You'll Never Know

by Katie Cross

  “Whoa.”

  “It’s just a starter list.” My cheeks flared. Why was I so self-conscious? With the last of my courage, I extended a second sheet of paper. “These are my other ideas that aren’t cupcakes. I came up with them last night when I couldn’t sleep.”

  Mostly because Mom banged around the kitchen like a mad hatter and cooked until four in the morning, but I left that out. I feared my questions had broken her. Sophia snatched the paper out of my hand and continued to read out loud.

  “Loose tea in glass jars. Crazy lemonade flavors: Tangerine. Blackberry. Currant. Gooseberry. Dessert ideas: Fruit pizza. Peanut butter cookies filled with actual peanut butter. Gingerbread brownies instead of normal brownies. Rice Krispie treats with different flavors. Chili. Pickle. Lemon lime. Bite-sized cookies instead of really big ones. Buy by the dozen and have a variety of at least twelve. Brilliant,” she murmured under her breath. “Like a cookie bar.”

  “Yeah! Except less guilt because they’re smaller. So people just looking for something small could buy those.”

  “Yes, yes. Brilliant.” She tapped the paper again. More ideas trailed down it that she hadn’t read out loud. “I love the movie-themed mini-cake ideas too. Wonder Woman. Deadpool. Market it to the what’s popular. We can tell them that they can have the cake for the first time they watch the movie! We’ll patrol Netflix and new releases…”

  “Yes! We could coordinate the flavors, colors, and piping to match the movie style.”

  “Yes!”

  My heart pattered a little in my chest, but I forced myself to stay cool. I cleared my throat instead of hopping up and down on one leg. Sophia bit her bottom lip and kept perusing the ideas. There weren’t many more, but her eyes darted around the sheet, going back over the ideas she’d already read. Then she paused, eyes glued to the paper in an unseeing gaze.

  “It may not be as branded as you wanted,” I said. “I mean, if you wanted to be a bit more niche, we could work with that. I—”

  “Stop.”

  She held up a hand. My mouth snapped shut.

  A grin crossed her face. “Rachelle, this is wonderful. These ideas would set the Frosting Cottage apart and bring new people in. The cookie bar especially. We could rotate cookies each day and charge by the bag. No! By the dozen. We could offer bulk orders as well. Holiday themed! Then they could sample…”

  She trailed off, mumbling under her breath as she paced the kitchen. Seconds later, she yanked supplies out of the cupboards and shoved them onto the prep counter. Sprinkles. A cake-frosting knife. A bag of flour she used to make small, experimental batches. Food coloring.

  “What are you doing?”

  “We’re getting started.”

  “But—”

  She reached into her pocket, pulled out a wad of cash, and tossed it to me. “Call William. He doesn’t have class today. Tell him to get a twelve-pack of Dr Pepper. Pepsi. Coke. Sprite. What are other big flavors? I love the soda cupcake ideas.”

  I caught the cash mid-air but hesitated. “I haven’t worked out the recipes yet. These were just ideas. I was going to kind of refine and test from there.”

  “No, no. This is the fun part!” She reached into the pocket of her apron, pulled out her black hat, and slid it on. “We get to play. Bakers rarely take enough time to play. We get focused on the next batch, the next cake, and rarely take time to just frolic with ingredients and make something fabulous.”

  “The McArthur cake—”

  “I’ll get to it.” She waved a hand. “They won’t pick it up until tonight. Would you like to learn more about recipe creation?”

  Anticipation streaked through me like wildfire. Not only would it be fun to try something new, but I hadn’t felt this excited about something since I signed up for the marathon. It had been a while since I just … let myself be happy. Embraced food in my life.

  Did something new.

  “Of course!” I cried. “That sounds like a blast.”

  “Then call William. Tell him whatever you think we’ll need to try this out, and I’ll get started with a base. We’ll have to be careful about the liquid-to-flour ratio in the soda cupcakes…”

  Unbidden, a giggle rolled out of me. Sophia glanced up, then grinned. Within moments, both of us were laughing. It felt so good to release all the heavier emotions of the past three days. I laughed until my eyes watered. The weight on my shoulders disappeared. Oh, how I missed laughing.

