Letting the cool water run over my wrists, I kept my head down and focused my attention on vigorously washing my hands. Then, leaning on the bathroom counter, I stared straight into the mirror and repeated out loud, “I’m fine. I’m fine.” I hoped if I said it enough, I’d shake this. But my eyes were turning puffy and red from holding in tears. Great—this doesn’t look good.
Mom gave me my space, but gently said, “If you want, we can stop. I’ll tell them we’re done.”
“What?” I said. “No, I don’t want that. We’re not stopping.” I turned around and caught a glimpse of Mom’s face. It was evident we were both flooded by memories. “I started thinking about—”
“Pull yourself together,” Mom said abruptly, cutting me off.
It was out of character for her to be so sharp with me, but that was exactly what I needed to hear. I took a deep breath, and we walked back out. Before anyone could ask, Mom announced, “We’re all good. Where do you want us?”
Lauren called out, “We need them coming down the hallway, side by side.”
Mom and I each picked up two oversize shopping bags, and the camera crew told us to stand shoulder to shoulder and walk casually down the hallway.
I quickly said, “Pssst…Mom, where are you going to look?”
“Look at me, and we’ll pretend we are talking to each other.”
“I think I might smile. Should we?”
We started down the hallway squished side by side, only making it halfway before we burst out laughing. Apparently we looked as ridiculous as we felt because we had the crew laughing with us. We ended up having to walk up and down the hallway several times before they got the shot they wanted—so much for being natural!
Once they were finished with that shot, Mark approached my mom. “Laura, can I ask? What happened out there?” I was standing across the room, and I think he assumed that I couldn’t hear him.
“Mark, I don’t know if anyone told you, but Susan was a patient here,” Mom said.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Mark nod to the cameraman as he moved up beside me. “What’s it like being back here, Susan?” Cautiously, he began asking me a series of questions as the camera pulled within ten inches of my face and the boom mic dangled above my head.
I realized he wanted me to say something meaningful. Mark was questioning me as a survivor, as some sort of authority on cancer. I had never thought of myself that way before, so I didn’t have a canned answer. “It’s nice to come back,” I said. “Sometimes it’s hard though. Treatment was rough. But I’m okay. I feel lucky.” Then I looked down at the shopping bags in my hand and said, “We’re just delivering cookies. We have sixty small gifts. We hope they will bring sixty smiles.”
Mark nodded and seemed satisfied with my response. “So what about earlier?” Mark asked. “What were you thinking?”
Before I could begin to try to explain what it felt like to come back here and think about Mom, Dad, and Aunt Sue and how we were all linked by this disease, a nurse interrupted. “Susan, we’re all set.”
As the nurse guided Mom and me from patient to patient to hand out cookies, the crew followed respectfully behind us, and my worries about exploitation went out the window. We passed out bags of gingersnaps and met some very nice people, and I got into an engaging conversation with one man about our mutual love of cheeseburgers, especially ones with extra cheese. As we went into specific detail on our favorite toppings, the man’s oxygen mask, tubes, IVs, hospital gown, skeletal frame, and frailty faded away. He was just a guy who liked a good meal. As I listened to him share his medical history along with his opinions on the ideal burger, I worried that this lovely, spunky man might never eat another one.
In the end, the film crew captured the patients exactly as I’d hoped they would: as people who happened to be sick, not sick people.
As we started to leave, the floor oncologist approached us. “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” she said to me. “I was just informed that you have been treated here at St. Joe’s?”
“Yes,” I said.
“No one ever comes back here,” she told me. “This is a forgotten wing. I can’t believe you brought a news crew with you to share what goes on here. Thank you for remembering my patients.” Her comments almost left Mom and me speechless. I was grateful she took the time to speak with us. By the time we left, Mom and I thought the visit went nicely.
