by Dar Williams
“We need lots of eggs. Seven.”
I cracked and stirred and checked on the garlic. I saw at least four cartons of eggs and wondered how much more we were going to do.
“A tablespoon of vanilla.” He tasted whatever was in the bowl. “Throw in another splash.” He tasted it again. “Oh, I’m good! Now a dash of cinnamon and a cup of that broth from the stove. Careful, though! We’ll freeze this stuffing for a night we cook a turkey.”
He almost danced around the pots on the stove, stirring and smelling whatever was bubbling here and crackling there. Then he went to a bowl and emptied the contents into two bread pans. “Vegetarian meat loaf. Make sure the oven’s set for four hundred.” Soon the smell of chicken soup was joined by the meat loaf, not to mention the garlic stuffing.
A puff of steam as big as a genie rose up from the sink, and then John was carrying over a huge bowl of pasta. I quickly cleared some counter space and stood by his side, pulling big noodles out of the strainer for lasagna.
“Wow. You’re a natural,” he said, turning down the burner on the soup behind him. “Oh, by the way, I got you some root beer.” That was nice.
He pulled the risen dough out of one of the first bowls and plopped it on a rolling board. Then he took some dough and rolled it out with a rolling pin.
“Be my flour girl,” he said. I sprinkled flour onto the dough every minute or so, pulling pans out of the oven and putting other ones inside in between.
John rested the rolled dough into three pie plates and put them aside.
He put a chicken in the oven, and we started peeling potatoes for shepherd’s pie and mashed potatoes. Then he left while I was still peeling.
“Check this out,” he said.
I turned to see him standing with three long ropes of dough on the rolling board.
“I thought we’d used up the dough,” I said.
“Think again.” He smiled, and started braiding up the dough so quickly it seemed like he was using a magic wand and telling the dough to braid itself.
I said, “John! You’re a chef!”
“What have I been telling you?” he asked. “Okay, now we paint the top with egg whites and a shower of sesame seeds….”
He put four loaves of braided bread into the oven. We dumped chicken and vegetables into the pie plates, pushing aside the lasagna to put in two shepherd’s pies. Into another three pie plates (where did they come from?) he poured out something and threw in some broccoli. “This is called quiche,” he explained. “You’ll like it when you’re fourteen.”
He poured something out of a blender into an old yogurt container. “This is pesto. Just thaw it out and throw it on spaghetti. I also made two kinds of tomato sauce, one with meat and one without. And they’re both fabulous.”
“When did you make that?” I asked.
“After you cut up the thirty tomatoes, silly. Remember?” Oh, that was right. He’d let me use the biggest, sharpest knife, something Joyce wouldn’t have liked.
The bowls were all empty. So were the pots, with the exception of some soup cooking on the back burner.
The room was warm and it smelled wonderful. I looked around the counters and saw everything we’d made. Three quiches, two shepherd’s pies, four loaves of bread, tomato sauce, pesto, meat loaf, a huge lasagna, mashed potatoes, and stuffing. And the soup.
It was midnight. It didn’t feel so late, but here was the evidence of all our hard work!
“Thank you, John,” I said, picking up a couple of pots to pack up for him.
“Thank me nothing. You’re eleven years old, and you haven’t asked about the most important part of dinner. We’ve got to make the dessert!” I looked over at the dozen eggs we still hadn’t used. John started muttering to himself and pacing around the room. “There are a lot of sad people around here. We need a lot of dessert. Get me the chocolate chips.”
And we were at it again.
“Four cups of flour.”
“Two tablespoons baking soda.”
“Just pour the vanilla until I say when.”
“All right, now separate these eggs, and when you’re done, would you be an angel and pour me some wine?”
He had all the bowls going again. And the mixing bowl and a couple of saucepans simmering on the stove.
As I brought him his glass of wine, I saw it. It hadn’t been my imagination.
