Mostly everyone left us alone. Sometimes a police officer would shine a light into the van and ask Dad some questions or tell him to move. In those cases, Dad told me to roll over and stay put. I’m big enough to be mistaken for an adult.
On those nights, as Dad snored next to me, I’d stay up all night reading. Either my recipe books or a book from the library or the one book I do own, From the Mixed-up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler.
Dad bought that one for me at the swap meet for a nickel. “I read that book when I was your age,” he’d said, passing his worn hands over the cover.
“Don’t you want to get a book for yourself?” We were standing at a vast table of paperbacks.
“Nah.” Dad handed me the book. “Grown-ups don’t got time to read.”
But sometimes I’d see him reading it anyway. I wondered if he was remembering his childhood when he read it.
Dad grew up in Arizona. His parents died when he was almost eighteen and so he began washing dishes in restaurants. He’d moved from place to place before he ended up here and met my mom. What did my mom see in him? I figured he must have done something pretty grand to win her over. Something electrifying, like slaying a dragon. From what he’s told me, Mom didn’t seem like she was the type of woman to be impressed by anything less.
But then there’d been a run of bad luck, according to Dad, starting when I was about four. First he’d gotten in a bicycle accident—an old man ran a red light and hit him—and he broke his leg badly, pretty much ending his kitchen career because he couldn’t stand on his leg for hours. Then my mom got sick, and Dad began praying for her, and he painted the van. One of my earliest memories is of him making me kneel down and pray, pray, pray, as if we could do it hard enough to chase the sickness out of Mom.
“When will we get our own place, Dad?” I used to ask him all the time.
“Sooner than later, I hope,” he’d answer. Sometime this year, he’d stopped answering at all. I had to hurry and grow up, be at least sixteen, so I could get a real job and take care of us. Someday I’ll be on a cooking show myself. And I’m going to do that whether or not Aunt Shell kicks me out of her house.
I sit in the bath having these thoughts, wondering if Shell will ever let me bake again, or if she’ll call Social Services tomorrow and tell them to find me a foster home.
I feel as if I’ve lost a game I didn’t know I wanted to win. I don’t want to go.
Then there’s a thump at the door and Tom appears, having head-butted his way in. I didn’t close it exactly right. “Mawwwww,” he scolds, and I meow back, glad for the company.
He jumps up onto the closed toilet lid and peers into the tub, twitching his orange ears. I wave my fingers underwater, then poke them up through the bubbles, and he cocks his head at them, as if he thinks they’re fish. He puts his front paws on the edge of the tub and leans forward, one paw extended.
“Careful,” I breathe.
Tom’s fat belly wobbles. His paw slips and his front legs fall into the water, backpedaling. I draw my legs away from his scrambling claws just in time. He pulls himself up and out, plopping onto the bath mat, shaking the bubbles off his paws.
I laugh harder than I’ve laughed in about a millennium. Tom ignores me.
Shell’s sitting in my room looking at my photo album, my cookbook beside her. I stride in fast and snatch it away. “That’s mine!” Tom scurries under the bed at my loud voice. “I’m not yelling at you, Tom,” I say pointedly, staring hard at Shell. “This is private property.”
Shell looks as if I’ve slapped her. “I’m sorry. I wanted to see . . .” She swallows, and I recognize the expression. The I don’t want to cry face. I know what she wants me to do—pretend I don’t see it. That’s how I want other people to act for me.
Wanted to see what? I almost ask. Instead I put the photo album in the nightstand. I feel the gap between us widening, and all I want to do is lie under the covers with the blankets over my head. “I’m going to go to sleep now.”
“Cady.” Shell opens and closes her hands as if grasping for invisible objects. “Let’s talk.”
I shut my eyes. Here it comes. “Fine. Whatever. I’ll pack and you can take me back tomorrow.” A bitter taste rises in my throat, and I swallow it back.
“What? No, Cady.” Shell puts her hand on me and I open my eyes. “Do you . . . want to go back?”
I manage to shake my head once, so small I wouldn’t be surprised if she missed it. No.
“Oh my gosh.” She squeezes my hand. “I’d never send you away.”
