by Amy Hatvany
Ava gave me a pointed look. “It never made that sound when my mom made it.”
Of course it didn’t. I sighed internally and kept a bright smile on my face. “Now, what do we add?” Eggs came next, the recipe said, and over the next five minutes, we added the rest of the ingredients to the mixer according to the instructions on the page.
“ ‘The batter should be light and creamy,’ ” Ava read, then looked at the gloppy mess in the bowl. Hard little bits of butter and white cream cheese chunks floated to the surface; the batter looked about as appetizing as spoiled milk. “I don’t think this is right,” she said.
“Let’s bake it and see what happens,” I said. “Maybe the clumpy bits melt and disappear when it’s in the oven?”
She looked at me, one eyebrow raised, but handed me the buttered Bundt pan, and I poured the mixture in, then slid it into the preheated oven. “Voilà! We did it.” Half an hour later, when the timer went off, I pulled the cake out of the oven. It was a hard, dark brown, and lumpy mess. “Well, at least it smells good,” Ava said, and we both looked at each other, then burst out laughing.
Just then, we heard the front door open. “Dad!” Ava yelled, scooting into the living room. “You’ll never guess what Grace did! She tried to bake!”
I followed her and saw Victor hugging his daughter. He looked up and smiled when he saw me, his eyes lighting up in a way they hadn’t for over a month.
“ ‘Tried’ is definitely the operative word,” I said. “I think it’s more of a science experiment than a cake.”
Ava looked up at her father, craning her neck. “The batter was gross,” she said, and I chuckled.
“Really gross,” I said, agreeing with her. “We’ll make another one on Wednesday, okay? Maybe your dad will be kind enough to give us some helpful hints.”
“I can do that,” Victor said, still smiling. He looked down at Ava. “I need to talk with Grace, honey. Can you give us a minute alone?”
Ava’s smile vanished as she let go of Victor and walked down the hall to her bedroom. I waited until I heard her door click closed, then looked at him, concerned. There was no way he could have known that I’d taken Ava to Kelli’s house. It had to be something else. “What’s up?”
He sighed, pulling off his coat and hanging it in the closet by the front door. “Spencer slipped in the kitchen a little while ago and landed hard on the cement floor. I’m pretty sure he broke his arm.”
“Oh no!” I said. “Did he go to the hospital?”
“He’s there now,” Victor said. “And I’m down my head chef for Thanksgiving.”
I felt something in my belly drop down a notch and realized the last thing I needed to do right then was tell him where Ava and I had gone. It would only give him more to worry about. “What does that mean?”
“It means I’m screwed. I gave a lot of people the holiday off and there’s no one else to cover. Spencer was supposed to manage all the catering we’re sending out plus the reservations we have for dinner tomorrow. Now I’ll have to do it all.”
I didn’t respond right away. I thought of the huge pile of work I needed to get done before Monday—the client files I needed to review, the budget that needed tweaking before the end of the year. I had hoped to make some headway on it before the holiday weekend, so Victor and I could actually enjoy some time together. A tiny thread of irritation shot through my veins, but then an idea struck me. “Can’t you hire someone to cover for him temporarily?”
He shook his head. “There’s not enough time. And even if I hired someone next week, I’d have to be there to train them on the menu, anyway, which is really more work than just biting the bullet and doing it myself.”
I thought about how Victor would have to run the restaurant at night on his own until after New Year’s, and the holidays were his busiest season, when he needed to make enough money to make it through the leaner times. From Thanksgiving on last year, he’d worked fourteen-hour days, six days a week—I was lucky to see him at all. And now, with the kids to manage on top of the restaurant, I couldn’t fathom how he’d make it work. It was doubtful he would hire someone to babysit the kids—I’d suggested this right after the kids had moved in, thinking an after-school nanny would alleviate the pressure he was feeling to be with them when they weren’t in school, but he’d nixed the idea. “They need me,” he told me. “Not some stranger. I don’t want them to feel like I’m shoving them off on someone else. Like they’re somehow inconveniencing me.” I understood what he was saying, but now, considering the circumstances, it seemed like a good time to reevaluate. Kids had caregivers other than their parents all the time. I knew from years of being in HR the challenges parents faced in the workplace—rare was the family who didn’t employ the help of day care or a nanny to enable both parents to be at their jobs. But there was something deeper in Victor driving him to be so completely hands-on with the kids. He was worried after the loss of their mother that if he hired a babysitter, they might feel he didn’t want to be with them.
