Wicked Sweet

by Merrell, Mar'ce

  I pick them out and I see more black. Stick-on S’s and C’s are floating among the eggs. I drop the whisk into the eggs. Now, I’ve got to reconstruct the gloves.

  I lean against the cupboards. I need a break, maybe a permanent one. I drop my head in my hands. Idiot, my emotional editor screams.

  I don’t recognize the tapping on the window above my head until it is a pounding. What? Who? No. They’ve tracked me down. I pull off the pink gloves, shove them under my shirt, crawl like an army soldier along the cupboards where whoever is spying on me shouldn’t be able to see me. The pounding stops and when I think I’m safe, it begins again on the back door. Now, I hear a voice.

  “Chantal. Chantal. It’s your mother. Let me in.”

  We are in a standoff for a few minutes, me pretending I’m not in the kitchen, her telling me all the typical things like, I know you’re in there. I’m worried about you. She moves into specifics: “I talked to your dad. He told me you’re here, but he doesn’t know what you’re doing.”

  And now questions: “Where have you been going every day? Who are you hanging out with? It’s not drugs, is it? You’re not using drugs, are you?” Then, pleading: “Your dad told me we needed to talk. We can work this out.” The panicked edge to her voice gets to me, but not enough for me to open the door. And then she tells me she’s going home to get Dad’s spare keys and she’ll let herself in. I stand up, open the door.

  “Chantal.” She moves into my space.

  “Mother.” I back up. “Everything’s okay. I’m baking cakes. That’s all.”

  She couldn’t look more stunned if I’d just told her I was the Tooth Fairy’s assistant. Before she starts her litany of questions I tell her the details. Everything. When I baked my first cake, who I gave it to, where I’ve been baking, what kinds of cakes I’ve been baking, and why I started in the first place.

  She moves to a counter stool, sets her arms next to the mixer, drops her head.

  “Mom?”

  Her shoulders shake. She’s crying. My mother. Crying.

  “Mom? Mom. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. I didn’t …”

  “I …” She looks up, her eyes raccoon circled from her mascara and eyeliner. I hand her my dish towel.

  “I thought it was about me.” She wipes her eyes. “I thought you were trying to push me out of your life.”

  “What?”

  “The secrets.”

  “Mom.” I’ve seen my mother tear up before, but it never hit me. Not like this. Usually she cracks when I’m not doing what she needs me to do. Get all A’s, eat healthy, clean my room. But this is not about controlling me. My eyes begin to fill up, too, and my throat aches. I matter to her. We matter—as in our relationship. And that’s enough for me to let her in on my plan. A little.

  We sit on the floor, our backs against the cupboards. My voice shakes as I tell her selected highlights of how I came to be baking cakes in Dad’s office. She listens.

  “Baking is part of who I am. I have learned how to communicate in a language that people accept. They really love my cakes.” I pause because honestly, I’ll start bawling if I say more.

  She lifts an eyebrow. Sniffles. Is that disapproval?

  “I was desperate,” I say. “And I didn’t think you’d understand.”

  “Desperate.” I think she is going to begin a lecture that will never end. It will blow up the kitchen, Dad’s office, and my entire life. But she doesn’t. She just gets quiet. “Desperate,” she repeats. “I understand desperate.”

  I stand up, move to the counter, and drag a fork through the beaten eggs, pull out a C and a P. I stay silent. Maybe she’ll leave if she thinks I’m uncooperative. Dad will be home tomorrow and he can be our mediator.

  “You don’t have to do this,” my mother finally says.

  “Do what?”

  “Bake for them. To make them like you. You don’t have to prove anything.”

  “Um … okay.” Do I tell her I’m not doing it for them?

  “It’s okay if you just want to be good at one thing. Just because they expect something more out of you doesn’t mean you have to conform to their ideas of who you should be.”

  “Mother, who are we talking about here?”

  “You.”

  “No, we’re not. Because no one asked me to be the Cake Princess. I invented it. It was all my idea. I found Nigella Lawson on the TV and I wanted what she had. Fun. Love of food.” She stares at me, her mouth slightly open, as if she is surprised. This is me, I want to yell. This is me.