I examine Shell’s face, warm as her palm. She’s telling the truth. Relief flows out of me like Shell turned a faucet on. My breathing evens out. I squish her fingers in return.
“Anyway, can you imagine explaining this to the social workers? ‘Yeah, she burned a cake, so she can’t live with me.’” Shell pulls me down to sit next to her.
We both chuckle. “They would think you were a monster.”
“Precisely. And you know what? The cake’s okay. I cut the burned part off. The biggest problem was the oven rack was too high. The cake doesn’t look bad. We can frost it and nobody will be able to tell.” Shell blows out air. “Cady, the truth is—I’m not used to having a kid around here. I want you to be safe.”
I raise an eyebrow at her. “You want me to be safe but you let me go out there with rattlesnakes and whatnot the first day I’m here?”
A wry smile creeps up on her face. “Okay. You got me. But at least you met Jay.”
I smile a little, thinking of him. It’s not disloyal to Jenna if I make a new friend, is it? He’s so different from her, not to mention older, but I think they’d get along fine. “His grandma’s kind of mean.” I remember what she said about Oregon and wonder if I should ask Shell about it.
Shell shakes her head. “She can be a little crotchety, but she’s dependable. And sweet, once you get to know her.”
I snort.
Shell moves her shoulders up. “Cady, I didn’t mean to yell at you—I was scared. I need to teach you about oven safety. And maybe don’t cook alone for a while.”
I nod, once. “Maybe.” I pinch the bedspread, deciding whether I want to tell her more or if I should stop talking. “I always cooked for me and Dad. Mostly microwave stuff.”
Her brows draw together. “I’m sure he appreciated it. What was your favorite thing to make?”
“Spaghetti.”
“Spaghetti’s one of my favorites, too.”
“I made it with ketchup packets and ramen noodles. I’d save the packets from fast-food places and then mix them with a little water to thin it out. And ramen is easy to cook in the microwave.” It was the best I could do—convenience stores don’t sell pasta. It was cheaper than canned spaghetti. I steal a glance at Shell, remembering the delicious pasta alla Shell. “Do you think that’s gross?”
Shell’s expression goes from soft to hard and back again. She shakes her head. “It’s very creative, Cady.” She changes the subject. “Your grandmother liked to make that Lady Baltimore Cake for me and your mom. We’d ask for it on every birthday.”
I lift my head. This is new.
Shell picks up the cookbook from where it sits next to her on the bed and takes out the construction paper flower. “This bookmark—your mom made it.”
I take the flower. I’ve had it all this time and I didn’t know. I thought this cookbook was the only thing I had of my mom’s. Dad wears her wedding band on a chain around his neck. That’s it. We moved around so much that Dad sort of lost track of the rest of Mom’s stuff. “Dad never said.”
“He probably didn’t know. Your mom made that in first grade, for our mom’s Mother’s Day project.” Shell takes a deep, shuddering breath. “And this photo here?” She points to the one on the wall, with the two girls in it. “That’s me and your mom, 1984. Before our parents got divorced and Mom moved us into the city.”
I examine the photo more carefully. They’re actually standing righ
t in front of this farmhouse. Yes, under that layer of baby fat, there’s my mother’s face. I can see it now. I touch the photo as if I can reach back through time and hold the hand of the little girl who would become my mom. “She was so beautiful.” I try to remember her grown-up face. “Do you have any pictures of her when she was a grown-up?” Please do.
“No. I don’t.” Shell’s voice is low. I turn and look at my brand-new aunt. Fat tears hang on her thick lashes and drip off her chin. Without thinking twice, I sit down and put my arm around her, hugging her to me the way I would with Jenna, though Shell’s much bigger than I am. This gesture seems to make her cry more, and I wonder if I should let go, but instead she hugs me to her, and it’s like warming myself at a fire on a chilly night. We sit there for a while. I don’t want to push her away or anything. Well, maybe a tiny bit.
“Mew.” Tom swats at Shell’s ankle in disapproval. Cats aren’t very sympathetic.
Shell reaches out and grabs a tissue, blows her nose. “Your mother was such a riot. Always making jokes no matter what.”
