“Mom!” I cry. “What’s up? Are you okay? Is Kelsie okay?”
“Yes, yes, we’re fine.” My sister is in the back of the car playing a Mickey Mouse game on Mom’s iPhone. “Get in the car,” Mom says. “We need to go to the hospital.”
“Hospital?” Violet and I say at the same time. We look at each other, our faces stricken.
“What’s happened?” I say to Mom. But in my heart, I’ve already guessed.
“It’s Rosemary,” Mom says. “Come on—get in.”
• • •
Violet and I shove our things in the trunk and climb inside. Mom drives quickly. No one tries to talk over the squeaky voice of Mickey Mouse. As I stare out the window at the traffic and people walking on the sidewalk, Violet reaches over and puts her arm around me. I bury my face in her hair.
We get to the hospital parking lot and find a space. I can’t believe that just this morning we were here, worrying about our bake-a-thon of all things, and maybe even feeling a little smug that this time we weren’t here to visit anyone. How quickly things change.
Mom half drags Kelsie along by the hand, and Violet and I follow behind. It takes me a second to register that Violet’s got a basket of leftover baked goodies over her arm. We enter the lobby, and Mom talks to the receptionist. She tells us to follow the yellow line—we’re going to a different ward than last time. We go up in the elevator and keep walking. The yellow line finally stops before a forbidding-looking door: Intensive Care Unit.
“But this can’t be right,” Violet says. “I mean, she was fine. She was…” Her voice trails off, helpless.
Mrs. Simpson was sick. Really sick. And we hadn’t even known it.
The setup inside is nearly the same as the other ward we visited: the same busy nurses, the torturous-looking medical machines in the hallway, doorways to tomb-like rooms. There’s an awful smell of disinfectant that doesn’t quite hide the “something else” underneath. I bite my lip to keep it from quivering.
Mom speaks to one of the nurses. The woman barely looks up from her computer screen. “Are you family?” she asks.
When Mom doesn’t answer right away, I step forward. “Yes,” I say. “She’s my grandma.” The words sound completely right.
The woman waves us to a bank of chairs across from the desk. “Please take a seat,” she says. “The consultant is on his way to speak to you.”
“But can’t we see her?” Violet says.
The woman narrows her eyes like she’s not used to arguing.
“We’ll wait,” Mom says.
We all take seats in the uncomfortable molded plastic chairs. The room seems to swirl in front of my eyes. “I…I don’t understand,” I say.
Mom puts her hand on my arm. “Rosemary collapsed just after lunch. She managed to press the emergency button on that necklace we gave her. I went over right away and found her sprawled on the kitchen floor. She’d been picking herbs—mint, sage, and rosemary—they were all around her. She was unconscious.” Mom’s voice catches. “Of course, I called an ambulance immediately.”
“Yeah…” What can I say?
She opens her purse and takes out a white envelope. “And I found this on the table in her kitchen—right where she fell.” Mom’s eyes glisten with tears. “It’s got your name on it.”
My hand trembles as I take the envelope. I stare down at the writing, the loopy letters of my name swimming before my eyes.
“She wrote you a letter,” Violet says. “Open it.”
But I hesitate a second too long. A man in a white lab coat comes into the waiting area. He looks at his clipboard and then at Mom. “Claire Cooper?” he says.
I shove the letter in the pocket of my sweater.
“Yes.” Mom stands up nervously. “Kelsie, switch that thing off.” She reaches for the iPhone.
“You’re Mrs. Simpson’s family?” the doctor asks.
“Yes.” This time Mom doesn’t pause.
“Well, I’m sorry to have to tell you that the news isn’t good. Mrs. Simpson came in for some tests last week. She’d been having headaches and feeling weak, as I expect you knew. She knew her condition was getting worse.”
“But she didn’t tell us any of this,” I blurt out. “I mean, I know she had some headaches, but doesn’t everyone?”
The consultant nods. “It was quite sudden as these things go. The blood pressure in her brain has been steadily rising. And today she had a major stroke.” He takes out a folder from under the top sheets of the clipboard. He shuffles a few papers and then hands Mom a photograph. I gaze over her shoulder. It’s a grainy black-and-white scan of a skull.
“You can see the clot here—this dark mass.” The doctor points to a spot on the photo. “And now she’s slipped into a coma. I’m afraid she’s already beyond our reach.”
I look at him in disbelief. “But, I don’t understand. You mean she’s…?”
“Can we see her?” Mom asks.
“Of course, this way.”