  Sophia tossed me an apron. “Put this on, Miss Martin, and make that call. We have lots to do today.”

  Chapter 13

  Reframe

  Janine glanced at the scrapbook on the couch next to me. “What is this?”

  I’d carted the old scrapbook in a backpack to my next session. It sat there like an innocent little thing even though I knew it was a time bomb. Given one good opportunity, that combustible collection of memories would explode and rain sugar cereal and sprinkles.

  “It’s a scrapbook my best friend and I assembled when we were young.”

  Janine’s eyebrows rose. She held out both her hands. “How lovely! Would you mind if I looked at it?”

  “It’s … well, no. Of course not. You can look at it all you want. But I brought it because I hate it.”

  “You hate it?”

  “Well,” I mumbled, “I hate the pictures of me in it. This binder is why I’m struggling to really accept myself.”

  “Because of a photo album?”

  “Because of what’s in the photo album. Mainly pictures of me when I was loud and obnoxious and overweight. Every time I try to love myself, I end up thinking about this binder. It represents the worst parts of me.”

  “Ah.”

  “So … I brought it. Thought maybe we could start here.”

  She smiled warmly. “I’m so glad you did. Let’s start at the beginning and see what is so terrible that you don’t want to face.”

  My stomach churned when she carried it back to her chair. I didn’t care if Janine saw the pictures—I just didn’t want to see them. Long months had passed since I’d convinced myself that being fat was better than being thin. Now, I had no idea what I felt. I just knew that these pictures stood in my way of figuring it out.

  Janine pointed to the first one.

  “Can you tell me about this picture?”

  Lexie and I were sitting at the table, a pizza box open in front of us. The late-summer humidity left blooms of color on my cheeks. I wore a tank top and had plenty of arm fat spilling out the side. I swallowed. My hair stuck out in two braids on either side of my head, like Pippi Longstocking.

  “That was the summer before eighth grade. What you can’t see is the empty pizza box off to side. Mom and I had finished that one off, and then I was helping Lexie with the second one. That night, we had a marathon watching romantic comedies.”

  Janine flipped the binder around so I had to face it straight-on. She grabbed a piece of paper and covered me, leaving only Lexie.

  “Take yourself out of the spiral of shame that I can see on your face. I want you to see just Lexie.”

  “Okay.”

  “Describe what you see.”

  I blinked, already prepared for something like this. Seeing myself through the lens of Lexie had been easier, even if it hurt that I still couldn’t look at myself.

  “I see a girl having a good time.”

  Janine smiled. “It does look like a fun time! Pizza and romantic comedies with your friend? What a perfect summer memory.”

  The corners of my lips tugged up slightly. It had been fun staying up late with Lexie, giggling over boys and pizza. It always felt as if I belonged somewhere, with someone. The smile spread, a bit sheepishly.

  “I always tried to get Lexie to do burping contests, but she wouldn’t. She knew I’d win.”

  To my surprise, Janine laughed. “A proud trophy, I’m sure.” She slipped the paper away. “Keep that perspective. Now, tell me what you see.”

  A lump rose in my throat. I
saw bright eyes. A true, wide smile. A girl who, although she’d just eaten more pizza than two girls her age should have, had a spark of something in her. Was it strength? Was it fun?

  Buried beneath the smiles in that picture was something deeper. Something haunted. Maybe frightened. A girl who felt as if she were careening out of control, hurtling down the tracks of her own life, and didn’t know how to stop. No one, it seemed, reached out a hand to slow her.

  “I see … someone a little bit frightened,” I said.

  “Of what?”

  “Herself. Her love for food. Her ability to hide in it. I was terrified because I couldn’t stop, and no one seemed to be stopping me.”

  “Interesting.”

  Tears clogged my throat.

  Janine’s brow furrowed. “What are you feeling now?”

  “I don’t know,” I whispered. “Sadness? I … I was so lost. I mean, I was happy but … I felt so out of control. So confused and alone and … food was the only compass I had. The steady thing that made me feel good. For a while, anyway. Afterwards, I felt worse.”