I try to hear my mother’s laugh in my mind, but I can’t. “Did her laugh sound like yours?”
“A little. Hers was higher. More contagious. I think mine sounds more like a rhino blowing his horn.”
“It does not. Rhinos can’t even blow their horns.” I giggle at this, and Tom reappears from under the bed and jumps up between us, purring. I get the photo book out of the drawer and hand it to Shell. “You can look at it as much as you want.”
Shell gets up and opens the closet, rifling through a box. “And you look at this one.” She hands me a small photo album.
We both flip through the albums slowly. There’s a picture of Shell in a US Marines uniform with an American flag behind her. “You were in the Marines?”
Shell nods. “Yup. I enlisted at eighteen. Just for four years, until I figured out I wanted to go to culinary school.” She turns the page. “See, it’s where I met Suzanne.” Sure enough, there’s a photo of them standing in front of a giant stove, wearing tall white chef hats.
She opens the album to another page. “These are your grandparents in the late seventies.” They’re standing in front of the courthouse. My grandmother is young and pretty in this one, wearing a multicolored minidress. My grandfather’s wearing a police uniform.
“My grandpa Sanchez was a policeman?” I think of the police who picked me up at the school and wonder if he ever had to do anything like that.
“A good one, too. His picture’s hanging in the San Diego Police Museum.” Shell sighs a little bit. “It was hard on him, though. Very stressful. That’s why he quit and moved to Julian.”
If my grandpa Sanchez could immigrate here and do that, maybe there’s hope for Jay and his family. Laws can change, right? My stomach does a hopeful little hop.
I flip through the book again. There are just a few photos of my mom when she was growing up. One from Halloween, with her as Wonder Woman and Shell as a GI Joe. A few from Christmases, opening presents. “How come there aren’t more of her?”
“She took them with her when she moved out.” Shell closes my photo album and hugs it against her heart. “Cady, I wish I’d known how things were. I would have helped.”
I pat Tom. “Dad wouldn’t have let you.” He said you never cared about us. I clamp my mouth shut. “Why did Señora Vasquez think we went to Oregon?”
Shell scratches Tom’s rump. “That’s what your father told us. About four years ago. You were moving to eastern Oregon and that was that. Never heard another word from him until I got the call to come get you.” She seems like she wants to say something else but doesn’t.
“But . . .” I falter. “Couldn’t you call him, tell him you wanted to keep in touch?”
Shell gives me a tight smile. “I tried, sweetie. I wanted to see you, but he wouldn’t let me after your mom died.”
Why would he do that? I want to ask. But maybe she doesn’t know. Maybe that’s something I need to ask my father. I remember our conversation this morning. How he said he’d be coming for me.
I pet Tom’s chin. He’s drooling. “Shell?” My voice is very small and quiet. “Is my dad really in jail?”
I expect Shell to tell me some story about how she doesn’t know and we’ll have to wait and see and how it’s all for the best, but instead she nods.
Disappointment makes my skeleton crumble. I should have known Dad really wasn’t going to come get me. But some tiny part of me thought he’d tell me the truth. I guess the same part that hoped my pie would be fine even though my smart-brain part knew it was messed up. “For how long?”
“I don’t know, Cady.”
Finally. An adult who’s honest with me. For this I’m grateful, even if she’s telling me bad news. I think of my dad in jail, sleeping on a bunk. At least he’s getting regular food and he’ll get treatment. Maybe he won’t do all those weird prayers anymore. Maybe.
Maybe they’ll teach him how to take care of me again. So many maybes.
My stomach rumbles.
Shell stands. “Enough of this. You need to eat.”
I get up. “I quite agree. I could do with a spot of food,” I say in my best Mary Berry voice. Shell smiles.
After we devour the pizza, Shell makes the Seven-Minute Icing from the old cookbook. She shows me how to do it. “The double boiler is basically a saucepan resting on top of a saucepan filled with water,” Shell says. “It’s a more gentle heat, so the mix doesn’t burn. You use it a lot in candy making.”
She unearths the handheld mixer and we take turns standing over the frosting, beating it for the seven minutes. The result is sort of like a melted marshmallow. Definitely nothing like the frosting you get in a can.
