The Secret to Hummingbird Cake

by Celeste Fletcher McHale

  Laine cut him off. “Let her talk, Jack. I know what she’s doing . . . She needs to get it out . . .”

  Her perception pierced my soul. Who else knew me like that? Who else knew it was either say it or explode? Her permission broke my heart and my anger gave way to panic. My heart pounded and my hands were shaking. “Please, Laine,” I said. I would’ve gotten on my knees if I thought it would have helped. “Please take the chemo.”

  She shook her head gently. “I love you, Carrigan,” she said, “but it won’t help me. I don’t want to be sicker than I have to be . . . I’m sorry . . . but the answer is no.”

  I ran blindly out of the room, bumping into Michael and almost turning over a metal cart in the hallway. I ran down the hall, past the elevators and down the stairs until I reached the ground floor. I ran until I found the garden I had stared down at from Laine’s room. And then I cried. I cried like I hadn’t cried since I was a child. Deep, mournful sobs that racked my body and came from the pit of my soul. I cried until I fell on my knees into the yellow roses whose beauty belied the hopelessness in the day. I was dimly aware of Jack’s hands holding my hair back while I gagged and retched and tried to catch my breath. He whispered soothing and comforting words in my ear, but they barely registered. The only voice I heard was the one in my head telling me Laine was going to die.

  Much later, I sat still on the cold, stone bench in that same garden, my head on Jack’s shoulder and my eyes swollen from crying. The sun was setting in the western sky, birds were singing, people walked by laughing, going on with their lives. Didn’t they know Laine was dying? How could life just go on?

  I knew, of course, that it wasn’t their fault, but I hated them just the same. This had blindsided me. It was like a sucker punch, you know, when you weren’t looking and somebody or something coldcocked you? It had happened to me on the softball field once years before. I was standing on second base, not paying attention, and got hit in the head by a line drive I never saw coming. I woke up in the hospital. This was the exact same feeling. Once again, I wasn’t paying attention, I got hit by a line drive, and I woke up in the hospital. Only this time it had happened to my heart rather than my head.

  CHAPTER TEN

  “I had forgotten how pretty this place is.” Laine looked around from her vantage point in the big wicker swing on the porch at Whitfield Farm. “So many times when I’ve been here, it was for a party or a get-together, with people everywhere. But when it’s still like this . . . it’s gorgeous.”

  She was right. This was a beautiful place. Huge oak trees, well over a hundred years old, dotted the landscape in every direction. Jack’s mother was a master gardener, and her rose garden was the envy of every woman in Bon Dieu Falls. The yard and flower beds were pristine and beautiful, not because hired hands kept them that way, but because she did. Lush, green fields where cattle and horses grazed lay just beyond the wooden fence. Soon the leaves would be turning and the mums would be blooming. Time seemed to fly by these days. None of us had ever been so intensely aware of that.

  Two months had passed since that awful day when we learned of Laine’s cancer, and we had settled in nicely here at Jack’s parents’ home. Laine had stayed in the hospital for exactly a week. The doctors had run all the tests she would allow, cauterized the original tumor in her ovary to keep it from bleeding any more, and given her pain medication, although she insisted she didn’t need it.

  Since Mrs. Jeannette was unable to care for Laine the way she needed, Jack had asked if Laine might stay here at the Farm with us during her illness. He’d asked her to move in as well, but she declined. She came every day, and we’d even convinced her to spend a night here and there. But she couldn’t bring herself to impose on us like that, she said.

  We had tried in vain to assure her there would be no imposition. The house was huge with plenty of room, plantation style, with wraparound porches, balconies, and all those things you see in a Southern novel. It had been in the Whitfield family for generations.

  Poppa Jack and Mrs. Diane were wholeheartedly in agreement with the arrangement. Anybody would be hard-pressed to find two finer people than my father-in-law and mother-in–law.