“Couldn’t the kids be alone for a few hours after school?” I suggested now. “I was already taking care of Sam when I was Ava’s age.”
“And you enjoyed that so much, right?” he said, raising a single eyebrow. I was silent, so he went on. “Christ. If Spence really is totally out of commission, I’ll need to rework my whole schedule. I’m not sure how I’m going to pull it off.”
“You’ll figure it out,” I said, wishing I were entirely convinced that he would.
Ava
I sat on my bed, staring at the boxes of my mother’s things. They were clothes, mostly, plus some of the romance books she loved to read. Daddy didn’t know that Mama hadn’t let me read them, but now I wanted to—more than just the sex parts. I wanted to better understand what she saw in them. I’d asked her once and all she’d said was, “Hope, baby girl. They give me hope.”
Now I listened as Dad talked with Grace in the living room, their voices low enough that I couldn’t hear what they were saying, even if I pressed my ear up against the door. Dad had that weird, strained look on his face when he walked through the front door, and even though he laughed when I told him about the cake, I could tell he was stressed out about something. I wondered if Grace had already told him that she’d taken me to Mama’s to get the recipe; I wondered if she told him about Dr. Stiles’s letter. I couldn’t stop thinking that Mama knew she was sick. Maybe she had some kind of horrible disease that she never told us about. Maybe she’d been so sick that she missed the last three years of high school. But if that were true, why would she tell me that she was a cheerleader? My stomach began to hurt, thinking that she might have lied to me. Thinking that she hadn’t been a cheerleader at all. I wondered if she’d been looking at a private investigator to help her find the doctor. I wondered whether she’d still be alive if she’d found the right one.
I thought back to the times I’d been sick, when I had a fever and needed to stay home from school. Before he’d leave for work in the morning, Daddy would make me peppermint tea and cinnamon toast, bringing it into my room on a tray. “Daddy’s medicine has arrived,” he’d tell me. “It’s magic, you know.”
I’d smile and take a small sip of the tea. “Feel better already, don’t you?” he’d say, cupping my cheek in his palm.
“Yes,” I said, nodding. “Thank you, Daddy.”
“I love you, kitten.” He gave me a hug, then Mama would kiss him before he walked out the door. “You’ve got the best mama in the world,” he’d say, and Mama would smile and look at him with so much love, it almost made me jealous. I didn’t understand what could have happened to make that kind of love go away.
* * *
A little while later, after Max came home from his playdate, Dad sat us down in the living room to explain that he was going to miss Thanksgiving dinner with us this year. “There’s no one to cook if I’m not there,” he said. “And if no one cooks, all the families who were depending on my restaurant to make their
dinner won’t be able to eat.”
“What about your family?” I said. “We depend on you, too.”
Dad’s eyes closed, and he grimaced. “I know, baby. But I’ll see you later that night, and we’ll have some of your mom’s dessert that you and Grace will make, okay? I’ll go over the recipe with her so you two can get it perfect this time. That will be our special celebration that no one else gets to have.”
I shot Grace a quick, sidewise glance as he said this, wondering again if he knew where we’d gone. Grace furrowed her eyebrows and gave her head a brief shake, and I understood that she hadn’t told him yet. It felt a little strange, sharing a small secret with Grace, just as it had felt weird to actually enjoy hanging out with her earlier.
“It’s not fair,” I said. “Why can’t someone else just do it for you?”
“It has to be me, Ava,” Victor said. “Things have been a little slow at the restaurant and I need to make sure everything runs smoothly so maybe we’ll get more customers. Times are a little tight for everyone right now, and this is just something I have to do to make sure the restaurant keeps going. Okay?”