Now all that was left to do was return to the store for a final interview. Back at the shop, the crew rearranged our entire setup to make it easier to shoot, sliding our seven-foot cookie racks around the kitchen, pushing our steel baking tables back, and setting up their equipment. The producer and crew took their respective places around the cameras and monitors as they put in their earpieces. Someone shut off the store’s overhead fluorescent lights, and we sat in the dark until they turned on their ultrabright interview lights. Blinded by the spotlights beaming directly on our faces, we could barely see Mark.
While the lights were being adjusted, Mark took us through the usual questions about Susansnaps: where the recipe for the gingersnaps had come from, what other flavors we’d tried, how long we’d had the store. Our conversation was rolling along easily when I saw the little red recording light flip on. Suddenly, Mark’s demeanor went from informal to professional. “Tell me how all this started.”
Mom had our elevator speech down pat, so she began with her routine spiel. When she was finished, Mark asked, “Laura, you said it was your husband, your daughter, and your sister, right? All three had cancer?”
Smiling, Mom said matter-of-factly, “Yes, that’s correct.”
He nodded. “Was that hard for you?”
“No. I am so proud of them.”
I wasn’t sure that Mark was buying her cheery facade, as he simply responded, “I’m sure you are.”
Mom was giving quick, confident answers, but I thought she might be coming across as a bit emotionless. She was smiling as she said things like, “Yes, my sister died at twenty-eight, and my husband was diagnosed at forty-one with incurable cancer.”
The interview was taking longer than I’d expected. I began to get a little sweaty, and trying to sit up super straight was making my back stiff. Mark kept asking questions, so he clearly hadn’t gotten what he was looking for yet.
Mark asked again, “Laura, your husband and daughter had chemo side by side. What were you thinking?”
Quietly, Mom said, “I was thinking, ‘First my husband, now my child—it’s too much. I can’t do it.’”
What? I thought. Oh no. All this time, Mom had remained completely stoic. She had never once said out loud how hard it had been for her. I knew that it was, of course, but hearing her say it out loud, I was surprised and touched.
Then Mark asked, “Did it make you think of your sister? Can you tell me about her? What was your sister like?”
I was supposed to sit facing the cameras, but I couldn’t any longer. I heard an unfamiliar quiver in Mom’s voice. I glanced over at her and saw her stricken face. I could see she was lost in thought, back on the hillside at Queen of Heaven Cemetery in California, saying goodbye to her sister. I started talking, attempting to turn the attention away from Mom. “She was so creative,” I began, repeating a story Mom had told me about Aunt Sue, Christmas presents, her elaborate wrapping, and her love for gifting. What am I saying? I thought. But at least I was making Aunt Sue sound real.
My story wasn’t going anywhere, but Mark listened graciously. We bantered back and forth as I shared what Aunt Sue was like and how proud she would be of Mom. For that one second, I was happy those words had rolled off my tongue. I was glad Mom had heard me say that out loud.
“Susan, you were named for your aunt?” Mark asked.
“Yes, that’s right. My parents named me after her.”
“You both had Hodgkin’s and were treated at the same age?”
“Yes, we both did chemo and radiation at twenty-two.”
“Did you ever meet her?”
I shook my head. “I feel like I know her, but no, we never met. She died before I was born.”
He nodded. “She died as a result of Hodgkin’s lymphoma?”
“Yes.”
“Your Aunt Susan died from the same disease that you were diagnosed with?”
The room fell silent. The producer and crew, who had been watching monitors and focusing on their responsibilities, looked up at me now and seemed to be hanging on my every word.
“Susan?” Mark prompted.
I thought I knew where he was going with this, but he was too nice to actually say it. I gripped the side of my stool and leaned forward. “Are you asking me if I thought I was going to die?”
Dear Sue,
I didn’t sleep at all that night. I’d had the standard interview questions down pat, but I couldn’t stop thinking about how I’d frozen up when Mark asked about you. Over and over, I heard my response, the empty adjectives that I’d used: “sweet” and “kind” and “nice.” I was heartbroken. That’s not how I feel about you.