John was doing the work of three chefs, whirling, tossing, stirring, and suddenly appearing with more food than we’d had to begin with. I was a little jumpy from the root beer, and I’d never been up this late in my life. The room was steaming from the heat of the oven and the simmering pots. In other words, we were a little delirious, but something else was going on.
After the third batch of cookies and the second pie, I started to laugh to myself. John started laughing, too. I thought we’d used up all the eggs, and hadn’t we been almost out of flour?? Yes, we had!
“Look at these babies!” John cried, pulling five pans of cake out of the oven, two layers of chocolate, two layers of vanilla, and one “low-fat angel food cake, if anyone cares about their weight, but I don’t think anyone does, especially right now.”
We started frosting them, sometimes with John guiding my hand with the spatula.
“Thiiiis is how you do it,” he said. “No use in your taking ten years to learn the right way, like I did.”
“It didn’t take you ten years,” I said.
“Did too. I’ve always been a slow learner.”
“Not true!” I said. “Dad said you were offered a scholarship to cooking school. But you turned it down.”
“Well …”
“You went to regular college instead, and you made the food for everyone’s parties and at all your friends’ weddings.”
“I’m a slow learner at business, then,” he said, laughing.
“You should open a restaurant,” I said.
“Of course, I’m going to. I’ve been telling you that for ages. I know I should. You think I should?”
“Yes,” I said.
“You really think so? I mean, you’re the best judge. I made all your baby food.”
“Yes.”
“Well, I’ll be darned.” He looked out the window over the sink. “That is a valuable compliment coming from you.”
I looked out the window, too, and saw what was catching his eye. It was the sun.
Exhaustion set in as we loaded the dishwasher and scrubbed the counters.
“You think your dad’s still asleep?” John asked, taking out a frying pan and scrambling the last six eggs.
“He might be,” I answered. “The doctor said not to bother him if he is.”
“Phooey. He’s got to eat some breakfast if he’s gonna get better. And we need a good breakfast, too,” he added, dropping in some tomato and broccoli.
“John? Where did all this stuff come from?” I looked at the plates and pans that lined the kitchen, knowing there was even more food in the refrigerator and freezer.
“From the heart, Angel,” he said. Then he saw what I saw. Breads, soups, pies, sauces, cookies, and cakes. “Honestly? I don’t know. I’ve never done something like this before. I felt nervous about coming over here. Sickness scares me.” He looked over to see if I could handle this. “But then I realized you all need my help, so I got it together and came over. And when I saw you two eating those peanut butter and jelly sandwiches on white bread, I don’t know, something just snapped! I had some ideas of what to make, and then I had to make all of it! And here we are.”
I was still wondering at John as he prepared a plate of eggs and added a small piece of coffee cake. “Breakfast dessert,” he explained.
We walked down to my dad’s closed door.
“Uh, Dad?” I whispered.
“Uppie uppie!” John cried. I jumped.
“I’m awake,” came the voice from Dad’s room.
“Oh, good, because we made you a little something.” John swung the door open.
> My dad looked so pale, I almost dropped his plate. John’s hands fell and he looked at the floor.
“John made more food than we could eat in a year,” I said quickly.
“Oh, good,” said my dad. “I was worried about you!” I saw him brighten. “And I’d love a couple bites of those eggs.”
John put on a good face. “No one takes just a couple bites of my eggs,” he teased. “They only think they will. And then they ask for seconds!”
“That’s always been the truth.” Dad laughed, and he proceeded to eat a few bites, maybe four, and that was good enough.
“Now, if you’ll excuse me,” John said, as if we were at a little luncheon, “I’ve got things to do today. I’ve made some important plans.”
I believed him.
“Merciful God!” as John would say. I made it through school on no sleep. John let me drink a glass of root beer at breakfast to give me “some pep.” I slept a little in math without Mrs. Donaldson noticing and then napped in music class. Ms. Bernstein put her hand with its many jangling bracelets on my shoulder as I left the classroom.
She asked, “What did you see when you closed your eyes?” She thought I was concentrating on the Mozart CD she had played for us.