  Jack hired a full-time nurse, something else Laine insisted she didn’t need. But it sure made the rest of us feel better. The nurse, Debra Pierson, was an RN. She came highly recommended from a family Poppa Jack knew who had retained her services during a similar situation. Debra was in her late forties, had never been married, and had no children. She was friendly and cordial, but definitely no-nonsense. She kept a close eye on Laine, and she ate meals with us, but after she was done with both, she disappeared into her room. I’m not sure she understood the whole living arrangement we had going on at Whitfield Farms, but at least she had the good sense not to question it.

  Mamie, however, was having a ball. She loved to “cook large,” as she put it. Mamie was Webster’s definition of nurturer. She asked Laine every morning what she wanted for supper and every night it appeared. Laine ate like a bird, but I didn’t think that was a cancer thing. She’d never had a huge appetite. Maybe that was all wishful thinking, but I watched her like a hawk just the same. I made sure her favorite things on earth, orange popsicles and salt water taffy, were always in the house.

  Laine wasn’t gaining weight, but at least she hadn’t lost any. I, on the other hand, had picked up seven unwanted pounds and Ella Rae had gained five. The fried chicken in this house should have been on the front of every cookbook that came out of the southern United States. I don’t know what made it so different, but I was sure glad Laine asked for it on a regular basis. I told Laine all the time if Bethany Wilkes took Jack away from me, it was going to be her fault. But she scoffed at that, assuring me Jack wouldn’t leave me for a supermodel. Lately I had finally become convinced she was right

  While Laine was still in the hospital, my mother packed my things and I came straight to the Farm. I hadn’t left the property since. Ella Rae was with us too. Tommy was working in a Texas oilfield and I didn’t have to ask her twice. Most of our days were spent on one of the porches at the Farm or riding around the place on an ATV. Time had become precious to all of us. We squeezed every second from every day and hated to go to bed at night.

  On this particular day, we were sitting on the front porch sipping lemonade and watching Jack and the hands repair the roof on the stables.

  “Don’t you get nervous when he’s on the roof walking around?” Ella Rae hid her eyes with her hands. “I’m nervous for you.”

  “Jack is like a cat,” I said. I watched him, admiring the way his tanned chest glistened in the sun.

  Laine cackled. “I never thought I’d see it, but you are lusting after your husband!”

  I made a face. “Lusting?” I said. “Are we in the nineteen fifties? I was merely appreciating my choice of mates.”

  “It sounded like you were appreciating him last night,” Ella Rae said.

  “Seriously,” Laine said.

  “What?” I tried to hide my embarrassment. We had been making up for lost time, but I hadn’t realized everybody in the house knew it.

  They both began laughing. I was mortified. I would talk about any subject in the world with these women, but I drew the line at sex. Even during my brief tryst with Cell Phone Romeo, my friends might have known it was happening, but they didn’t know details. Bottom line was, if I wasn’t having a sexual relationship with you, then I wasn’t going to talk about sex with you. It was my version of being a lady, although that was one thing I’d never really been accused of being.

  “Do you think Poppa Jack and Mrs. Diane heard us too?”

  “How could they help it?” Ella Rae said. “It sounded like y’all were swinging on the chandeliers!”

  “O
h no,” I groaned and slid down in the wicker swing.

  “Did I hear you praying last night too?” Laine asked. “I kept hearing someone calling out to God.”

  They rolled all over themselves laughing, and I took a swing at Ella Rae. “Y’all are both lying!” I said, realizing I had waltzed into that one. Still, I was horrified because I had just given myself away.

  Laine patted my hand. “It’s okay, Carri,” she said. “You’re married to him. You get to do anything you want to do with him.”

  “Y’all know payback is gonna be bad, don’t you?” I said.

  “Ain’t nobody worried with you,” Ella Rae said.

  I looked back at Jack driving nails into the roof of the stable. Things were good between us again. Normal. Natural. Even though we had yet to finish the conversation we started the day we found out about Laine’s illness. It had become pretty much irrelevant to me. The insanity of the last year was just that—insanity. I rarely wondered about Jack’s leave of absence. What mattered to me now was Laine. Every day was about her. It had to be. There would come a day when Jack and I could completely mend our fences. But I didn’t have time for that now. I’d have to think about that later . . . Thank you again for that pearl of wisdom, Scarlett.