Susan is the only one who knows what happened the next morning. We went through our usual routine of opening the shop. Both of us were tired from the day before, and neither of us were talking. For once, I didn’t want to chat. I knew that, eventually, Susan would ask me how I thought the interview had gone.
I was feeling awful, but I didn’t want to let on. I told her that I thought it went well and that she did a beautiful job. We continued to go over every detail of the day, and Susan said, “Mark is really good at what he does.” I had to agree with her. Drained, I went to sit down at the empty shipping table. Susan asked me what was wrong, but I didn’t want to tell her what I was thinking.
I was upset because I’d done a bad job. That’s how I felt. I was aching inside. I’d wanted to tell Mark that not a day goes by that I don’t miss you, and that I love you. But I couldn’t. And I don’t know why. Why was that so hard? As soon as he asked about you, I got lost in my own thoughts. In my mind, I was seeing your casket at the cemetery. And then suddenly, on the flip side, I was sitting in our shop, next to Susan, with a reporter who was asking about you. I wanted to say that you were amazing, that you were the most amazing person ever, and that I am better for having known you. I am better because you lived. But instead, I just kept saying that you were nice. You were! But that wasn’t enough. It wasn’t nearly enough to show people how much you meant to me and how much I still miss you.
“Mom, what’s the matter?” Susan asked again.
I tried to brush her question off and change the topic, but Susan knows me too well. She could tell something was bothering me. Finally, I admitted, “I just don’t think I did very well.”
Susan feigned surprise, but we both knew what I was talking about.
“I did a bad job,” I said. “I didn’t answer Mark’s questions. You know. When he asked about Aunt Sue.” I could feel myself coming undone.
Susan responded softly, “You did answer him, Mom. I know they’ll put the piece together nicely.”
I knew she was right, but I didn’t care about what Mark and his crew thought. And no matter what Susan said to try to convince me otherwise, I felt terrible.
“I didn’t get her right,” I insisted. “You know that. I had my chance, and I failed.”
Susan started getting upset. “That’s not true. You told him how nice Aunt Sue was.”
“No, you know I didn’t,” I said, starting to cry. “I had a chance to tell everyone how wonderful she was, how strong and brave she was. I wanted to say how much I loved her, how she was my hero.”
“Mom, stop,” Susan said. “Don’t say that. Look at all you’ve done.”
“No!” I said, my voice rising. “I failed her. Nobody will ever know her now!”
The shop was silent. Finally, Susan said quietly, “I do, Mom. I know Aunt Sue. I know her.”
I was stunned. I stopped and looked up at Susan. She was right. She does know you in a unique way that I never will. I’m not sure if it’s possible to be both comforted and profoundly sad at the same time, but I was.
19
A Round of Margaritas
I love Mexican food. It’s delicious, and I think of it as fun, festive, happy food. It might sound funny, but every time I have Mexican food, I feel like it’s a personal fiesta, a miniature celebration of life. Who knew that going out to grab chips and salsa, tacos, and a margarita could mean so much? But to me, and to Mom, it does.
Thanksgiving had come and gone. It was November 30, 2010. Only twenty-five days remained until Christmas, and while the economy still wasn’t that great and a lot of companies were cutting back, we were fortunate to have not only personal orders coming in, but also a handful of important corporate orders. Our calendar was filling up: we had to ship 250 gift tins one day, get 400 bakery bags ready for pickup the next, prepare 96 gift sets for a company party, assemble 24 cases for a gift-basket business, and so on. But beyond those set orders, we weren’t expecting much else to come up. We decorated the store with Christmas trees, ornaments, elves, candy canes, artificial snow, and giant presents that we hung from the ceiling. It looked magical. Mom and I made it enchanting. We played Bing Crosby’s “White Christmas” and the soundtrack from A Charlie Brown Christmas, one of my favorites. The oven was busy, and it smelled like Santa’s bakeshop.