“Tall trees,” I lied.
“Ahhh.” She closed her own eyes. “I think Mr. Mozart would be very happy to hear that.”
The next few days at school had a mix of bad and not-so-bad moments. For me, it was almost peaceful. Sure, Hally shook her head when I tracked mud into English class one morning, and Ms. Severance glared as I cleaned it up with a paper towel. She had been writing the word “ubiquitous” on the board, the word of the day. I’ll never forget that word (it means seeming to be in many places at once).
But I’d also done well on the pulmonary system test. Since Dad and I weren’t talking about anything serious these days, I at least liked to bring him good news, and this would make him happy.
There was also a new kid in school. I saw Ms. Severance through the window of the art classroom door, introducing the top of someone’s head to Ms. Hutton, the art teacher. I could tell it was a girl, and that she had light brown hair, but I couldn’t tell anything else. Was it better or worse to be entering school at the end of March? I didn’t dare peek in to see, since Ms. Severance would definitely find something wrong with what I was doing. I winced a little as I heard Ms. Severance speaking so kindly to this new girl.
I was aware that time was moving along, whatever was happening. The world wasn’t stopping for Dad’s sickness. Even I was living day after day, though some days it seemed like school was a game I’d agreed to play while we waited for more news about Dad.
At home, I noticed there was something strange about all that food John and I had made. It wouldn’t disappear. I could eat a huge bowl of pasta and pesto, but the pesto container always seemed to remain full. I thought I couldn’t eat enough cookies, but the jar was still so stuffed, I had to close it carefully.
Over the next week, during John’s so-called shifts, he would make even more food — macaroni and cheese, tofu stir-fry, and chicken Parmesan. We never had any room to put the leftovers.
“Aren’t you eating, Amalee?’ he asked me one day.
“Yes!” I cried.
“Don’t you make me worry about you, now,” he drawled in his Southern accent.
I just shook my head.
Despite the fact that there was no shortage of food — particularly chocolate — all our spirits were starting to get low. There was no getting around it. Dad wasn’t doing well. Dr. Nurstrom was learning how to break things to us more easily, but I don’t think he was covering up the truth when he said that we should expect setbacks and that we shouldn’t be discouraged.
Joyce was taking all the early morning shifts now, and she would nod her head and sometimes take notes as Dr. Nurstrom told her that my dad would be very tired, lose his appetite and sometimes fall asleep in the middle of a sentence. She said she enjoyed the nursing duties. She also enjoyed being around Dr. Nurstrom, and he seemed much happier these days, too.
In fact, after about two weeks, I wondered if Dr. Nurstrom was being irresponsible by letting Dad stay at home. Dr. Nurstrom obviously loved our house. Sometimes, he went jogging, and then he’d take a shower in our bathroom. At Joyce’s urging, he’d started raiding the refrigerator every time he came over. I was relieved, of course. Somebody needed to eat all that food, and for a thin man, he sure could pack it away.
Dad started doing something that was so eerie, it felt unfair. It was one thing to keep us all in the dark about how he felt. It was another to start acting like we’d be better off without him.
“I’m so glad that John’s made so much food,” he said when I complained about the kitchen overspilling with cookies and lasagna. “It’s great that everyone’s taking care of you. They’re doing a better job than I am!”
“Uh, wrong, Dad,” I said, shuddering. He kept on saying stuff like that. The next day, he said, “Wow, my friends know all about you,” and “Looks like you don’t need me to make things run smoothly.”
I was furious. If he thought he was going to die, he should talk to me about it. He shouldn’t talk me into it, leaving me to hide my tears as I talked about math class, as if either of us really cared about multiplying fractions. I sobbed into my pillow every time I left his room.
But I couldn’t bring up the subject. Dr. Nurstrom made it clear we shouldn’t upset him. And besides, he was my father. It was his job to bring it up. Of course, I was also terrified.
