One Hundred Spaghetti Strings

by Jen Nails

  At about noon, Auntie Gina came and got me, and we went to a few wedding dress places. It’d been a while since I had seen her and there was a big rush of wanting to cry for a second, but then there was all the stuff to tell her about and catch her up on. I was relieved to have her all to myself for the afternoon. I didn’t even have to finish explaining about the autobiography project and the letter.

  “I remember writing Nina’s for her,” she said. “When do you need it by?” she asked.

  “It’s due in, like, three weeks,” I said.

  “Well, if it isn’t Last-Minute Lucy,” she said.

  “I know,” I said. “But can you do it?”

  “Steffy,” she said, “it’s not even a question.”

  When she put on a dress that had this purple sash thing and white flowers around the neck, we both stopped talking.

  “Oh my gosh,” I said. “That’s it.”

  “You think?” she said. And then both of us were crying and laughing as we looked at her reflection in the big mirror. Even though she was still my auntie Gina (sometimes she felt more like my mom), she was getting married, and I was betting it’d feel like she was even farther away from me after the wedding than it had felt since my dad came back.

  “Steffy, you know that I went shopping with your mom when she got her wedding dress,” she said.

  “No,” I said. I sat down and played with the ruffle on the cushy footrest thing that was in the big dressing room.

  “Yeah,” she said. “I remember that day.”

  She lifted her hair all on top of her head and watched herself in the mirror as she turned her head to one side.

  “She was so excited to marry your daddy.”

  I couldn’t look at Auntie Gina while she told me this. But I wanted to hear it so, so bad.

  “Nobody else was that excited, though.”

  I had to look up.

  “Not because of your dad, honey. We all loved James—we really did.”

  She turned to the side and held in her stomach. Then she let it out.

  “They were just both really young, and your mom didn’t even know what she wanted to do with herself yet. Everyone said she was gonna go get her degree in culinary arts or music. And she never did.”

  She gathered the skirt part of the dress in her hands and came over and sat down on the other fancy footrest thing and played with the ruffle.

  After a minute she said, “I used to think that if I ever decided to get married, she’d come with me to do this.”

  I nodded and thought of Nina.

  “Yeah,” she said. “I remember that day. I remember so many days.” She got up and turned around. “Unbutton me?”

  I stood behind her and started unlooping the satiny buttons that lined the back of the dress like a row of candy mints.

  “You know that when you were a baby, your mom used to cook with you.”

  “Yeah,” I said, “I think I kind of knew that. You’ve said that before. What did she cook?”

  “I remember her in the kitchen holding you on her hip, and she would be stirring sauce with her other hand. And when you got a little bigger, you were like her third arm, and you would dump in sugar and sprinkle in salt and whisk stuff. Nina never wanted to do any of that. But you, I mean, come on—your first words were ‘wire whisk.’”

  “What?” I asked.

  “Yes!”

  We started laughing. “I never told you that, Steffy?” she said. “Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry. Isn’t that funny? I didn’t even remember that until just now. I guess no one ever told you because . . . because everything changed.”

  We were quiet on the way to the Harris Teeter. Tomorrow was Mother’s Day, and we were stopping to get flowers to bring Mom. A dark feeling snuck up on me every year around Mother’s Day. Whenever I gave her those flowers, I worried that she would feel bad, that it would hurt her to be reminded that she was a mom and that she was supposed to be doing mom things instead of doing word searches and sitting around and playing the piano all day. But Auntie Gina always insisted.

  Back in the car on the way home, Auntie Gina was telling me how people would have to make alterations to her dress, and she’d go back and pick it up when it was ready. I was half listening and half thinking about smoothies and mixing in more fruit. How the blade at the bottom of the blender zipped around and around so fast, and how no matter how many times I went over it and over it and over it in my head, no matter how many dishes I brought for Mom, no matter how many bouquets I bought her on Mother’s Day—my mom had lived at the Place since I could remember, and she would probably live at the Place for a long, long time.

