How to Bake a Perfect Life - Barbara O'Neal [81]
“Perfect.” I smile as he stands up and find myself tossing my head slightly so that my hair, which is loose, swishes down my arm. He notices.
Over the days when he did not call, I wondered if I’d imagined a mutual attraction. But no. He gives himself away as do I. Eyes lighting on breasts, thighs, lips. The way he swallows when I push my hair away. The way he meets my eyes, not so long as to be odd but long enough to make a connection, to create a spark.
“I have some work to do,” he says. “I’ll see you on Sunday.”
“Yes” is all I can manage.
Sofia’s Journal
SAN ANTONIO
JUNE 3, 20—
Oscar is awake! It’s too early to call anyone, so I am writing it here.
I couldn’t sleep, so I went to his room in the middle of the night. He was just lying there as always, the machine blipping and beeping and clicking. It hit me with a big wave of depression that it’s been three weeks since he was injured and he might not ever come out of this coma, and I need to find some people to help me decide how to manage that possibility.
Grandma Adelaide used to always say that it was a sin to despair (though I think she did sometimes, anyway, which just goes to show that we’re all human—and she never did manage to heal her relationship with her own daughters, so I guess she had reason. My mother tried so hard to help fix that situation, but neither Grandma nor Aunt Poppy ever did really forgive her for whatever she did when they were young. Sad).
Anyway, despair. A sin. I can’t despair is what I was telling myself. Gotta stay upbeat for Oscar and the baby but most of all for myself. I will set the tone. It feels like a lot, I won’t lie, but this is what we do for each other, isn’t it? If it was me lying in that bed, unrecognizable for my injuries, I would desperately want Oscar to be sitting there, talking to me, telling me jokes, telling me he loved me.
I had printed out Katie’s email, and I stood close by the bed. “Good morning, Oscar!” I said. “I’m early today, but the baby was kicking me awake, so I thought I’d get some coffee and come over. Can you smell it?”
Holding the email, I took a sip and rubbed at a foot sticking out. “There he goes again, like he’s a kickboxer, Oscar!”
It’s hard sometimes to keep doing that, talking like he can hear me. It makes me feel silly sometimes. So I held the letter from Katie. “Your daughter is sounding very happy and really grown up,” I said. “Listen to this.”
I read him the email, trying to put lots of enthusiasm in my voice.
And, at the end of it, nothing.
I went to sit in my chair. And, okay, I was crying a little bit, mainly because I was homesick and sad and wanted to be back with my mother in her kitchen, watching her make bread, or with my grandma in her spectacular garden that Katie is enjoying.
And I heard a groan from the bed! I jumped up and said, “Oscar?”
He made another sound around all the tubes and bandages. It was hard to tell at first, but his eyes were open a very small slit. I got so excited, I ran out into the hall and got a nurse, who got a doctor, who confirmed that he is actually waking up.
I still don’t know a lot. It’s not like he recognizes me yet or anything. They are not sure how long it will take before he’s all the way awake, but this is a start. My heart is about twenty times lighter!
I can’t wait to call Katie.
Ramona
That evening Katie and I print flyers on the computer and duck out very early on Friday morning to drive up to the trailheads where I know serious runners and hikers go to train—Barr Trail, Waldo Canyon, Red Rocks Canyon.
Taking a lesson from my aunt Poppy, I’ve made trays of samplers—mini-muffins and scones and slices of my favored breads, with little sides of butter in paper cups. As the runners come off their trails, they’re hungry and ready to eat anything. Katie holds the tray while I pass out the samples and offer a coupon. We run through our cache in no time.
She’s an excellent helper. One of the things I like about her is the way she flings herself into a task. Watching her from the corner of my eye as