My legs are unsteady as I stand to follow the consultant. This time it’s my turn to grip Violet’s hand for dear life. Mom walks next to us, her jaw set grimly. Kelsie shrinks behind her.
As we begin heading down the hall, there’s a pounding on the door to the ward, and I hear a man’s loud voice. “Let me in, please. Someone let me in.”
The nurse at the desk looks annoyed as she buzzes the door. A whirlwind of a man in a black suit marches inside.
“Emory,” Mom says in a choking voice. “You’re just in time. We’re going in to see her.”
Seeing Mom seems to calm him a little. He comes over to her and kisses her on the cheek. “I’m so glad you’re here,” he says, ruffling Kelsie’s hair. He glances at me and Violet. “All of you.” The sadness in his eyes is genuine.
I look at the floor, unable to answer him. The doctor clears his throat. I lead the solemn procession behind him down the hall.
As we walk, I force myself to look inside a few of the open doors to prepare myself for the worst. Just like last time, there are televisions blaring loudly and shrunken patients lying with tubes sticking out in all directions. I begin to feel dizzy.
The doctor directs us to a single room at the end of the hallway. I pause at the door and look inside. Mrs. Simpson’s frame is small and frail in the center of the bed. Her skin is pale, her breathing even. She looks almost serene. The only tube coming from her is from a little finger cuff that leads to a quietly bleeping monitor.
At that moment, I lose it. I rush away from the room and a few yards back down the hallway, leaning against the wall and gasping for breath. The tears rise like a tidal wave inside me. The light blurs to dark in front of my eyes.
A hand grasps my arm to steady me. I blink and find it’s Emory Kruffs standing there.
“Scarlett…” he says quietly.
“You were right,” I say with a hiccuppy sob. “She should have been in a home with nurses to look after her around the clock. I should have listened—convinced her. If she’d gone to the nice home like you wanted her to, then maybe this wouldn’t have happened.”
He gives me a kindly smile and shakes his head. “No, Scarlett,” he says. “I think you were right all along. She was old and ill—even I didn’t know quite how ill—and this would have happened anyway. At least she was able to spend her last days where she wanted to be: at home. She was able to pass her gifts on to you and your friends, and that meant a lot to her.” His eyes fill with tears. “I’m glad that, in the end, she stayed where she was, surrounded by her memories, and”—he squeezes my hand—“by people she loved.”
I nod solemnly. In that moment, we seem to reach a kind of understanding. Maybe even a truce.
“Come on.” He gently tugs my arm. “It’s time to say goodbye.”
I allow myself to be led back down the hall and into the room. Violet
and Mom are seated there on either side of Mrs. Simpson, each holding one of her hands. Kelsie is standing behind Mom, her face almost hidden behind Mom’s hair. Violet isn’t crying, but her head is bowed. I remember how she was there with her mom at the…end.
She looks up when I enter. I can see the pain there in her purple-blue eyes. “She looks very peaceful,” Violet says, trying to smile. “You know, like they say—on her way to a better place and all that.”
I shake my head. Wherever Mrs. Simpson has gone, it can’t be better than her lovely kitchen.
“I’m so sorry, Scarlett,” Mom says. And I can tell immediately she means more than just about Mrs. Simpson.
“No, Mom, it’s okay.” My voice is remarkably steady. “Um, do you mind if I sit with her for a minute with Violet?”
“Of course, go ahead. I’ll be just outside.” Mom stands and shifts places with me in the small room. As she ushers Kelsie out of the room, Emory Kruffs takes Mom’s hand and they walk out together.
“Mrs. Simpson,” I say in a whisper. “Rosemary?”
There’s no response other than the breathing. I grasp her wrinkled, arthritic hand. It’s cool and slightly clammy. I look over at Violet. She’s set the basket she brought with her on the extra visitor’s chair.
I let go of Mrs. Simpson’s hand for a second and stand. “We brought you something.”
I go over to the basket and remove the cloth. I feel like Little Red Riding Hood, except this time I know full well that the wolf is already at the door.
“We’ve got scones, and a few oatmeal bars, and chocolate-covered gingerbread people.” I smile through my tears. “I know you like those.” I take the basket back to the bedside. I hold up one of the ginger cookies under Mrs. Simpson’s nose. The delightful smell seems to fill the room as if they were just out of the oven. Cinnamon, sugar, corn syrup, spicy ginger. And something else is there too, underneath it all. I suddenly remember the letter that Mom found. I hand the cookie to Violet and fumble in my pocket.