I was a little surprised that Joyce didn’t want to talk about it. I think she was afraid she’d cry too hard and manage to both upset and annoy me at the same time. I caught her looking at me a few times when I would say good-bye in the morning. She had put her hand on my shoulder once, out in the hall, and said, “How are we doing?”
Is it mean when you say something that you know will end a conversation, because you know it will leave the other person speechless? It probably is. I was definitely being squirrelly when I answered, “I’m okay. Everything’s fine … right?”
Joyce did what I expected her to do. She took a little step back, took on the role of Dr. Nurstrom’s unqualified nurse, and said, “Oh, yes. Yes, no surprises here, really. Uh, really.”
“I wish Dad weren’t in such a sad mood,” I ventured. I did want to hear her opinion about this.
“Yeah,” Joyce sympathized. “How does that make you feel?”
I didn’t like that. I wanted information, not therapy! “He’s probably just tired,” I answered, not answering.
“He’s very tired,” she agreed. “He’s healing.”
She didn’t say much after that, though I did catch her staring at me more.
At school, my secret became my shell. I hid inside it, looking out at the world. It was almost comforting. It was an excuse to be different and apart from everyone else.
A week or so after John had made all that food, I came home to Phyllis’s car in the driveway. I was tired of this. But then I remembered that button Dr. Nurstrom mentioned, the one to summon me if my dad “couldn’t breathe.” Maybe it was okay that I was never alone with him. Also, I was learning that routines are the best way to keep living with all the questions no one could answer, so maybe all of these shifts and schedules were helping us.
Phyllis was actually looking relaxed as she sat on our living room floor, rifling through an old chest of stuff.
“How are you feeling these days?” she asked.
“I don’t know, how are you feeling?” I asked, almost accusingly. She hadn’t said anything about the latest downturn. Maybe Joyce had told her I hadn’t wanted to talk about it. But what she said made me realize she wasn’t exactly ready to deal with it herself.
“I am very hopeful,” she said, “because Dr. Nurstrom told me this is about the worst stage of a sickness like this, and your dad is doing okay even without helping himself get better. But I was thinking, if we can convi
nce him to get in more of a fighting spirit, I think it would be smoother sailing.” I could tell she believed what she was saying.
“Your dad is depressed,” she informed me. “And I have a plan.” Ah, a plan. This was how Phyllis would respond to the latest crisis. She had surrounded herself with photo albums and yearbooks from her past with my dad.
“You want some lasagna? We’ve got tons of it,” I told her, heading for the kitchen. I hadn’t made a dent in it.
“Already had some,” she called. “And some quiche, and some cake, and some root beer.” She headed to Dad’s room with her big pile of stuff. What was her plan, to bore him into a deep and restful sleep?
I stopped by his room on the way to mine.
“How are you, Dad?” I asked.
“Tired, as usual,” he breathed.
“Okay, David. Sit up a little,” Phyllis ordered. “We’re going on a little trip.”
“Where to?” he asked wearily.
“All over the place. First stop, the Adirondack Mountains.”
Oh, wow. That was before I was born. Phyllis pulled out an album of pictures.
We all admired how awful everyone’s hair looked. They were all about twenty-two. My dad’s hair was severely winged back. John’s hair was bushy and longer in the front than in the back.
“At least John has hair,” Dad pointed out, laughing.
Carolyn, on the other hand, had almost no hair. She had a crew cut. Maybe she cut it herself!
“I’m lucky I was walking under the canoe for these pictures,” said Phyllis. “I had the perm that made me look like a poodle.”
“Oh, Phyllis, don’t be hard on yourself,” Dad said. “You looked like a springer spaniel.” He chuckled.
Whatever Phyllis was doing was working. Dad shifted his pillows so he could sit up more.
I backed out of his room quietly, then worked on my math for a while.
There were swells of laughter and teasing coming from the other room.
I heard names and places here and there — the Catskill Mountains, high school boyfriends and girlfriends, and fifth-grade teachers.