  Breakfast for Dinner

  Nina had spent the night at Denise’s when they got back from tryouts, and because they were so exhausted, she didn’t come to the Place on Sunday. I had hoped Nina would call me and tell me how it went, but I’d have to wait until she got home. I mean, I hadn’t told her to call me or anything. They would find out if they made it in a couple weeks, Dad said. I hoped they’d both make it. But the more things I was hoping for, the more nervous I got about everything. I was hoping for things for other people, but underneath I was also thinking about the Chefs of Tomorrow finals that were only a month away now.

  Jean Sawyer just stared straight ahead the whole way to Mom’s. I couldn’t tell if we were quiet because Nina wasn’t there, or if we were quiet just because. But there was something different about Jean, like she was really busy in her head, thinking about something. Anyway, it gave me time to think about how to ask Mom about the letter.

  She was on the couch with the newspaper when we got there. When she saw me, she put it down and smiled and glanced at Helen, who told her I was her daughter. “Happy Mother’s Day, Mom,” I said. I handed off the bouquet of yellow and white daisies to Helen, and she said she’d go get a vase. I leaned down and hugged and kissed Mom. So we wouldn’t have time to think about Mother’s Day, I got right to business and blurted it all out, how I had to write a biographical letter to myself for school.

  “There’s also this parent letter thing,” I said. “Mrs. Ashton wants us to have our parent or guardian write a letter to us about who they think we are.”

  “Who they think you are,” Mom said. A couple seconds went by.

  “Could you maybe write it?” I asked. “For me?”

  She sighed. Then smiled really big. “I could,” she said. “I could try.”

  “Yeah, just try,” I said. “I could even help you. If you want.”

  Once the flowers were in a vase on a little side table nearby, Helen brought a pencil and a notebook and gave it to Mom. I scooted closer to her, and we figured out that she’d jot things down so she wouldn’t forget during the week. Helen said she and my mom could write down details on Sundays after me and Nina visited. There were two Sundays left after this one, before it was due. So Mom had time to write her letter based on the details she got down during each of our visits instead of just trying to remember it all.

  I told her all about Chefs of Tomorrow again, how I was in fifth grade, how my best friend was Lisa Rudder. That we lived with Dad. Then I didn’t know what else to say. It was hard for me to come up with things that would go good in a letter to me about who she thought I was. It was kind of giving me a headache. But I talked about how I loved to make breakfast every morning, how I pretty much liked school, and how Lisa wanted to be an astronaut but was also really good at helping me come up with cooking ideas and we might go into business making astronaut desserts.

  I liked this, having her write it down. Maybe she’d remember us more now that she was going to start writing things down every week. It was like writing down a recipe. Like, I made chocolate chip banana bread a lot. Maybe once a month or something. But I never remembered exactly how much sugar I was supposed to put in. I always had to look at the recipe. And Mom was writing down all the ingredients of me so she could go back and remember. Plus, asking her to write the letter wasn’t as scary as I thought it�
��d be.

  Now there was only one more person to ask.

  That evening, I made a greasy-spoon dinner of eggs, bacon, and pancakes. I had been too nervous about asking for those darn letters to think about cooking an actual dinner dinner.

  “So,” Dad said once we were all seated at the table, “it looks like this little hatchback is gonna be ours soon.” He opened his phone and showed us another photo of that same small, red car that he talked about before.

  “Sweet,” said Nina.

  “I’m gonna have to teach you to drive in a couple years, and then you, Steffy. Plus, I want to be able to pick you guys up and take you where you need to go.”

  It was the first time ever that Dad actually said something about what was going to happen later on with us, like, in the future. It gave me goose bumps.

  Then Nina said two big words.

  “Thank you.”

  Dad nodded before taking a slurp of coffee. Something invisible in me stretched to hug him from my chair. Then I told him all about the autobiography project.

  “I kind of decided to go for lots of letters instead of one, well, just because of how things are.”

  Dad and I locked eyes for a second.