  What I did remember, with white-hot shame, was Romeo. My indiscretion with him was all about revenge, but that didn’t make it okay. I desperately needed to confess it to Jack. The guilt was terrible when I allowed it to be. I had a pretty good method of handling my various baggage filled with guilt over my actions and despair for Laine’s illness. I only permitted myself to think about disagreeable things when I was completely alone. Which wasn’t often. I suspected that wasn’t emotionally healthy, but I’d deal with that later too.

  At first, I had decided to confess to Jack. I wanted to bare my soul, to make a clean slate, a clean slate, indeed. Ella Rae had advised against it. In fact, she railed against it. She ranted and raved and cited a hundred different reasons why it was the “stupidest idea you’ve ever had, and face it, you’ve had a few.” No argument there, but still I wasn’t convinced. I wanted some sort of penance.

  In the end, it was Laine who talked sense into me. “I understand the need,” she said. “Maybe it will purge your guilt, but it’ll only hurt Jack. You say it doesn’t matter to you any more what he did or didn’t do. What makes you think it matters to him? It was nearly a year ago, Carrigan. Let it go.”

  That had clicked for me. What good would it do, really?

  Laine then advised me to go to God with my guilt, and release it. I nodded in agreement, but I wasn’t interested in talking to God. About anything. She trusted him completely, without reservation, and he was the maestro of her circumstances, wasn’t he? I had nothing to say to God.

  “What’s on the menu tonight, Laine?” Ella Rae asked.

  “It’s a surprise,” she answered.

  “Is it Hummingbird Cake?” I asked. “Please say you made a Hummingbird Cake.”

  “No, it is not Hummingbird Cake,” Laine said. “But I promise to make one soon.”

  “Then tell us what’s in it.”

  “Nothing special. Just a regular cake.”

  “You know that’s a lie,” I said. “It tastes different from everybody else’s Hummingbird Cake. Is it . . . some exotic ingredient? Do you have to order it?”

  “Is it a gross ingredient and you don’t want to tell us?” Ella Rae said.

  Laine raised one eyebrow. “It’s chicken feet, Ella Rae.”

  “Forget it,” I said. “She’ll take it to her grave.”

  “Literally,” Laine said.

  I had probably said that very sentence fifty times in the past about Laine and the Hummingbird Cake. But tonight I felt as if I had said some horrible, awful thing that no human should ever utter out loud. And I was mortified. “Oh my God, Laine . . .,” I said, “I didn’t mean . . .”

  “You know how many times I’ve heard that before, Carrigan?” she said. “Forget it. I know what you meant. And just so you know . . . you are correct. I am taking it to my grave.” She patted my hand. “Really. Forget it. Now, who wants to guess what’s for supper?”

  Tommy perked up. “Frog legs?”

  Ella Rae poked him in the ribs. “Shrimp and grits.”

  Laine looked at me and slightly nodded. I knew she wanted me to lighten my mood, to dismiss my comment. I tried to oblige. “I hope it’s not fried chicken again.” I patted my backside. “My wardrobe can’t afford it.”

  Ella Rae pinched a make-believe roll on her stomach. “Mine either!”

  Laine winked at me and mouthed, Thank you. She amazed me. Always taking care of everyone else. Still.

  Later that night, we all sat around the dining room table while Mamie put the finishing touches on supper.

  “I’m just saying,” Laine said, “in most circles, this meal is considered dinner.”

  “The hell you say.” Tommy frowned. “What do they call dinner?”

  “Lunch.”

  “I don’t understand folks sometimes.” Tommy shook his head.

  Tommy had gotten a week off and had driven out to the Farm to surprise Ella Rae. She had squealed with delight when she saw him. I felt like doing that when Jack was on the roof today. Maybe my marriage wasn’t so unlike Ella Rae and Tommy’s after all. Well, except for the odd little detour we’d taken.