  “Nigella says that when she sees someone who is overweight she doesn’t think, oh what a pity. She thinks, wow, I bet that person has tasted some amazing food in her life. I like the way that sounds. She doesn’t have as many rules.” And I realize that’s what’s wrong with my video. Not enough Joy, too much Take That, Will. Now, I really need my mother to leave so I can finish it. My brain is rocketing with new ideas. A new script. A new angle.

  “And this woman, Nigella, you met her on TV?”

  “I found her. She’s a domestic goddess. She has her own TV show. She cooks. She … um … she says great things like, ‘Isn’t this buttercream utter gorgeousness’ and …” I see a slice of a smile in her face.

  “And she talks about needing a squidge of something and she calls … uh … her children darling.” My mother’s face startles at the accent I’ve added. “She’s British.” I go on, telling her every episode I remember of Nigella Lawson. I expect that Nigella will start talking to me, but her voice is silent. The more I talk, the more this concerns me. I sent her away earlier and suddenly she seems more of a TV star who lives in Britain and less of a fairy godmother. Did Cinderella ever see her fairy godmother again? I slip into silence and my mother and I mirror one another, chins in our hands, thoughts flying about to other places and people. My mother talks first.

  “We need to collect some rocks.”

  “What?” I have no idea where she’s going with this; maybe it’s part of a new fitness regime.

  “You and I need to go for walks and find rocks, take time for peace and beauty. You know, we work too hard.” And her face settles into despair. I remember her medication. I remember how she’s been sleeping or working, little else.

  She surveys my bowls and video camera, my pink dishwashing glove—the evidence that I’m in love with things that she despises. If she knew how I compare her to Nigella, she’d be devastated.

  “Fine. We can collect rocks.”

  I notice a slight shift: her right eyebrow lifting, her jaw relaxing.

  “But can I finish my video first?”

  “You’re making a video? A YouTube thing?” Her face registers shock that I would be putting myself on the Internet, but she composes herself quickly. “I suppose. Yes, a video is fine.”

  My mother doesn’t have any confessions to offer, she doesn’t make any apologies, she doesn’t take me in her arms, and we don’t break down crying in each other’s embrace. Real life is mostly, well, real. All of the above my mother doesn’t do. But what does she do? She picks my shot list off the counter. Pulls my script off the fridge. She studies them both. I bite the inside of my lip, chew a hole that will take weeks to heal.

  “Okay,” she finally says. “I’ll be the camera operator,” like we’ve been planning this all along.

  “Great,” I say. “But first I need to make some modifications to the script.”

  Parker

  Bee Yourself. Really. Bee Yourself.

  I notice what I have failed to see since our project began: Jillian is separate from me, from the boys. She is always willing to help, she is always encouraging, she is always so damn perfect at knowing where the juice boxes are, finding the Band-Aids, filling up the water bottles. But the real Jillian is missing.

  Today, the delivery of Will’s thirteenth cake has him wearing a headband with two bopping antenna, a yellow shirt striped with black duct tape, and a piece of black doweling protruding from his … posteri
or.

  Everyone is laughing at this photo shoot. Everyone. Ollie is laughing so hard, his cheeks must hurt. Jillian told me last week that Ollie should be walking by now and that her brothers said at least a few words when they were fourteen months. I reminded her that all the girls carry him around. They do the talking and the walking for him.

  Jillian didn’t laugh then and she isn’t laughing now. Even if I get the boys into the NHL Hall of Fame, my legacy will be tainted. The one girl I wanted to make a difference for is only marginally impressed by my efforts.

  I look over during the afternoon practice and she’s on her back, watching the clouds streak the sky. When I gather all the kids in a final huddle, she sits in the center of them.

  “We’re going up against kids who are bigger than you, played more than you. But we’ve got what they don’t. Tell me what that is!” I say.

  “We can run like hell!” Travis says. The rest of the team cuts up.

