The Christmas Table

by Donna VanLiere

  One day, she hopes to venture out and make the crusty bread that went along with this recipe, but for tonight she’ll make grilled cheese sandwiches. She lifts the lid of the soup, spoons out a yummy-looking bite, and lets it cool before tasting it. Just as the recipe card instructed, she seasons it with a bit more salt, pepper, and cayenne pepper, and tastes it again. “So good,” she says to herself, looking into the pot. Andrea was right: she’s nothing like her mom.

  TWELVE

  September 1972

  John makes his way to the workshop after Joan and the children are in bed. He hasn’t had the chance to be out here in over two weeks and picks up the table leg he started working on over a month ago. Standing it on top of the worktable, he tries to size it up, thinking about his next step, but he can’t think and pushes his forehead against the leg, tears pooling in his eyes. He shuts his eyes tight against them. He drove Joan to a follow-up appointment with Dr. Kim today and expected to take her out for lunch at her favorite restaurant.

  “The cancer has spread to your lungs,” Dr. Kim said. “We need to be more aggressive with your treatment.”

  Joan’s eyes filled with fear as John said, “Can you stop it? Can it go anywhere else?”

  “We will try everything we can to stop it,” Dr. Kim said. “Yes, it could continue to spread. I’ve consulted with Dr. Levy, who is the best surgeon for this type of cancer, and my office will set up an appointment for you to meet with him as soon as possible.”

  “I’ll need surgery?” Joan asked.

  “If you need surgery,” Dr. Kim said, “Dr. Levy is the most qualified. We won’t know anything until he runs more tests.” She stepped away from her desk and sat next to Joan on the sofa in her office. “We’ll do everything we can, Joan, but you need to fight this. You need to stay positive and strong. Can you do that?” Tears covered Joan’s eyes, but she nodded. “I don’t know everything about this disease, Joan, but I promise you that I’ll fight alongside you.” Dr. Kim squeezed Joan’s hand and a tear fell over Joan’s cheek.

  John did not ask about prognosis; he couldn’t bear to hear it, but deep down he knew. He could sense it in Dr. Kim’s voice and see it in her eyes. They set up the appointment to see Dr. Levy early the next week, and he took hold of Joan’s hand, leading her out of the office, through the parking lot, and to the car. He noticed again how fragile her hand had become just in the last month. As each day passed, he was convincing himself that she was getting better, but all that had changed today.

  “John.” Joan’s voice was small. “What if—”

  “No!” he said. “There is no ‘what if,’ Joan.”

  She turned to look at him in the car. “Yes, there is. We both know there is.”

  “We will do other things in addition to surgery and medication and treatments and whatever,” he said, grabbing her hand.

  “What other things?”

  He looked out the front window, staring at the Chevy pickup truck in the parking lot. “I don’t know. We’ll pray.”

  “We are not praying people, John.”

  “Then we will become praying people!” John snapped, controlling his voice. “We will find people who pray.”

  She smiled. “John, you and I both know many people who have been prayed for and they died anyway.”

  He nodded. “And lots have been prayed for and they’re still living today. Shouldn’t we at least try?”

  John sets the table leg back down and puts his hands on the worktable, leaning on it. Tears drip onto the table, turning brown sawdust into a rich coffee color. “I don’t pray,” he says aloud. “I don’t know how. But I believe in you, God. I always have, I think. Ever since my grandparents told me about you when I was little. Even though my family never went to church, even though Joan and I don’t go, I believe you are who you say you are. I believe that you made the world. I believe that you’re the one who raised Jesus out of that grave. And I believe that you can heal Joan.” He begins to sob as he leans onto the worktable. “I know you can. Will you? Please. Please, God. Will you do something for her that only you can do?” His throat fills and he can’t finish.

  September 2012

  Gloria enters her office and smiles; a paper plate covered with pieces of cake sits on top of her desk. It looks like a small breakfast cake, filled with blueberries. She takes a bite and closes her eyes. “Mmm,” she says, smacking the desk.

