How to Bake a Perfect Life - Barbara O'Neal [70]
I close my eyes and imagine that I truly can hold her, that her face is pressed into my neck, soaking my shirt. Tears pour out of my eyes, down my face, as Sofia cries in my ear.
After a time, she sniffles hard. “Okay. Thank you. I love you, Mom. I’m holding your hand.”
“I feel it. Get some sleep. That will help, too.”
“Light some candles, or have Grandma do it, okay? We need them.”
“Consider it done. I love you, baby.”
“I love you, too,” she says, and hangs up.
Holding the phone in one hand, I rub the yawning ache in my chest with the other. My hair falls over my shoulders—too long for someone my age, I know it is—but there is no cutting it. It is the thing that is most myself, no matter what anyone else thinks. At moments like this, it’s like a cape shielding me from the world.
My poor girl. My poor, poor baby.
Merlin has been sitting with me, and now he jumps up as if he’s been called. He trots across the garden, walking carefully between the rows of new squash and corn, and heads for the open corner. There is an altar there that my grandmother erected years and years ago, and Merlin lies down alertly before it, paws neatly placed in front of him, his head high, as if he is listening.
“What are you doing, you funny dog?”
He looks over his shoulder at me and woofs softly, then looks back at the altar. Curious, I follow him. A garden statue of a saint I don’t remember stands amid a low border of alyssum. In the dimming evening, the flowers almost seem to have a light of their own, and I swear I can hear humming. It triggers an old hymn in my mind, something we used to sing with guitars—“Alleluia.”
Merlin lets go of a soft, joyous woof and his tail wags slowly. I sit down next to him in the cool grass, thinking I could do worse than pray for my daughter here in this sacred space where my grandmother said her own prayers so often. “Are you listening? Help her. Help him.” I stroke Merlin’s thick fur, trying to even think of what to ask for. “Let them find peace and happiness.”
The song is running insistently through my mind. So I begin to sing aloud, for my daughter.
Katie
TO: Sofia.wilson@horaceandersen.edu
FROM: katiewilson09872@nomecast.com
SUBJECT: a letter you can read to my dad
Dear Dad,
I’m writing this from my stepgrandma’s house. I guess you already know Lily, because she’s Sofia’s grandma, too. We have been planting flowers in Lily’s garden all day, but more about that in a minute.
I don’t know if you’ve ever been to this house, but it’s really, really cool. There is a lot of wood and a stone fireplace with two sides—kitchen and living room—so everybody can enjoy a fire! It’s kind of up in the hills, and Lily (don’t get mad at me for calling her by her first name, okay? She doesn’t like to be called Grandma) says they had it specially built in the ’70s when their restaurant was the number-one steakhouse in the whole state. Like, they hired an architeck and everything.
The restaurant is called the Erin Steakhouse because their family is Irish, which you probably already know. We went there for dinner, and it’s pretty cool, up on top of this bluff so you can see all the lights in the city and the mountains. It was kinda old school, but the food was really good. I had a steak, and baked potato with butter and sour cream, and a salad with little blue cheese crumbles on it, and big dinner rolls. I asked Lily if Ramona comes here, but she said no. Kinda mad like. I get the feeling Lily is mad at Ramona, but I like them both, although I got really mad at Ramona for losing my dog last night. It turned out okay because a man found him and brought him home.
Which I guess I haven’t even told you about Merlin! He’s a really cute dog, with white and orangey fur and a freckle on his nose. I love him.
The last thing I want to tell you (I can’t believe how long this is getting! I’m glad I wrote you first) is about the flowers. We went to a greenhouse and it was filled with flowers in every color. Pink and yellow and white and blue and even green.