  “Yep. You can run like hell. And there’s something else. It’s about working together as a …” I wait for the right answer, but the boys are shouting out that they can shoot the ball, they can deke the goalie, they can tell them to stick-a-rubber-hose-up-their-rubber-nose.

  “Jillian—you want to help me out?”

  “What was the question?” she asks.

  “Team. We’re a team,” I say. I finish my motivational speech before they start wandering off. “Get some sleep tonight. Drink lots of water.” We end with a final cheer that half the mountain can hear. When they’ve run off for the playground, I sit next to Jillian, wait for her to talk first.

  “They all need new shoes,” she says, finally. “Travis’s big toe is sticking out of his, but he hasn’t complained. Not once.”

  “I’ll get them new shoes,” I tell her. I put my arm around her, but it’s like she doesn’t want to acknowledge I have a limb touching her shoulder. “Jillian, what about you? What do you need?”

  She doesn’t answer and I realize that things have gotten so bad I’ll be crawling my way back. “Can I call you tonight? I’m worried about you.”

  “Um …” The pause is so long I lose my confidence. “Sure, if you want.”

  “I won’t let you down.” It’s not much, but it’s a beginning.

  Chantal

  Delicious, with a Delicate Crumb.

  My mother is a not-bad camera operator. A little bossy, but not bad. We finish the footage in just under two hours and I tell her she has to leave.

  “I have an eye for detail,” she says. “You need a good editor.” Just when I was thinking things between us might shift.

  “Nope,” I say. “I’ve got one. Me.”

  I walk her to the door and shut it behind her, after, of course, I agree to turn on my phone and take her call tomorrow. With any luck the next time she sees the Cake Princess will be after the hockey tournament. My dad will be next to her in the stands.

  Dressed in my black delivery outfit, I balance the Cheetahs Always Get Caught Cake in my bicycle basket. The last delivery. The final cake. Parker’s house. It’s midnight.

  I swing my leg over the middle bar and start pedaling.

  “Chantal?” I hear a voice and from my left I perceive a shadowy figure emerging from a nearby bush.

  Oh God. Someone knows. A guy. He’s after me. I press the right pedal down and now the left. I’m traveling in the opposite direction.

  “Chantal?”

  I look back to see who it is. It’s … it’s …

  An odd, but perfectly predictable thing happens when the handlebars of a bike are pointed at an angle. The wheels of the bicycle follow that direction—they make a slight turn and collide with a rock that stops the wheel, creating a physics phenomena that I like to call frozen momentum. The rider of the bicycle is thrown over the handlebars, though she lands in the grass. But the contents of the bike basket are not so fortunate. The Cheetah cake lays broken and damaged, chunks of chocolate cake and buttercream, a mockery of utter gorgeousness.

  I want to crawl away when I hear the footsteps—I can’t believe what a fool I’ve just made of myself—but I’m in shock. This is it. My failure to function in a social setting has finally caught up with me.

  “Chantal, are you okay?”

  “Mitch?” I try to be calm, normal. “Why are you downtown in the middle of the night?”

  “What do you mean? Why shouldn’t I be downtown? I was at the radio station. I parked my car in a different place tonight because I’ve had this feeling that I was being watched when I left work.”

  “Weird.” I look down and see what he sees. Me in black. A cake that’s gone splat.

  “And you’re downtown in the middle of the night. On your bike in a black … disguise?” I watch him put the pieces together. “Oh, no, that was the cake? The Cake Princess cake? You were going to deliver it?”

  I nod my misery. Now I’ve got to bake another one.

  “You’re the Cake Princess!” He smiles. It’s like happy birthday and you’ve won the lottery all in one. “I think you’re great.”

  “I know.” I smile back and I’m sure my eyes are sparking like a waterfall of fireworks. “I listen to you on the radio.”

  The only logical solution is to regroup, restrategize, and start over with the assistance of Mitch. Could this be a more perfect situation for a Cake Princess about to be crowned? I so want to call Jillian, but I’m afraid that the magic is time-limited, situation-specific. Mitch and me! Me! And Mitch!