  “What’s wrong with you?” Miriam says, sticking her head in the office door. Gloria has taken another bite but points to the cake. “The food bandit strikes again!” Miriam says, reaching for a piece.

  “‘Bandit’ is a horrible word,” Gloria says with her mouth full. “A bandit takes things. This is more like a food Santa!”

  Miriam bites into the cake and smacks the desk as well. “Do we know who our secret Santa is yet?”

  Gloria shakes her head, finishing the last bite in her hand. “No! I wonder if it’s one of those things like you see in movies—where once you find out who’s doing it, everything stops from that point on.”

  Miriam stares at her. “What movie has ever had that story line?”

  “The one that I just told you about!”

  Miriam sighs, shaking her head. “And we’re sure Betty isn’t dropping these things off? Like maybe she’s trying out new recipes for the bakery?”

  “She swore to me it’s not her,” Gloria says, reaching for another piece of cake.

  “Well, whoever it is, they need to open a bakery!” Miriam says.

  “Miriam!” Gloria mumbles with her mouth full. “What if Betty hears?”

  “I didn’t mean here in Grandon,” Miriam says, whispering. “I meant in the next town, which is far enough away from Betty’s, but also close enough for me to drive to.”

  Gloria nods. “Candy, muffins, cupcakes, orange cake…”

  “And it had just a hint of orange! It wasn’t overpowering, but so delicious!” Miriam says, remembering the moist cake left a few days earlier. She makes a satisfied noise in her mouth as she holds up a piece of breakfast cake. “These blueberries are fresh. And there’s a hint of lemon. Do you taste it?”

  “Do I taste it?” Gloria says. “Do you think I’m hard of tasting? Of course I taste it!”

  As Dalton and Heddy, Amy, Stacy, and Lauren come in for the day, Gloria waves each of them into her office for a piece of cake. “How are we ever going to thank the person doing this?” Dalton says.

  “We can’t thank them,” Gloria says. “That would ruin everything.”

  “How?” Heddy asks.

  “Well, it would be just like that movie that Gloria saw,” Miriam says, rolling her eyes. “You know, the one about where food was being secretly delivered, but once the person was discovered, then the deliveries stopped.”

  “Aha!” Gloria says, pointing at her. “You have seen that movie!”

  “There is no such movie!” Miriam says, leaving the office.

  Gloria runs to her office door and leans out into the entryway. “You just described the plot, so I know you’ve seen it, Miriam!” She turns around and puts her finger to her lips. “Shh. We don’t want to spoil this.” She puts the rest of the cake she was eating into her mouth. “Let’s just keep our mouths closed so this doesn’t stop and simply say, ‘God bless our secret Santa.’”

  THIRTEEN

  September 1972

  “What are you doing?” John asks, entering the kitchen.

  “I’m going to make pumpkin ricotta pancakes with Gigi,” Joan says, pulling butter, eggs, ricotta cheese, and milk from the refrigerator.

  John stands in front of the sink, looking at her. “You have surgery today. You can’t eat.”

  “But you can eat. And Gigi and Christopher can eat.”

  “You don’t have to do this, Joan.”

  “I knew you would say that,” she says, pulling a mixing bowl from a cupboard. “I know what I do and don’t have to do, John.” Her voice is cracking and he’s sorry he said anything. “Gigi is old
enough that she will have memories. I remember my mom in the kitchen. I can still smell some of the things she made for us when I was growing up. I don’t want Gigi to remember me or you looking scared on the day that I went to the hospital. I want her to remember her mom in the kitchen, making her breakfast.” Her voice cracks and John steps to her, wrapping his arms around her.

  “I think she needs to remember her mom and dad in the kitchen making breakfast for her!” He yells over the top of Joan’s head, “Hey, Gigi!” They hear her small voice answering from her bedroom at the top of the stairs. “Come on down! We’re making pancakes for breakfast!” They can hear her feet slap onto the floor and then break out into a run for the stairs.