“It’s not going to close, is it?” Max asked. “You’re not going to lose your job?” I felt a little frantic considering this, wondering if having us move in was costing Dad money he didn’t have.
Dad reached over and mussed Max’s hair. “No, buddy. But people aren’t going out to eat as much as they used to so it’s really important I keep all of my regular customers happy.” Max nodded, and Dad kept talking. “Okay, then. I want you two to be on your best behavior at Sam and Wade’s house, please.” He looked pointedly at Max. “No burping.”
“What if I have to fart?” Max asked with a mischievous grin.
Dad sighed. “You run to the bathroom. No bodily functions in public, do you understand?”
Max nodded, but his eyes twinkled, and I wondered if he was capable of following Dad’s instructions at someone else’s house when he couldn’t follow them at home.
* * *
Walking into the gym on Monday afternoon was probably one of the scariest things I’d ever done. There were five members of the dance squad sitting at a long table on the far side of the basketball court, clad in their tight red sweaters and short skirts. Mrs. McClain stood next to them, and another group of girls—girls like me—sat in a small circle on the floor, waiting for their turn to be called. Tryouts usually happened in September at the start of school, but Sarah Winston’s mother got a new job and they had to move to Portland, so her spot was open, plus there was a rumor Mrs. McClain might open a few more. The more I thought about it, the more fun it sounded like it would be. I’d get to dance for assemblies and sports events; I’d even get to ride the bus with the boys for away games. I wondered if Skyler Kenton would notice if I joined the team. He was probably the cutest boy in eighth grade—I liked his crooked smile and shaggy black hair. My second day back to school after the week Max and I were gone, he’d come up to me in the hallway by my locker and gave me a hug. “Sorry about your mom,” he said, and then walked away before I could even say thank you.
“He totally likes you,” Bree whispered in my ear. She’d been standing right next to me when it happened.
“He does not,” I said. “He’s just being nice.” I looked around for Bree now, wondering if she’d come to watch me try out. She wasn’t there.
“You’re really going to do this?” she’d asked me earlier that day. I knew she was having a hard time with the idea of me doing something with the “popular” girls, but I couldn’t let that change my mind.
“You could try out too, you know,” I suggested. I told her how there might be more than one opening. “We could do it together.”
“Uh-uh,” she said, shaking her head. “No way. I look like I’m having a seizure when I try to dance.” She paused. “But it’s cool that you want to. Your mom would be proud.”
Would she? I wondered. What if she thought a smart girl wouldn’t worry about dance team? People had told Mama being pretty was all she had. I asked her once why Daddy wanted her to marry him. She’d looked at me and said, “Because men like pretty things.”
Now I walked slowly, heel to toe, over to the five other girls waiting their turn to dance. Lisa Brown was the only one who smiled at me; the others tilted their heads together, whispering. Are they talking about me? The girl whose mother died? I didn’t want to be that girl. I smoothed my hair and rubbed my lips together—I’d stopped in the bathroom to swipe on some lipstick and old mascara I had hidden in my locker. I’d practiced at home in my bedroom in front of the mirror, and I thought the routine I’d come up with was actually pretty good. I was wearing red stretchy shorts and a white T-shirt, cinched in the back with a rubber band so it wouldn’t ride up when I was dancing.
I glanced over to the bleachers, where a few women sat together—mothers of the other girls, I supposed, and the hollow space inside my chest suddenly seemed to expand. I kept wanting to feel normal, but reminders that Mama was gone were everywhere—at home, and now at school.
I sat down next to Lisa and crossed my legs. “Hey,” I said. “Good luck.”
She smiled and tightened her ponytail. “You look really pretty,” she said.
“Thanks,” I said, blushing. “You too.”
“Is your mom here?” Lisa asked, and then her hand flew to cover her mouth. “Oh god. I’m so sorry. I didn’t even think . . . god. That was such a stupid thing to say.” Her chin trembled as she spoke, and I knew she hadn’t meant to hurt my feelings.
