The Art of Saying Goodbye - Ellyn Bache [90]
This year Ginger gets up early and bakes two cakes, thinking she’ll take one to Paisley’s—not that the Lamms need food, but she hasn’t made the trip across the cul-de-sac for days, and at least it’s a gesture, it’s something.
She enjoys mixing the cream cheese icing, tasting it a bit more often than she should, slathering it onto the cakes. She enjoys the task because it’s satisfying but mindless, allowing her to think about work. The economy being what it is, the Christmas season is going to be a challenge. She doesn’t mind—as long as they don’t go broke, and she doesn’t think they will. She has some ideas. Lease to own. Lease, period. She’s sure it’s possible to repossess a hot tub and still make money, though she hasn’t figured out all the details.
Once, when she was a stay-at-home mom caring for young children, she’d hated long weekends. They were more of the same: no workplace challenges to look forward to, no mail, just the endless need to think up activities and outings to relieve the boredom of being housebound for yet another day. Once she began running the store, she began to feel more balanced. She likes cooking; she even likes vacuuming. Just not in concentrated doses.
The cakes are lovely. Swirls of creamy, off-white icing. An artful design of candy corn sprinkled on top, to please the younger children. She leaves the bowls in the sink, then goes upstairs to shower.
Max apparently finds his way into the kitchen the moment she leaves. True to form, he assumes one of the beautifully iced creations must be for him and cuts a hefty slice. Though it’s not even nine in the morning, an hour when both children are usually asleep if they have the chance to be, Rachel soon joins him in the kitchen. When Ginger comes downstairs, there they are, sister and brother enjoying a rare moment of congeniality, as they devour Paisley’s cake. Eddie is the only one who’s sleeping.
“Good,” Max tells his mother, his mouth full. His Adam’s apple, never a visible body part until recently, bobs up and down as he chews and swallows and speaks.
“Last year you wouldn’t even taste pineapple cake,” Rachel reminds her brother, picking delicately at her own cake with a fork. “You said it was too sophisticated. You said you had to be at least thirty to eat it.”
“Well, now he not only gets to eat it, he gets the privilege of making another cake for me to take to Paisley’s.”
“Now? It’s Thanksgiving. Dad said he’d take me out to practice driving.”
“Dad is asleep,” Ginger reminds him.
“What about Rachel?”
“Who cut the cake first? Whose idea was it?”
Max doesn’t defend himself. “Thanksgiving is a holiday,” he says.
“Fine. You can bake another cake on Sunday.” On Sunday she can supervise him. Sunday is a better day to bring food, after all. By then, people are tired of leftovers. “Good thing it’s an easy recipe,” she threatens.
Max ignores her. He assumes he won’t really have to bake the extra cake. He’s probably right. “What time is dinner at Aunt Sally’s?” He scrapes a blob of cream cheese icing off the cake with his index finger and sticks his finger in his mouth to suck it off.
“Gross,” Rachel says. “Use your fork.”
“What time?” Max asks again.
“Two.”
Sally’s is always a mob scene. Her husband has three sisters, each with several children ranging in age from toddler to teen. Sally’s son, Devon, becomes a whirling dervish in the presence of so much company. The noise will be deafening.
“You think Amy will be there?” Max asks.
“Probably.” Amy is a year or two older than Max, a girl who spent part of last summer in rehab for anorexia. “I expect you to act normal with her, no matter what.” Although Amy does not gorge herself at family functions and then leave the table to throw up, she pushes her food around on her plate, fooling no one, and then declares she’s stuffed.
“Mom, of course, I’ll act normal. I’ll even flatter her a little. When she comes in,