirt? Like my Saints T-shirt or something?"
"First, stop biting your nail. Second, wear the shirt we already decided on."
He frowned, but only slightly rolled his eyes before he turned to leave.
"Ben, wait."
He stopped, but barely turned around.
"I forgot third. Thanks for waking me up."
13
A cool front passed through overnight. For at least today, the air was crisp. It was
exactly the kind of golfing day Harrison used to wait for. As long as it didn't happen on Thanksgiving Day when he'd crash on the sofa after lunch and doze on and off during football games. While he snoozed, Ben and I would go for a toddle since he was too young to walk any more than one or two houses beyond our own. Sometimes David would join us, and he and I would sit on the deck outside while Ben busied himself with leaves and bugs and dirt.
Today, dressed in long khaki pants, a navy Perlis crawfish polo shirt and loafers, Ben wouldn't be chasing leaves or bugs.
I wanted to talk to Ben about his conversation with Nick this morning, but he didn't bring it up. I figured I'd wait until we finished our dessert visits, when Ben would have had a chance to witness the payoff of the past two days.
I tried to prepare him for the experience of going to these centers. While they both were by no means shabby, the fact was Ben hadn't ever been around anyone over the age of sixty. I didn't want him to be afraid of residents who might have signs of early dementia or who were so starved for guests or attention that they sometimes clung to people who visited.
As we drove to our first stop, I told Ben he needed to be very patient. "If you feel uncomfortable, just let me know. Maybe we could have a sign. Like you could scratch your head or pretend to tie your shoe or something."
"I'm not wearing tie shoes, Mom." He already sounded uncomfortable. "Like are these old people crazy?"
"No, Ben. Of course they're not crazy. Some of them are a little lonely because they don't see their families. A few might not be able to remember things like they used to. They may seem confused and not know what year we're in or where they are."
The Edge of Grace Page 8