  “You’re helping, too, Daddy,” she says, coming down the stairs and turning the corner into the kitchen.

  “I’m helping, too, and no matter what Mommy says, I’m loading the pancakes with chocolate chips!”

  Joan laughs and breaks two eggs into the mixing bowl. “If you’re both helping, then you both need to wash your hands.”

  John opens a pack of ground sausage he recently bought at the butcher and begins to form patties as Gigi helps Joan pour in the rest of the ingredients to make the batter. “Remember,” John says to Gigi, “it’s all in the stirring. If you don’t use your magic wand then the pancakes are ruined.” Gigi looks at Joan and Joan hands her a whisk. Gigi attempts to put it into the bowl when John stops her. “Nuh-uh! You can’t put that in there without waving it over the bowl and saying the magic words.”

  “What magic words?” Gigi says.

  “Eatem, eatem! Eatem uppem!”

  Joan smiles and Gigi giggles, waving the whisk over the bowl. “Eatem, eatem! Eatem uppem!” she says, thrusting the whisk into the mixture and stirring it as if her life depends on it.

  “How many pancakes will you eat?” Gigi asks her dad.

  John lifts up his shirt, sticking out his belly so it’s round and firm, like a bowling bowl. He slaps it like a drum and snarls his upper lip, using a funny voice. “I’m thinking eighty is a good number.”

  Gigi and Joan both laugh and he keeps his stomach sticking out as they finish cooking. They work together inside the small kitchen and Joan finds herself smiling throughout. If she wanted Gigi to have a memory, then John was going to do whatever he could to make it a lasting one. When the pancakes, sausages, strawberries, and blueberries are on the table and Christopher is in his high chair, Gigi spreads her arms open and says, “Welcome to our feast!”

  “It is a feast!” John says. “And I’m extremely grateful for your mommy, who cooked it.” He looks at Joan and her mouth turns up into a sad smile.

  “Are you done talking, Daddy?” Gigi asks.

  John laughs and rubs his eyes with the palms of his hands. “I am, sweetie. Go ahead and eat.”

  They would explain again to Gigi that Joan would be going in for surgery today and would be gone for a few days, but for now they ate, and they laughed together, just as Joan had hoped.

  July 2012

  Lauren pulls a gallon of whole milk from the fridge and sets it on the counter. She picks up the recipe card for Homemade Yogurt and reads through it again.

  I wonder how many gallons of homemade yogurt I made as you were growing up. Once I made that first batch, there was no turning back! Your dad said, “I will never be able to eat store-bought yogurt again.” And as far as I know, he hasn’t! For a slightly sweet yogurt, include less than one-third cup of sugar, but if you like it unsweet, don’t add the sugar. Either way it is delicious and, like you always said, “Filled with strength and nutrients!” We’d dollop this on waffles and always ate in on the side with pancakes or oatmeal casserole, and we made countless yogurt parfaits! Again, I only used milk from Bud’s farm, but if you move away, I hope you can find fresh milk at a local farm near you. Remember, don’t let the milk get over 200°F while it is on the stove, and when it cools, don’t let it go below 100°F.

  Lauren flips the card over and reads the directions: Pour one gallon of milk into a pot and heat it to 180°F to 200°F. Scrape off the skin from the top and let it cool to between 100°F and 110°F. Add one cup of whole yogurt as a starter, one to two tablespoons of vanilla, and not quite one-third cup of sugar (or no sugar at all). Stir it all together, put a lid on it, and place it inside the oven with the oven light on. If your oven has two oven lights, it will get too warm. If you do have two lights, just let the oven heat up for an hour or so and then turn the oven lights off. If you only have one oven light, you can keep it on for the next eight to twelve hours. (Some people put the pot on a heating pad to keep warm, but I think the oven works better. To each his own.) Take the pot out of the oven and line a large colander with food-grade cheesecloth. Put the colander inside a large bowl and pour the yogurt into it. Set it inside the fridge to let it drain to the consistency you love! I have forgotten to put the colander inside a bowl and trust me, you end up with a mess! Give it a stir and put it into a container. Will keep for up to two weeks and boy, oh boy, is it ever yummy! Don’t let the idea of homemade yogurt scare you. You watched me make it countless times. Now try it yourself. She included four happy faces that each had hair of different lengths and some faces wore glasses. Lauren looks at each face, wondering if they represent individual family members.

