How Sweet It Is - Alice J. Wisler [15]
I don’t even know her.
My gaze rests on my right arm, and although my arm is fully covered by the sleeve of my terry-cloth bathrobe, I know what lies beneath. I shouldn’t take a shower or bath. There is just too much damage to see. Who knew a Mustang was so sharp? The word shattered comes at me like a large grizzly, teeth bared and ready to pounce.
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As I pull on a pair of khakis and a pink long-sleeved shirt, I remind myself that I won the Georgia Teen Cook Award at the state fair when I was a senior in high school. This reminder is supposed to make me feel better—alive, worthy, and capable. The mayor presented me with a gold-embossed certificate and a check for fifty dollars. He told me that my winning entry—a strawberry cream pastry—was surely a sign that my life would be filled with “everything sweet from here on out.” Easy for him to say; he was the mayor of Atlanta.
When I push open the sliding glass door leading to the deck, I think of how I spread the mounds of thick whipped cream onto the buttery crust of that pastry over a decade ago.
Two squirrels scamper over a mossy tree stump, reminding me that I’m not in Atlanta anymore. I take in the serene vista from the wide deck. Here at the end of April, the landscape of distant sloping mountain peaks still holds a wintery feel. There is promise of gentle green, but for the most part, the hues are still stark and brown. Except for the evergreens. Their bushy limbs spread across the pine-needle-covered terrain around me and soak up the sun’s rays.
As a sparrow darts toward one of the limbs, I stand as tall as I can, lifting my chin toward a pale sky with broken clouds. I breathe in the moist earthy air and then attempt a smile. My tear-stained cheeks feel raw; I smile as broadly as I can—hopeful.
“I’m here for a new start,” I say aloud, and am surprised that my voice does not waver or crack as it glides toward the mountain peak. From behind the cabin, the familiar mew of a catbird replies. Catbirds greeted me every afternoon in Tifton when the bus brought me home from school. Whenever I hear them I can’t help but think of my customary after-school snack of milk and peanut butter oatmeal cookies.
Through a cluster of tree trunks to the right of the driveway, I can see one distant house the color of oregano. A gravel road winds around it. No other houses are close by, and I have the feeling that, except for nature, I’m alone.
When a breeze picks up, I head inside to continue the task of unpacking. I find room for Easy Cooking in the narrow bookcase that rests against the wall by the fireplace.
The case sits under an ink drawing of an ornate elephant. The beast is draped in cloths that flash red and blue jewels. On his head is a crown with sparkling diamonds. His trunk is raised and mouth opened. He is either protesting all the adornments or proud to look so majestic.
I think to myself that I probably own more cookbooks than Julia Child. I unpack each of the colorful books containing glossy photos of prize-winning desserts; each tome is almost as heavy as a sack of cake flour. I have a complete set of Southern Living cookbooks and one by James Beard that has a burned patch on the cover.
Am I really going to teach children how to cook? Why would my grandfather make this request of me? Why would he think I could do it?
A cookbook that does not belong to me catches my eye. The spine reads 101 Ways to Create Fabulous Cakes. I take the book from the shelf, and the layered lemon cake on the cover looks good enought to eat. When I open the first page, something falls from it onto the floor. I pick up a white businesssized envelope. When I turn it over I see my name printed in bold letters: FOR DEENA.
seven
Easing myself onto a throw rug the color of raspberries, I cross my legs. I’ve sat like this since I was a little girl in Girl Scouts. I feel like a kid now, getting ready to open something that holds an element of surprise. I finger the white envelope