  Her expression softened. “Food was a link to happiness and love.”

  “Yeah.”

  Tears brimmed in my eyes and dropped down my cheeks one at a time. I wiped them off with the back of my hand as Janine motioned back to the picture.

  “When you set aside self-hatred, what do you think is the truth?”

  The photo seemed to fade into mere pixels as I stared at it remembering the damp, cheap trailer. The rickety old table. The greasy pizza box. Even Mom had seemed happy that night, perched on the end of the same couch we still had.

  “I think I was lonely, and I … survived through food.”

  “You survived a very lonely and frightening situation. Food was your friend. It prevented you from coping through worse means and helped you get through. But you aren’t that young anymore.”

  “Why is it so painful now?”

  “The mind is a lot like the body. When we get a splinter that isn’t removed, what happens?”

  “It hurts?”

  She put her hands in the shape of a circle. “It forms a protective little ball that isolates the splinter from the rest of the body, protecting us from infection. The mind does the same thing with difficult memories. It creates pockets of pain. When we see them and remove the emotional splinters, it’s going to hurt a little.” Her hand opened up. “But then the pocket is gone, and it won’t affect us anymore.”

  “So I’m popping pockets of pain?”

  She nodded, her lips pressed together. “Yeah. It takes time. They’ll appear unexpectedly, but then you deal with them. You look at them as an adult with a new, wider perspective and see the truth.”

  Janine brought the photo album back to me. “Leave it open,” she said. “Now I want you to see the picture and tell me what you want to see.”

  My eyes skimmed the memory. Lexie’s wide grin, full lips, bright blue eyes. She wore a baggy t-shirt and shorts. The night had smelled like pizza and root beer and sunshine. I could still remember the cold root beer trickling down my throat. I didn’t want to see shame in my eyes or a girl who hated herself.

  “I guess I want to see two best friends having a good time.”

  “Then close your eyes and count to five. Now, open them and look at the picture. Instead of thinking, I’m so chubby or I wish I hadn’t eaten so much, I want you to remember how fun it was. For example, you could think, That was really fun or I’m so lucky I had a good time with my best friend.”

  With a deep breath, I obeyed. When I opened my eyes, I said, “I’m really lucky that Lexie and I could have such a good time.”

  “And that you had such a great best friend!”

  “Yeah. It was easy to hang out with her because she never cared about how I looked.” I tilted my head to the side with a smile. “It really was a fun night.”

  “Very good.” Janine smiled with a knowing grin. “Yes, horrible memories happen. No, we shouldn’t stuff them aside or act as if they didn’t. We move through them, process them, lance that pocket, and reframe in a positive light. Can you give that a try this week?”

  My gaze dropped to the picture. I managed a haphazard smile. “Yeah. I can. And I am pretty lucky to have someone like Lexie.”

  Janine beamed. “Good, because that’s your homework. Reframe your memories, reframe your thoughts, and you’ll reframe your life.”

  “Rachelle, your ankle has shown marked improvement.”

  “Really?”

  I perked up out of my half-comatose state. After working a full day at the Frosting Cottage on chili-flavored Rice Krispie treats, I worried that my ankle would be swollen. But Dr. Martinez stared at it with a tilted head. Her warm fingers gave me some hope because the ankle didn’t hurt when she touched or rotated it. I leaned forward to see better. Most of the swelling had disappeared, leaving only gentle streaks of color that had once been marbled bruises. The swelling had receded enough that I saw veins in the pale skin again.

  “You dropped the weight on your foot over a month ago. Healing seems consistent. Overall, a marked decrease in swelling and bruising. Better range of motion, for sure.”

  “So I can start exercising?”

  “No.” She straightened up and met my hopeful gaze. “But you can start weight bearing.”

  My shoulders slumped, but I forced them to straighten. Disappointing, to be sure, but far better than nothing. Surely Janine’s reframing lesson could pertain to more than bad memories. Perhaps I needed to start reframing my current attitude.

  “That’s great news,” I said. “I’m just happy to be doing something.”

  Dr. Martinez studied me. “What? No complaints? No frustrated sighs?”

  “I’m happy to move forward.”