  Lauren lets the milk cool to 110°F as she gets ready for Glory’s Place and then adds the cup of yogurt, tablespoon of vanilla, and about a quarter cup of sugar. She covers it with a lid and places it inside the oven and turns the oven light on. “Hmm,” she says. “I can’t imagine this is going to work.”

  When she arrives at Glory’s Place, she sticks her head inside Gloria’s office. “Hi, Gloria! Any more goodies today?”

  Gloria shakes her head. “I wish. How are you feeling, babe?”

  “Pretty good! It feels like my baby bump is getting bigger.”

  Gloria stands up from her desk to take a better look. “I don’t see a bump. If you want to see a bump, take a look at Miriam’s.”

  “I heard that, Gloria!” Miriam says from the entryway.

  Lauren turns as if headed to the big room, but stops, looking back at Gloria. “Hey, Gloria! Have you ever heard of a farmer named Bud in this area?”

  Gloria’s mouth turns down as she thinks. “That name doesn’t ring a bell. What kind of farmer?”

  “I think a dairy farmer.”

  “Dairy farmer. No, I don’t know of one, but I haven’t been here as long as others. Check with Dalton or Heddy. Why are you trying to find him?”

  Lauren shrugs. “I just heard that he had a dairy farm. Was wondering about buying some fresh milk.”

  “Ah, looking into healthier foods for you and the baby! I know that Neil Wassman sells milk out on Portland Road, if that helps.”

  “Thanks, Gloria!” Lauren makes her way to the lockers and wonders if Neil Wassman knows of Bud, or if Bud is even from Grandon or the area. If she could track down Bud, maybe she could track down the owner of the recipe cards and give them back to her. She knows it’s a long shot, but if they were her cards, filled with so many family memories, she would want them back. The least she can do is try to find him.

  FOURTEEN

  September 1972

  John puts money into the vending machine and watches as a paper cup drops into place. He pushes the button for coffee, and a line of black liquid fills the cup. He lifts the plastic window, retrieves the coffee, and turns to find a table, spotting a man sitting alone, reading a book about woodcraft. “I actually have that book in my workshop right now,” John says, approaching the man.

  The man, around John’s age, looks up. “No kidding! I’ve made a few things, but I’m basically a beginner.”

  “Me, too,” John says.

  The man points to the bench across from him. “You’re welcome to join me.” John sits and the man extends his hand. “I’m Larry.”

  John shakes his hand. “John. So, what all have you made? Do you have your own shop?”

&n
bsp; Larry laughs. “Well, I call it my shop. My wife calls it the garage. Someday, I hope to live in a place that will allow me to have a shop out back. I’ve made a couple of end tables that would never win any prizes, but they’re functional. I’m reading about how to make a kitchen table. How about you?”

  John scratches his head. “Um, I seemed to bypass starting off by making end tables and went directly from making picture frames to making a kitchen table.” Larry smiles, listening. “I had hoped to have it done by October and then I moved it to Thanksgiving, but now, I don’t know.”

  Larry notices as John’s face darkens and says, “So, what are you here for? Are things okay?”

  John looks at the table and clears his throat. “My wife had part of a lung removed three days ago. Cancer.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. Have the doctors told you anything?”

  “They don’t seem to have much good to say right now. It started out as breast cancer a couple of months ago and it spread.”

  Quiet engulfs the table, and for a moment John wishes he hadn’t sat down. “Doctors don’t always get it right,” Larry says. “Forty years ago, they gave my mother two months to live. She just celebrated her seventy-second birthday.”