Our piece with CBS had not aired yet, and each day that passed, I figured our chances were growing smaller and smaller. We’d been bumped a few times, and each time we were taken off the schedule, I thought that it might never happen. CBS Evening News covers breaking news and major headlines, so we understood that our cookie story might take a back seat. Still, it was beginning to stress me out, all the waiting, the not hearing, the wondering. I checked in with Lauren once or twice, but all she would say was, “I’ll let you know.” Mom and I knew we couldn’t keep worrying about something that was out of our control, so we focused on filling the orders we had.
Around four o’clock that afternoon, Lauren called. “Hi, Susan. The piece is airing tonight. Can’t wait for you to see it.”
She sounded busy, so I calmly replied, “This is great! We’re excited to see how it came together. Thank you for letting us know.” What I wanted to say was, Wait—what? Tonight? Like, in less than three hours? No way! But I kept that thought to myself. Or at least, I did for as long as it took me to hang up the phone.
“We’re on tonight!” I said to Mom, grinning from ear to ear.
We started talking a mile a minute, wondering everything from, “Did we sound okay?” and “What do you think the store will look like?” to “Where should we go to celebrate?” We were going to be on TV, so no matter what happened, we were at least going to toast ourselves. Before leaving, we told our friends and family that our spot was going to be on the evening news that night.
Then Mom and I locked up the store and went home—Mom to her house, me to the one I now shared with Randy. You’d think we would’ve watched it together, but we were too nervous. Millions of people were about to see what we do on TV. I met up with Randy at home and paced back and forth in my living room when the opening shot of our store came onto the screen.
I heard the familiar hum of our oven and the rhythmic clanking of our cookie machine coming through my flat-screen TV. Mark’s eloquent, professional voice said, “Laura Stachler and her daughter Susan built a gourmet cookie business one sheet of gingersnaps at a time.” My thoughts were racing as the brief piece continued. The cookies looked good, the store looked bright and happy, and Mom and I looked okay. Phew. Mark made us sound like the company we wanted to be. They showed a picture of my family. Then one of Aunt Sue. I couldn’t believe my eyes. The hospital shots looked great, which I was relieved to see. Mark ended with, “Proud of e
very Susansnap’s secret ingredient: kindness.”
A little while later, Mom, Dad, Randy, and I met up at a local Mexican restaurant. We ordered guacamole and a round of margaritas, then went on to rehash the piece and share funny stories and memories of everything and anything that had gone on over the past few years. Dad interjected, “That was great. You both were really great.”
Mom raised her glass. “To Sue. And thanks to you, sweetie, millions of people tonight know her. Incredible.”
Aunt Sue’s story is part of my story; it took me a while to wrap my head around that.
Suddenly, Mom said, “I wonder if we’ll get much of a response?”
I replied, “If you want to check, pull out your phone.”
She got out her phone and looked down at the screen. “Susan! Look at your phone. Is this right?”
I leaned over. “Oh my gosh. Those are orders.”
“I know. Grab your phone and take a look.”
I opened up my email inbox and watched the messages flooding in. “Sixty-four. Wait! Sixty-seven!”
Mom said, “No. I’m seeing seventy-two.”
Our inbox was inundated with order notifications, emails from viewers, and people signing up for our email list. Within twenty-four hours, we had eight hundred online orders. And they kept coming for weeks: holiday orders, get-well gifts, thinking-of-you gifts, and corporate orders. Some customers said they’d ordered because “The cookies looked good,” but many more people told us, “We just love what you do!” The phone was ringing nonstop. Finally, it felt like we had taken this crazy little cookie idea of ours and really started to make a difference.
• • •
The next few weeks were insane; as the orders poured in, we became crazy busy. There was no time to stop and train anyone new or reorganize the way we were doing things. We just had to hit the ground running and keep going. It was like we were a snake swallowing a mouse. We had a big blob of orders, totaling thousands of items that all needed to be shipped within a few days, and we were simultaneously dealing with our existing, and increasing, holiday business. The phone was ringing nonstop. We’d answer a call and take an order, only to hang up and have four new messages waiting.
The Cookie Cure Page 19