  Which felt true.

  She paused, then nodded once. “Good for you. Yes, this is a great step. We’ll start with toe-touch weight bearing, which means we’ll swap the boot out for a simpler brace.”

  “Hallelujah!”

  She pointed a pen at me. “Toe touch means you can only touch your toe to the ground as you walk. Nothing else. Let’s see how that goes and then move from there in a week. Then we’ll talk physical therapy for rehab.”

  I smiled. “Thanks. That sounds great.”

  “You can drive now, as long as it doesn’t feel like too much movement and doesn’t hurt. The brace won’t restrict that.”

  Relief coursed through me. Even better than expected! I’d have a modicum of my life back.

  “Thanks, Dr. Martinez.”

  She winked. “I’ll see you in a month. My nurse will come in soon to demonstrate toe-touch weight bearing with you. Don’t get crazy, all right? Your bones need time to adjust. If it hurts, stop.”

  Twenty minutes later, Mira pulled up just as I worked my way back out. Toe-touch weight bearing wasn’t as easy as it sounded. Putting some weight but not too much felt like a moving mathematical formula. Still, having that boot off felt divine. The blast of air conditioning that hit my face when I slipped into Mira’s old Cadillac revived me.

  “Good news?” she asked.

  “Yeah.” I grinned. “Starting toe-touch weight bearing and will start with a physical therapist in a week. I can drive again!”

  “Great!” Mira’s expression dropped. “Are you okay with that? It’s not as much as you wanted, is it?”

  I drew in a deep breath and paused. How did I feel? I felt … okay. Unconcerned, even. Now that I had some space from what had happened, I could see that running the marathon really hadn’t been the most important thing in the world. Healing my ankle thoroughly so I could continue to move without pain was more important.

  “Yeah,” I said with a smile. “I’m very happy with that.”

  Mira patted my knee. “Good on you, girl. Let’s get you to work. Sophia said she needed taste testers for a lemon-lime cupcake? What brilliant genius came up with that? Leave it in the Sprite bottle, sister. That’s all I have to say.”<
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  She winked at me. I tilted my head back and laughed.

  Water, cool and clear, lapped at my feet.

  For a moment, I stared at it, transfixed by the play of light in the pool. It rippled like ribbons dancing in the breeze. The sun bore down hot—at least, I thought it did. I couldn’t really feel it, just saw the brightness. Then I noticed that my ankle was naked.

  Why wasn’t I wearing my new brace?

  Where was I?

  The happy shriek of a child brought me out of a confused daze. I looked up to see a little girl only a few feet away, splashing in a kiddie pool. Surrounding us was a familiar, weary fence and a rubbery hose that snaked through half-baked grass. A few lawn toys littered the area. My heart tied itself into a knot. That little girl’s face was familiar.

  Too familiar.

  That little girl was me.

  I was five years old, wearing a lime-colored swimsuit and a fluffy tutu. An ice cream cone dribbled down my knuckles, sticky sweet. The sweet taste of vanilla bean lingered on my tongue. I reached out to touch the water but felt nothing. This had to be a dream.

  Behind me—us?—came the sounds of a familiar television show. Eureeka’s Castle. My childhood favorite. The opening song played. Angry shouts followed on its heels. Little Rachelle glanced up, her intent gaze on the back door. Her forehead furrowed into a deep groove as the livid voices escalated.

  “One ice cream cone is enough!”

  “She’s a little girl.”

  My heart trembled when I recognized the voices. Mom and Dad. How could I remember this day so vividly even though I’d been so young? Everything from the spray of sunshine in the water to the heavy blanket of summer air was vividly real. As if it came through the lens of a detailed camera.

  “Exactly!” Dad yelled. “What little girl needs three ice cream cones?”

  “They were small.”

  “That’s not the point, Melissa!”

  “Nothing I ever do is good enough. Did you even mention the fact that I gave her a good lunch? Or got up with her last night when she wet the bed? No. You don’t care! You slept through everything just like the pathetic drunk you are.”

  Little Rachelle sucked in a sharp breath. A bead of ice cream rolled off the cone and down her knuckles. Something inside of me turned cold.