How to Bake a Perfect Life - Barbara O'Neal [109]
“Mom, she’s disappointed.”
“You made a promise,” Katie says, her voice gaining volume, “and now you’re breaking it.”
“Lower your voice.”
I hold up a hand between them. “Hey, everybody, this is supposed to be fun. Let’s eat and not get tangled up in anything else right now, okay?”
“I don’t see why you can’t wait for a few more days.”
My mother puts down her fork. I can see she’s trying to rectify the situation, but she says exactly the wrong thing. “You’ll understand when you’re older.”
“Oh,” Katie says dangerously. “Understand how adults never do what they say they will? Ever?” She stands up, blinking back tears, then flings her napkin on the table and hurries out of the room. I see other diners giving her looks of disapproval, and I want to slap each and every one of them soundly. I want to tell them they have no idea what she’s been through, how strong and brave she is.
“What is wrong with that girl?” Lily says.
“Mom, she’s thirteen, her whole life has been turned upside down, and she’s hormonal as hell. Not everyone is as icy as you are.”
She glares at me. “What is that supposed to mean? Control is not the same as icy, Ramona. That’s what you, with all your dramas, never seemed to understand.”
I force myself to take a long breath and reach for her hand. “I’m sorry. It’s been a very emotional day.” I pause to steady my voice. “Please go to Texas. I’m half crazy with worry over Sofia, and I cannot go. I can’t leave the bakery right now.”
“Oh, Ramona,” she says, and grasps my hand. “I’m happy to do it. Now, go find Katie and tell her I’m sorry. See if you can smooth it over and bring her back to the table.”
But Katie returns on her own, with dignity in her stiff shoulders. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I was being ungrateful. I don’t know what is wrong with me lately.”
“It’s all right, sweetie,” I say. “Let’s order dessert, what do you say?”
Sofia’s Journal
JULY 8, 20—
3:00 A.M.
I am so tired you would think I’d fall over in a dead sleep, but I’ve been tossing and turning for hours. Every time I close my eyes, I hear Oscar screaming again. He sent me away, but I stayed close by. It seems only fair to bear witness to everything he is going through.
They had to do what they call debriding the burns today. Which means pretty much scrubbing all those raw wounds. It’s the worst thing I can think of, and however I might imagine it, from the sounds he was making, it was so much worse.
And for the first time today, I saw his face. His beautiful, beautiful face, which is now ruined beyond recognition. His nose is burned off, which gives a monsterish look to his face, and I’m crying as I write that because I never want him to know how horrifying it was to see that this first time. I will get used to it, and I love him for himself, not his face, not his body, or anything external. I love his fierce, kind spirit, his need to take care of everything and everyone. He’s the original father of the world, watching out for animals and children and his men. If there was no war, he would be a fireman or a cop or something like that; it’s just his personality to take care of things, to shoulder the hard line of the law.
I keep thinking, though, of the first time we met, in a bookstore coffee shop by the Citadel. I’d bought some new picture books for my classroom—my very first class of my own!—and he was there supposedly to meet a woman. I noticed him right away. He was wearing his uniform, which gets some women all excited, although you get used to it, growing up in a military town.
But there was Oscar, well over six feet tall, with those pretty green eyes and curly hair and cheekbones like a cat. I noticed him, all right. And when he caught me sneaking a peek at him over my shoulder, he winked. The way he smiled, showing those big, strong, white teeth, made you know he was the kind of person who would always be in charge of everything. He’d never be at a loss.
Of course, that isn’t true of anyone, right?