  “I’m picking up Mom’s letter in a couple weeks. And Auntie Gina’s writing me one. And Nina wrote me one, too.” I took a breath. “And I want one more.”

  The Good News Potpie Meal

  The following Thursday in English class Mrs. Ashton just gave us time to write and work on our autobiographies. I had less than two weeks to get it all done. I was trying to put together all the stories that Auntie Gina had told me about from when I was little.

  Harry and Auntie Gina had invited everyone over for dinner that night. They had thrown stuff that they had around into a kind of potpie—ham, cheese, mushrooms, sprouts, and red peppers were inside, and then there was this biscuity and delicious thing around the outside. They served it with garlicky potato wedges and sweet tea, and it was perfect. We were all sitting around Auntie Gina’s big table. Dad too.

  He was telling Harry that his boss had sold him our new maroon Honda. Auntie Gina was telling me to boil the asparagus before you put it in the potpie to make sure it was well done and not hard. I was asking her how she could figure out what things to put together that would taste good in a Kitchen Sink kind of meal when Nina’s cell phone rang.

  “It’s Charlotte Rep,” she said, looking at the number that came up. “They’re calling me! I thought they were gonna call Dad or something. And I didn’t know we were gonna find out this quick.” She pleaded with Auntie Gina for permission to answer it during dinner, and Auntie Gina said, “Oh please, girl, of course. Hurry!” Nina got up and ran into the living room with her phone. At the table, we all stared at each other, and no one breathed. For a minute maybe we just heard Nina saying, “Yes” and “Okay,” and then she said, “Oh good.” Auntie squeezed my hand.

  “I got in!” Nina yelled as she ran back to the table. I screamed. Auntie Gina jumped out of her seat and went to hug Nina. Everybody was up and hugging her, and she was wiping her eyes.

  “They want me there early, Auntie Gina. They said I was in the top five and could I come early for them to train me to be a team leader. Oh my God,” she said. “I can’t believe it.” She took a tissue from Harry. “Can I go call Denise, Auntie Gina? Please?”

  She said yes, and Nina ran into the living room.

  Auntie Gina said she guessed Dad could call our school and explain how Nina had been singled out in the top five and ask if she could leave school early. It got decided that Nina would come back up here for Mom’s birthday—Dad even said he’d drive down to get her. And Harry said that we’d all go down and watch her performances at the end of the summer and then bring her back up to Greensboro together. Auntie Gina and Dad were easier with each other, like they were better friends now or something.

  On that night I loved how my family was, all of us talking at the same time about Nina, making these plans together about the things that we’d do. I glanced at Dad, who was bringing dishes to Auntie Gina at the sink, and imagined the two of us together all summer while Nina was in Charlotte. I would cook, he would read the paper, we would eat Snickers bars.

  Harry came and gave me a squeeze and whispered, “Just about a month away for you, huh?” We were celebrating my sister, but he was also thinking about me and Chefs of Tomorrow. I was letting myself like him again, when I had been so mad that he was taking Auntie Gina away. She was our aunt, after all, not our mom. We belonged to her sister. And to Dad.

  When Nina got off the phone with Denise, I ran up to her.

  “Denise got in!” she said.

  “And you got in,” I said. “Top five.”

  “Yeah,” she said, wrinkling her nose. I hadn’t noticed the little freckles she had on her cheeks in a long time. She looked younger than thirteen right then, and she put her arms around my neck and I put my arms around her waist and we hugged. I wondered what you thought of your sister when you were little compared to what you thought of your sister when you grew up, and I hoped I’d always feel like I did right then.

  Jeannie Beannie’s Lemon Bars

  On Sunday, Jean Sawyer wasn’t waiting for us at church. Nina called Dad’s cell. No answer. We waited a few minutes. The receptionist called Jean’s house. No answer. Nina called Auntie Gina at work.

  “Hey,” said Nina. “We’re at church waiting for Jean but she’s not —”

  She stopped. “What?”

  I could feel something wrong.