I pushed my lips together and shook my head, trying not to let the tears that stung the back of my eyes fall. “That’s okay,” I said, taking a deep breath with the words.
She put her hand on my arm. “I’m really sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it.” I looked away from her toward the bleachers and was shocked to see Grace and Max finding a place to sit. Max caught my gaze with his own and began to jump up and down. “Hi, Ava!” he yelled. “We’re here to watch you dance! Do it like this!” He did a little shimmy, wiggled his butt, and flapped his bent arms like a chicken.
“Oh my god,” I whispered under my breath.
“What?” Lisa asked, but then looked in Max’s direction and laughed. “Oh. He’s so cute.”
“You don’t have to live with him,” I said. Grace waved at me, too, then gently pulled Max to sit down next to her. She must have left work early to be there—I’d told my dad I’d find a ride home after the audition, but I guessed because he was going to be at the restaurant more, Grace would be the one to drive Max and me around.
Mrs. McClain’s loud clap startled me from across the court. “Okay, girls. Settle down. We need to get started.” She smiled at those of us sitting on the floor. “I’ve decided that we’re going to open up three positions on the team instead of just one, so we’ll have an even eight and can take on some more complex routines.” She consulted the clipboard she held, then looked back at us. “Does anyone want to go first?” All of us glanced at each other, but no one spoke up. “All right, then. Ava, how about you?”
My face went red, but I nodded and rose from the floor, clutching the CD I’d brought with me. I figured I might as well get it over with. I handed the CD to Mrs. McClain and she put it in the small player that sat on the table. Whitney smiled at me as I positioned myself in front of everyone, but it was a forced, sharp-edged motion. “Let’s see what you can do,” Mrs. McClain said, and I closed my eyes, gripping my hands into fists. I pictured Mama in our living room, turning the stereo up. I saw her arms flailing and hips swaying in perfect rhythm with the music. “Come on, baby,” she’d say. “Let’s dance!”
The music started—Katy Perry’s “California Gurls”—and my eyes snapped open. I threw my arms above my head and smiled as wide as I could, losing myself in the song, in the movement, in the memory of dancing with my mother. It was almost as though I could feel her next to me, laughing and giggling, and in that moment, I felt h
appy for the first time since she died.
A brief flicker of joy washed through me as the song ended, and I could hear Grace and Max calling my name and clapping. Mrs. McClain was smiling, as were the other dance team members who sat at the table. All but Whitney of course, who leaned back with her arms crossed and a scowl on her face. I didn’t care. Breathing hard, I smiled back at Mrs. McClain and took my seat again on the floor next to Lisa.
“Wow,” she said. “Where did you learn to do that?”
“My mom taught me,” I said, thinking that maybe in her own way, she’d shown up for the audition after all.
Kelli
The eight months Kelli spent at New Pathways went more quickly than any others had in her life. Each day, she followed the expected schedule—she did the best she could in class; she took her prenatal vitamins and marveled at the bubbly movement of her daughter inside her. “Is it a girl?” she asked the doctor when she saw him in her fifth month for an ultrasound.
“We don’t tell you that,” he said as he wiped the cold jelly off her stomach. “The ultrasound is only performed to make sure the child is developing properly.”
Kelli didn’t understand why she couldn’t know the sex of her own baby. “Is she, then? Developing properly?”
“She looks fine,” the doctor said, then looked guiltily away, realizing that he’d just told Kelli exactly what she wanted to know.
A girl. She marveled at the thought. I’m having a girl. Her fifteenth birthday came and went with no word from her parents, but she didn’t care. She wrote them a letter, telling them about their granddaughter—Rebecca Ruth, she said she would call her. Both holy names—both strong and beautiful like she knew her daughter would be. She couldn’t imagine that they’d actually make her give Rebecca away. They would come to the hospital to see her and everything would change. They didn’t write back, but Kelli didn’t let that deter her from her course. Her grades went up; she felt stronger and happier than she ever had before, feeling her baby growing inside her. She was still a little scared, but Kelli had to believe that the day Rebecca was born, she, too, would be born again.