  I was so hungry I could have eaten the plates off the table, but Mamie was taking her own sweet time tonight. She didn’t allow anyone in the kitchen for supper preparation. I think the only reason she let Mrs. Diane in was because she owned the place. Any of us could hang around for breakfast or lunch, but when it came to supper, she fancied herself as Picasso, only with a spatula instead of a brush. I was very excited when the French doors that led to the kitchen swung open and Mamie appeared with a platter. I just knew it was fried chicken and my mouth was already watering. But when she set the platter down, it was full of sunny-side up eggs. Mrs. Diane followed with platters of bacon, sausage, grits, and biscuits. I was immediately disappointed, but this was Laine’s favorite meal, right after fried chicken.

  When the platter came my way, Jack tipped it and slid two of the eggs onto my plate. I watched them for a minute, and my stomach lurched. I bolted from my chair and into the nearest bathroom just beyond the kitchen. Jack was close on my heels.

  He knelt down beside me. “Are you all right?”

  “Ugh . . .,” I said. “Those eggs—did you see how they were shaking?”

  “Shaking? I didn’t notice a shake.”

  “Hand me a washcloth, will you?” I asked.

  He wet the cloth and gave it to me. The cool, wet cloth did the trick, and the nausea passed as quickly as it had appeared. “That was weird.”

  Ella Rae peered around the bathroom door. “When was your last period?”

  “What?” I said. “How long have you been standing there?”

  “Long enough to realize what you idiots can’t figure out.” Ella Rae grinned. “When was your last period?”

  I looked up at Jack, who was staring down at me. The look on his face matched mine. Pure and absolute astonishment.

  “Uh . . . I think, probably, let’s see.”

  “This is not a difficult question, Carri,” Ella Rae said.

  “Really,” Laine said.

  “Who else is out there?”

  “Just us,” Ella Rae said. “Now, think. Look, Laine, her boobies are huge.”

  “What?” I looked down at my chest. Wow . . . where had those come from?

  Jack was looking at
my chest, then back at my face. He wore a little lopsided grin. “Well?” I thought back. I knew it had been after the Crawfish Boil, then before Laine had been in the hospital, so that meant . . . I hadn’t had a period since June. This was the first week in September.

  I looked at Jack again and whispered, “June.”

  Ella Rae let out a huge “Woo-hoo!” that brought the rest of the house running.

  Picture this . . . I’m sitting on the floor of the bathroom, hands hugging the toilet seat. Jack is sitting on the edge of the tub beside me. Ella Rae is doing what later becomes known as the “Baby Dance,” and Laine is pumping her fist in the air as if the Tigers just converted a fourth and five, not that she’d know what that meant. Then my mother-in-law, father-in-law, Mrs. Jeannette, Tommy, and Mamie all joined in.

  That night we did what Louisiana folks do best. We had a party at the drop of a hat. Laine called my mother, who called a few of our friends, and we celebrated Baby Whitfield. Or I should say “they” celebrated Baby Whitfield. Jack and I mostly stood around in shock. Although he was in better shape than I was, that was for sure. At least he was talking.

  Looking back, I’m sure I was in shock. In one of those weird cocoons when you’re so freaked out that everything seems a little surreal. And everybody sounded like Charlie Brown’s teacher. I grasped for every straw I could think of. Maybe it was something else, right? I’d certainly been under a lot of stress lately. Couldn’t that cause your little friend not to show up? I mean, I couldn’t be pregnant. I just couldn’t be. I could barely take care of myself. How in the world would I take care of a baby?

  I went over and over the last couple of months in my mind. I had gotten off my pills in May and was going to take the birth control shots. I was in no hurry to get back to Shreveport to my gynecologist. There was no point since Jack and I were barely speaking. We went to stay at the Farm when Mrs. Diane and Poppa Jack left on their cruise. And then we had that picnic . . . quite a picnic, apparently. When Laine got sick, I never thought about it again.