  Twenty minutes later, I’ve measured out the ingredients and Mitch is stationed at the kitchen counter with the laptop. We are masters using our tools. The butter plops into the mixing bowl, sugar cascades over the top, and the motor runs. Since I can’t rely on my ability to judge time right now, I set my timer for three minutes. I stare at him. The nerdy black plastic eyeglasses are a pleasing contrast to his short faux mo. He’s one of those kids who gets good grades, but not great ones, because he likes to have fun.

  “I’ve got to tell you something.” He scrunches his nose to push his glasses closer to his face and yet he never stops moving his fingers along the keyboard. A multitasker, too!

  He presses a button and turns the screen toward me. It’s the final shot, the only one with my face in it. Everything else is about the cake. “You’re great,” he says. “Exquisite. Splendid.” He throws in a British accent.

  A multitasker and he thinks I’m splendid! Nigella would be so proud. “You’re just saying that because you made me wreck my bicycle, and my cake.”

  “Nope. You could have your own show. I’d be your producer.” His voice gets a little shaky and the air between us vibrates in wind chime music and whispers of vanilla and chocolate. Oh. I want him to kiss me. But he’s watching the video.

  “That isn’t my real life.”

  “Your whole life is your real life.” He says it as if it’s a simple truth. He’s adding in photos from the lake. We’ve already come up with an extra bit that he’s going to tape, something that will make the Cake Princess’s debut warm everyone’s hearts.

  Your whole life is your real life. I thought I was acting, you know. Pretending. But maybe I’ve been creating.

  When he looks up at me I like that it seems as if he sees more than curly, unmanageable hair and my obvious plainness.

  Darling, he’s perfect for you.

  Nigella, you’re back!

  I wouldn’t miss my youngest protégé domestique! But tell me, this young lad who fancies you, will he appreciate your culinary artistry?

  “Mitch, have you ever baked a cake?” I ask.

  “I burned out my mom’s old-school Easy Bake Oven when I was ten. Put my GI Joe guys in it to melt them down—it was supposed to be the aftermath of an atomic bomb.”

  “Would you like a chance to redeem yourself?” I hold out a wooden spatula.

  Jillian

  Special Delivery.

  Chocolate, butter, and vanilla smells continue to drift in through my open window. My stom
ach grumbles. Not that I’m complaining. I just wish my baking neighbor knew that I am here, alone in my room, wishing for the companionship of a brownie or a chocolate chip cookie. I am not afraid of calories today; I want chocolate. Chocolate would get me started in the right direction.

  For the first time in a month, my mother has taken the boys out with her, leaving me all alone. Not that any of us should be fooled into thinking she’s changed her ways. No. She found out that the big hockey tournament is today (even though I told the boys we could keep it a surprise) and when she insisted that she was coming to watch, when she demanded that we all go out for breakfast to celebrate, when she said we are the biggest, happiest family in town, I said, “Screw that. I’m not going. And they all need new shoes.”

  So I am alone. Not pretending we are a family we are not. Contemplating my next move. I know the pros and cons of what I am considering. I’ve listed them, scrunched the paper into a ball, and put it between my mattress and the box spring. The phone is next to me. I’ve found the phone number and I tried it yesterday, pretended I was a telemarketer to confirm that the number matched the person I am, now, getting the courage to call.

  I hear a car pull into our cul-de-sac but when the door opens the sound of six little boys high on sugar doesn’t follow. Even though they should be home by now, I bet they’ll be gone for another hour.

  Now, the sweet smells from before grow stronger, as if they’re blowing toward me. I turn off the fan and listen. I hear footsteps.

  “Jillian. Jillian.” A whispered voice reaches me through the window. I open the curtains.

  “Parker?” What is he doing here? He was supposed to phone first. Ugh. I don’t need more complications.

  “I brought us a cake. Can I come in?”

  “A cake?” And like that, something shifts. I don’t want to be alone. I don’t want to sit on the sidelines. I want companionship; well, cake can be companionship. But will he think I’m weak, that all it takes is a little cake to woo me? “Is it chocolate?”