Shell opens a cupboard. Neat mason jars line the shelves. “Do you want to put a jam in the middle layer? Pick one.”
I scan the types. Pomegranate jelly, apricot jam, strawberry jam. “Can I use a jelly? What’s the difference?”
“Jelly’s made from juice, jam’s from the crushed fruit. But those pomegranate seeds are so small you wouldn’t be able to make a jam, unless it was all pip.”
“Pip?”
“The seed.” Now that she’s full of pizza and we had our talk upstairs, Shell’s about a million times more relaxed. So am I.
I pick the pomegranate jelly and spread it on top of one of the layers. Then Shell places the other layer on top of that and we frost the whole thing, swooping it in little dabs and waves, like a delicious painting.
“That looks pretty good.” I admire our work.
“It does. But Cady . . .” Shell puts down the frosting knife. “We need to talk about Grandma’s Pies.”
I hang my head. “I wanted to help you.”
“I know. However, that was really inappropriate. We don’t tear down other businesses to help ours get ahead.” She squints at me. “Got it?”
I nod miserably. I don’t know the first thing about business, or getting ahead. I guess I was thinking about kids like Anna-Tyler, who do seem to get to be popular by being mean to other kids. “Got it.”
Shell’s mouth twitches. I think that me burning the cake might have actually been a good thing—if I hadn’t, she’d probably be yelling at me right now. “Well, we’re going to have to think of a way for you to make it up to Mrs. Moretti.”
“I’ll do whatever you say.”
“That’s up to you and Mrs. Moretti. You’ll talk to her tomorrow.” She slices into the cake and puts a triangle on a plate. The red jelly gleams out.
My stomach twists. What if Mrs. Moretti is like Jay’s grandmother? It doesn’t matter, I guess. I’ll have to face her either way. And this cake makes it better. “Okay.”
We take our plates to the couch to eat, sinking into the sofa cushions. I take a bite. The pomegranate is a little tart, which is nice because the cake is so sweet. “You should sell this at the shop.”
“That icing is too difficult.” Shell bites into the cake, then closes her e
yes. “It tastes exactly like your grandmother’s.”
I wish I could have met her. That she could have made this cake for me, too. “Eating this cake makes me sad and happy at the same time.”
Shell nods. “Me too. Bittersweet.”
Bittersweet. That’s a great word. Lots of things are bittersweet. Including some kinds of chocolate. I clean my plate. “When did she die?”
“Right after your mom and dad got married.” Shell holds out her hand for my plate, and I give it to her. “Lung cancer.”
My mom died of pneumonia. It happened so fast. One day she went into the hospital for a cough that wouldn’t go away, and two weeks later she was gone. The last time I saw her, she was lying in bed with tubes and wires coming out of her. She kissed me and told me I was a good girl. And she kept saying, “I’m sorry, Cady.” So I told her it was okay, even though it wasn’t, because I didn’t want her to feel bad. It wasn’t her fault she was sick. “How old was my grandmother?”
“Sixty.” She heads into the kitchen with the plates. “She would have loved you, Cady.”
I think about the recipes she marked. I’m pretty sure I would have loved her, too.
Chapter 15
Right after breakfast the next morning, Shell takes me to my possible doom. Grandma’s Pies. While Shell’s is closed today, Grandma’s is open seven days a week. I guess things would be messed up if all the pie shops took Tuesday off, though.
Mrs. Moretti is a tiny woman with dark brown hair and light tan skin. She doesn’t look like a grandma—she’s maybe a few years older than Shell. I look at the floor as Shell introduces me.
“Hi, Cady.” Mrs. Moretti shakes my hand firmly.
Shell puts her hand on my shoulder and I know what she expects me to do. “I’m sorry I wrote on your sign,” I say woodenly. I look around her busy pie shop. She’s got twice as many pies as Shell’s in the window and more in the back. Three times as many tables. A full food menu, too. I think she could spare a few of her customers. “It’s just that—”
“No excuses, Cady,” Shell says. “It waters down the apology.”
Summer of a Thousand Pies Page 10