I open the envelope and unfold the paper. It’s only a few lines, written in Mrs. Simpson’s handwriting. I read it out loud in a soft voice:
My dear Scarlett,
I’m sorry if I didn’t tell you just how short my time with you was going to be. But I thought it was probably better that way. I haven’t known you very long, but I know you already possess everything you need to become the young woman that you want to be.
The recipe book is yours, and I hope you will keep it always and remember the times we had and all that we shared. Please don’t be sad about me, but live your life to the fullest, and I’ll be with you always. And as for the secret ingredient—you only have to look inside yourself to find it. And believe…
Love always,
Rosemary Simpson
Tears roll down my cheeks as I finish the last line. Violet begins to sob softly. And just behind me, I’m aware of three other people who have crowded into the room—Gretchen, Alison, and Nick. It’s only fitting that all the Secret Cooking Club should come here at the end, to say thank you to her for what she brought into our lives.
One by one, my friends all touch Mrs. Simpson’s hand to say goodbye before going out of the room, leaving her in peace. Violet lingers at the door for a second before joining the others.
And then there’s just me.
All of a sudden, I feel Mrs. Simpson’s hand underneath mine give a little jerk. Immediately I sit forward, hope flickering for an instant. Her eyes are still closed, but her lips move slightly and a word comes out of her mouth: “Marianne.”
Her hand grips mine more tightly for a second, and something like a smile plays over her lips. The heart rate monitor begins to drone a flat, steady tone.
She’s gone.
Chapter 41
Epilogue
The funeral of Rosemary Simpson is held on a gray Friday afternoon. In attendance with me are Mom, Emory Kruffs, my sister, Violet, Gretchen, Alison, Nick, and about a hundred other members of the Secret Cooking Club who came from all around to meet up, celebrate the life of our teacher, and bring lots of delicious food that would feed an army. The occasion draws such a crowd that the local newspaper sends a photographer, and the head of the charity for senior citizens gives a speech praising our charity bake-a-thon. Many more people are present, not so much in spirit, as in cyberspace.
Mrs. Simpson is buried under a shady tree in a corner of the graveyard, next to her daughter and her long-departed husband. I cry at the funeral—of course I do. But at the same time, I feel a strange sense of calm. I know that Mrs. Simpson’s with her daughter now—her “little cook”—and that she’s at peace. I know the magic is real. And as for me, whatever happens, I can handle it.
I mean, I’ve already had to come to terms with the fact that Mom seems pretty serious about Emory Kruffs, and there’s been talk of knocking our two houses into one (with Mrs. Simpson’s fabulous kitchen staying put, of course). Emory’s actually okay, now that I’m getting to know him. Believe it or not, he and I have watched a couple of cooking shows together when he’s over at our house. He told me a secret too—that when he has time, he might want me to teach him how to cook so he can make something special for Mom. So the Secret Cooking Club might be getting its first real “celebrity” member—or, at least, our first elected official.
But the one thing that does rattle me is when Nick Farr looks for me after the service, offers his condolences…and then reminds me about our “date” in two days to see the concert.
In other words, life goes on.
The evening after the funeral, I sit at my desk with Treacle curled up on my lap. At least so far, he seems content in his new home here with us. I finish typing in one of Mrs. Simpson’s special recipes and close the little notebook. I press the button on my new computer to publish it on the blog—sharing what she left behind with all our friends and followers. Beside me is a plate of deliciously fresh miniature butter pastries that Gretchen and Alison made, decorated by Violet with chocolate swirls and gold sparkles on top. I also have a steaming cup of hot chocolate topped with a sprinkling of cinnamon that Mom brought up to my room. I breathe in deeply, savoring the aromas and flavors.
A dash of friendship, a pinch of secrets, a cup of laughter, and a dollop of tears.
And then there’s the secret ingredient that’s always there—something we have to find within ourselves.
Maybe you’ve guessed it already.
It’s really not all that secret.
That’s right…
Love.
Acknowledgments
This book is dedicated to Eve, Rose, and Grace. I love you more than chocolate caramels. I’d like to thank the judges of the Times/Chicken House Children’s Fiction Competition 2015 for choosing this book as the winner, and all the lovely people at Chicken House, for making the dream a reality. I’d also like to thank my parents, my partner Ian, and my writing group: Lucy, Ronan, Chris, Francisco, and Dave, for your support and belief. Finally, I’d like to say thank you to all my readers—you are the secret ingredient who truly bring a book to life!
About the Author
Laurel Remington works as a lawyer for a renewable energy company that builds wind farms. She lives in the UK with her three girls.
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Secrets and Scones Page 17