The Next Best Thing

by Kristan Higgins

Page 22

  Author: Kristan Higgins

  AFTER I FILL THE PRESCRIPTION, I swing by High Hopes Convalescent Center to see Great-Aunt Boggy. I made a ton of scones last night, and the staff loves when I bring stuff in. Maybe Boggy will eat one, too. They’re nice and soft…I’m guessing they don’t need much tooth action, which is good, since Boggy doesn’t have teeth anymore.

  You have of course noticed that I don’t eat my own desserts. It’s a shame, since judging by the smell of them, they’re fantastically stupendously wonderful. Not eating them probably keeps me from being an even better baker, because obviously, it’d help to know what things tasted like.

  But the night Jimmy died, you see, I’d baked a beautiful dessert in my newlywed fervor. Jimmy and I hadn’t spent a day apart since our wedding, and that whole day, I’d been missing him, the heat of young love throbbing most pleasantly. Despite the fact that I’d been at work at the fancy Newport hotel where I was slaving, I came home and decided to bake for Jimmy. Pictured him coming through the door late that night, weary but wired, full of stories about his day in New York. I’d present him the most beautiful dessert ever, smile and listen until he was sufficiently relaxed to go to bed, where my plan was to shag him senseless and make him unspeakably grateful that he had such a hot wife.

  And so I pulled out all the stops to show him how much I’d missed him. To let him know how I adored him. To show off a little, too, because despite my mother-in-law being a wonderful dessert maker, I really wanted to be Gianni’s pastry chef someday.

  I spent the next few happy hours dipping golden peaches in a boiling water bath, slipping off the peels, slicing the succulent fruit wafer-thin. On a whim, I grilled them lightly, drizzling a sweet white wine over them as I did so. I toasted half a pound of pistachios, then ground them into rubble with some carmelized ginger, then cut that into unsalted butter for the crust. Rather than make one big tart, I made four little ones—baked the crusts, and when they were cool, added a generous layer of crème fraîche and lemon zest, topped with the thin-sliced peaches, their deep golden color darkening to a seductive red at the center. I arranged the slices to look like flower petals, then poached some blueberries in the wine and added them as the center of the flower. When I was finished, I had what was quite possibly the prettiest dessert ever made. And because I felt I couldn’t possibly wait till Jimmy got home, I ate one. Right after Jimmy called to tell me he was just passing New Haven, I ate another, then saved the last two for my honey.

  Well, obviously, Jimmy never got to try one, and ever since that horrible night, the desserts I’ve baked have lost their taste for me. I still love to make them…I just can’t seem to eat them. Whenever I take a bite of a cake or a tart or a pudding or even just a chocolate chip cookie, it tastes like dust—meaningless, empty and gray. If I try to swallow, I gag. It’s pretty clear why.

  And so I’ve resorted to the products of Hostess…Twinkies are my favorite, that slight tang of chemical preservative that gives the beloved icon its impressive shelf life, the spongy, sticky cake, the little tunnel of white through the middle. Hostess Cupcakes, too—the peel-away frosting with the cheery little swirl of white on top, the nondairy cream filling that I like to dig out with my tongue. Those pink Sno-Balls, like something from a science fiction movie. The Ho Hos, the Ding Dongs…sigh. My teachers from Johnson & Wales would have my name burned off the alumni register if they knew.

  “Hello, dear,” says the receptionist at High Hopes as I walk through the door.

  “Hello,” I answer, smiling as I set the second box of scones on the counter. “How’s my aunt doing today?”

  “Oh, she’s just as sweet as can be,” Alice lies kindly. What else is she going to say? Well, she’s been drooling really well today…dozing. A little napping here and there, between the bouts of deeper sleep…

  “Well, I brought a few treats,” I say. “Let me just grab one for Boggy, and you can divvy up the rest. ”

  “Thank you, dear!” Alice says. “Aren’t you nice to think of us. ”

  I really am, I acknowledge with a modest bow of the head. Then I snag the biggest scone for my aunty and head down the hall.

  As usual, Boggy’s in bed, sleeping.

  “Hi, Boggy!” I say. “I brought you a scone. Blueberry and cream. I think it’s a winner, if I do say so myself. ”

  I press the button to raise the bed to an upright position—Boggy won’t wake unless she’s sitting up and she’s hungry.

  “Doesn’t that smell great?” I ask, holding out the treat.

  She opens her eyes. Good old Boggy. How nice that she never lost the urge to eat.

  “Who are you?” she asks.

  I jump about a mile into the air, dropping the scone on her lap. Her voice is creaky, the words running together, but my God! She spoke! I haven’t heard her speak in fifteen years!

  “I’m…uh…I’m your grand-niece. Lucy. Lucy Lang. Daisy’s daughter. ” My heart races, my hands are shaking. “Your niece, Daisy Black. ”

  “Daisy?” The old lady squints, her face creasing into a thousand wrinkles.

  “She’s your sister’s daughter. ”

  “My sister Margaret?”

  “Yes!” I exclaim. “Boggy! It’s so…How are you feeling? Are you okay? You’ve been kind of…out of it for a while. ” I dig in my pocket for my cell phone. “I’m just gonna call my mom, okay? Let her know you’re, um, awake. ”

  “Can I eat this?” Boggy asks, then coughs a little. She picks up the scone and gives it a suspicious sniff.

  “Well, sure! It’s a scone. Uh, go ahead. ”

  She takes a gummy bite, then smiles up at me, innocent and happy as a puppy.

  “Bunny’s,” my mother sighs into the phone.