  “Oh no,” said Nina, sitting down on the bench right there outside the office. The receptionist and I looked at each other. “Oh my God,” Nina said. She looked at me. “I will,” she said. “Bye.”

  “What?” I asked when she had ended the call.

  “Jean got really sick again.”

  “Is she okay?”

  “No, Steffy,” said Nina. “She’s not.”

  I heard the receptionist say, “Oh dear.”

  Nina turned to her and said, “My aunt said she was in the hospital for a few days and she just . . .” Nina sighed. “We didn’t even know.”

  “Know what?” I asked.

  “That she was even in the hospital.”

  “Is she better?”

  “Steffy,” said Nina, “she died.”

  Oh my gosh.

  Nina and the receptionist were talking for a minute. I just stared at the spot I last remembered Jean Sawyer in the vestibule. It was magic. She disappeared from the Earth when she was just there before, talking, breathing, laughing. I wondered where she was and what she was doing. I wanted to thank her again for helping us, because I never really thanked her enough.

  Me and Nina didn’t get to go see Mom that day, so Auntie Gina figured out with her work that she’d go in late the next day, Monday, and after school, the three of us would go visit Mom special.

  That night I went through the old cookbook. I couldn’t remember what it was, but there was one recipe in there that made me think of Jean Sawyer. I flipped and flipped through the pages and pages of recipes, some so old they felt like tissue paper, and I was extra careful. Scraps of notebook paper shoved in, index cards, newspaper clippings with recipes for something with chicken or pork chops. And then, finally: Jeannie Beannie’s Lemon Bars.

  I called Auntie Gina and asked her if we could make lemon bars with Mom tomorrow, and she said yes, as long as Helen said okay. She said she’d call her and ask. I told her all the ingredients over the phone.

  It was almost eight thirty and time to get ready for bed, but I baked a crust anyway. The recipe was simple—just flour, butter, water, and salt. And this kind of dough was so easy to knead compared with pasta dough because the butter made it real squishy and pliable.

  The next day after school, Nina skipped dance, and Auntie Gina came and got us special to go over to the Place. She had everything for the bars, plus my crust. While Mom and Auntie Gina sat and talked in the rec room for a while
, me and Nina followed Helen back through hallway D, and then down another winding hallway, and then through the dining hall and into the big kitchen in the back.

  “Have at it, ladies,” she said. “The crew’ll start dinner in about an hour. You think you have enough time?” We said yes. Wow. Baking in a giant kitchen where they made meals for big, huge crowds of people. Nina was unloading our lemon bar stuff onto the long marble counter, and I found mixing bowls and utensils in the many cabinets and drawers. I wondered what the Chefs of Tomorrow finals would be like and if I would be in a kitchen this big.

  We started to mix together the lemon filling—it actually turned out to be pretty easy—and it smelled so good. We preheated the oven. Me and Nina didn’t talk that much. The ceilings were so high in there, and it almost felt like church and we should be quiet. Plus, all I wanted to do was bake. We were just about to pour the filling into the crust when Mom and Auntie Gina came in.

  “Do you want to help?” I asked.

  Mom came around to the other side of the counter, and as I poured, she turned the pan around to get it evenly in there. It was a small thing that we did together in the kitchen, me and my mom, but it was the first time baking with her, ever, that I could remember.

  “Oh, that smells good,” said Auntie Gina.

  Nina and I washed the dishes in silence while Mom and Auntie Gina sat on some stools nearby and talked quietly. The smell of sweet lemon and warm crust filled the air. Over the running water and the clank of mixing bowls and measuring cups, I could tell that Mom and Auntie Gina were talking about real things and not chitchatting.

  “My dad died eight or nine years ago,” I could hear Mom saying when we had turned off the water and were drying the dishes.

  “Nine,” said Auntie Gina.

  “But how long ago did their daddy die?” Mom pointed to me and Nina, prying into us with her eyes.

  “Mom,” I said, “he didn’t.”

  She nodded her head slowly. “Well, where’s he been?”