  “Mom! I’m at High Hopes. Boggy’s awake and talking!”

  “What?”

  “Get over here right now! She’s sitting up in bed, eating a scone, and she…well, just come! Hurry!”

  Six minutes later (a new land-speed record), the Black Widows come into the room, their faces hopeful and suspicious at the same time. I’m shaking with excitement. “Aunt Boggy,” I say, my voice thick with happy tears, “do you remember Iris, Rose and Daisy?”

  My mother and aunts approach cautiously. They are holding hands, which touches me more than I can say.

  Boggy studies them carefully. “Well,” she creaks. “I hope you girls don’t expect me to cook. ”

  And with that, the three nieces burst into tears at the sights and sounds of Boggy, awake after so, so long. They swarm around her, petting her, taking her gnarled hands into theirs, kissing her, all talking at once to their beloved aunt, whom they have so faithfully visited all these years.

  I take a hitching, happy breath, then step out into the hall to call Corinne. I only get her voice mail, though, and leave a message to come to High Hopes as soon as she can.

  Then, peeking in once more at the four women, I call Ethan. He’ll love this. He’ll want to hear all about it, maybe even will leave work early. He doesn’t know Aunt Boggy, but he sure loves the Black Widows.

  He answers on the fourth ring. “Ethan, you’ll never guess what!” I exclaim.

  “Hi, Lucy. Everything okay?”

  “Aunt Boggy woke up! And she’s talking!”

  “One second, Luce. ” His voice grows muffled. “Sorry, this will only take a minute,” he says to someone. “Lucy, I’m in a meeting, I’m really sorry. That’s great about your aunt. ”

  “I know! I brought her a scone, and there she was—”

  “Luce, I’m sorry. I can’t talk now. I’ll have to catch up later. ”

  “Oh,” I say, deflating like a popped balloon.

  “Sorry,” he repeats. “I’m really glad about your aunt. Talk to you soon. ”

  And with that, he clicks off.

  Well. He’s busy, of course. The new job is all about meetings, from the little I’ve heard. Stil
l. It seems to me that a month ago, he would’ve stepped out of whatever he was doing to hear more of this incredible news.

  By now, the word has spread that Boggy is a chatter-box after nearly two decades in a partial coma. Three doctors and two nurses are in her room, checking vitals and asking questions.

  “Are there any more scones?” she asks, craning her skinny neck, and with a big smile, I run down the hall to the reception desk to get her some more.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  LATER THAT EVENING, I’M BACK in the apartment, getting ready for a date, slapping on mascara as Fat Mikey watches from his perch on the back of the toilet. Actually I almost forgot the whole thing, given the excitement of the day. I would’ve bowed out, but I got home at six, and we were supposed to meet at seven. Didn’t seem nice to cancel an hour before.

  I’d spent most of the day at the nursing home, filling in my cousins and phoning my sister about the Miracle of the Scone, as I’m calling it. I should sell these at the bakery. Lazarus Scones.

  Boggy’s return really is quite a miracle. The doctors are stumped and pleased, and other than a these things happen sometimes explanation, they had nothing to add. A local news crew dropped in, thanks to a call from Stevie, who figured he could get some free publicity (he’s planning to use his skateboard to jump over five cows and feels the world should know). Grinelda the Gypsy dropped in, too, claiming that just last night, she’d received a message that the Black Widows would be visited by someone they thought was long gone.

  Finally we were all herded out. Boggy was tired. I’d run back home and got her another six scones, since she’d eaten three that afternoon. With promises to make whatever she liked, I kissed her withered cheek and bid her goodbye. Not sure if she remembers me, but it hardly matters.

  I check my purse to make sure I have my cell phone. My date sounded pretty nice, though we’ve only spoken via e-mail and once on the phone. Has a steady job. Never been married. Seems terrifyingly normal.

  At the notion of sitting in Lenny’s with yet another candidate for husband, the pebble in my throat seems to swell. And hey…Here’s the bag from the pharmacy. My new prescription. Ah, yes. Anne said they were mild…maybe I should take one. Thinking of my recent panic attacks, I decide to give it a try. I read the instructions on the bottle, take a pill, eat a Twinkie in order to obey the “take with food” requirement. Then I check my upper lip for whiskers, blow my cat a kiss and promise to return soon, and leave.

  As I wait for the elevator, I wonder how Ethan’s doing. He didn’t swing by High Hopes. Nor did he call me back. Nor have we seen each other since the Mirabellis’ going-away party, as I’d bowed out of the actual physical departure of my in-laws. Gianni, Marie and I had a big tear fest the day before they left, and that was as much as we could handle.

  Outside, it’s a little chilly, a stiff breeze knifing off the water. October is just around the corner. It’s my favorite month…the shorter days seem more forgiving, gentler somehow, encouraging people to go inside and eat something warm. The smell of ocean is thick in the air as I head down Park Street, skirting the cemetery, noting that the maples are red and gold, the beeches a cheery yellow.

  As I pass the spot where my father’s buried, I stop for a second and peek over the wall. Convenient, that he’s so close to the edge…I don’t have to suffer the same guilt I feel over not visiting Jimmy’s grave. “Hey, Dad,” I say. For a second, I pull my father’s image to mind, trying to find a real memory and not just something from a home movie or photograph. Ah. Here we go. An old favorite, worn but not diminished from the many times I’ve summoned it. Daddy pushing me on the swing, his big hands propelling me through the air, the giddy tickle in my stomach, the wind in my hair, my father’s big laugh behind me.