The Cake Therapist

by Judith Fertig

  Agnes remembered her delightful sense of humor as the older woman talked about her varied career designing mattress covers, playing cards, stained glass windows, and religious art. “From the profane to the sacred,” Mrs. Paullin had joked. “I do it all. In fact, the subject matter of the work matters little to me. Instead, I have only one test for my designs. If they give me a feeling of restful happiness, I know they will please other people.”

  The benefactors of the school had certainly been pleased when, a few years later, Mrs. Paullin had donated the massive oil of God the Father to Mount Saint Mary in honor of her dear friend Sister Agnes—a woman who, like Mrs. Paullin, had defied expectations and achieved creative success.

  On the third floor, Sister dipped her long, slim fingers into the holy water font attached to the wall and made the sign of the cross. She always bowed her head to the framed black-and-white print of Blessed Julie Billiart, as if the French founder of their order could actually see her.

  Sister Agnes looked a little like Blessed Julie. Her black veil was neatly pinned to her face-framing headdress. A white linen wimple curved around her face, while a stiff white bib reached from shoulder to shoulder of her black long-sleeved gown. Strands of wooden rosary beads tied at her waist jostled with each step.

  The long hallway had tall windows on the left that looked down onto the circular drive and the town at the bottom of the hill. On the right, dark oak doors opened to classrooms.

  In the alcove on a window wall stood a favorite of nuns and students alike. A lifelike statue of the Infant of Prague—Jesus as a princely toddler holding an orb and scepter—reigned atop a plaster pillar. Every month, the nuns changed the handmade mantle and gown on the Infant. Today, the Infant was dressed in Lenten violet. Two weeks from now, the nun on the rota would change the gown to white for Easter.

  The original McCall’s pattern had gotten a lot of use over the years, thought Agnes, who remembered stitching an alb or undergarment out of white dimity for the Infant when she was in the infirmary here. The Infant has more clothes than I do now, she thought.

  When she first came to the convent, she had been so exhausted that she couldn’t sew or read. Her eyes just couldn’t focus to thread a needle or read the small print of the only book she had brought with her. There was so much else going on with the war, the nuns had just given her the rest she needed. When they kept asking questions as she got better, Agnes was afraid to admit she no longer had a clear picture of what her life was like before. She knew she had to have a story for the sisters, so she stitched one together from tiny scraps of memory. Caroline Edwards—the signature in the book she had brought with her, The Princess and the Goblin. Chicago. She loved to read. She was good with a needle. Lemon was her favorite flavor.

  “What about your family, Caroline? Is there anyone we should contact?” the kindly nuns kept pressing.

  Trying to remember had brought back that cold weight, the darkness pressing down on her. There was something hovering just beyond the reach of allowable memory that still came up in dreams. A silhouette. A shadow. A feeling.

  Caroline couldn’t go there and Agnes wouldn’t. “All my family are gone,” she had finally told the nuns. That was the truth, at least—she couldn’t recall who her parents and siblings were, if indeed she’d ever had any. Or the place she had called home when she was a child.

  Although she had lived and taught in many places, when Agnes came back to Mount Saint Mary’s, she felt at home. The nuns here sent her to college in Boston during her novitiate, taught her how to manage a classroom when she began teaching, cheered her on as she wrote and published stories for primary school readers and then became the editor of a series. They welcomed her back when she needed quiet time to write and edit another book, as she was doing now. They gave her the balm of uncomplicated companionship and daily structure.

  She had been happy here, as she told Mrs. Paullin the last time they met in the artist’s New York studio.

  Yet some things could come only from the children. Agnes opened the door and stepped into the large, high-ceilinged room of second-graders. The classroom featured one wall of large, south-facing windows that looked out onto the fishpond and garden. A bitter wind flung tiny ice pellets against them.

  The bulletin boards on either side of the front blackboard were almost completely covered with colorful construction paper baskets, partially filled with cut paper flowers, as the students added blooms to mark each step toward their First Communion in May. The baskets added the only extra color, except for the globe on Sister Josepha’s desk.

  Thirty-four children—girls and boys in navy wool and starched white cotton uniforms—all rose together when their teacher signaled with her wooden spindle “clicker.” The racket of their wooden chairs sliding back from their wood-topped metal desks was as familiar to Agnes as the peal of the convent bells that rang the Angelus at six, noon, and six every day.

  She smiled and rubbed her hands together. She couldn’t wait to get started. It was story time.

  17

  The beep-beep-beep of the security code announced entry into the memory care wing at Mount Saint Mary’s.

  Sister Agnes slowly glided into the ward with her walker, wearing her usual blue fleece and the medal of the Blessed Mother on a silvery chain.

  “Couldn’t sleep again,” she explained ruefully to the staff nurse. “Arthritis acting up.”

  “You know you’re always welcome, at any time, Sister. And you’re more awake than I am.”

  “If you want to get a cup of coffee, I can hold down the fort.”

  “I’d love to. I’ll just run down to the break room and be right back. You know where the call button is if you need me?”

  Agnes nodded with that quiet assurance that always made everyone feel more peaceful. Few people knew her unusual story, and Agnes preferred to keep it that way. Only Shemuel, Neely, and Olive knew that she had been Edie Habig, not Caroline Edwards, before she took her vows. When Agnes tried to remember her past, she could recall only her childhood. If this was what God chose to return to her, Agnes would be grateful and not ask for more. Reuniting with her sister was gift enough.

  The nun wheeled her slow, deliberate way down to Olive’s room. After sustaining a concussion, Olive had been diagnosed with dementia. Sister Agnes had helped arrange for the rehab hospital to send her here.

  Outside each patient’s one-bed room, a glass shadow box held precious photos and mementos that showed the person that dementia had stolen away. A yellowed newspaper clipping of Mr. Patton playing baseball in college, a few poker chips, and a Salesman of the Year plaque. Photos of Mrs. Foster on her wedding day, holding her baby daughter, then with her grandchildren on a picnic—and a tea towel she had embroidered. Mrs. O’Neil’s was so crammed with mementos, it was difficult to take it all in, but Sister Agnes’ eye always went to the photo of the granddaughter, Neely, the one who had brought that delicious strawberry cake. Olive’s shadow box had not yet been filled, but her grandson, Bobby—the great-nephew that Agnes hadn’t known about—said he’d bring some things in this week. Of course, he had said the same thing last week when he visited, but then they’d all had a lot to deal with recently.

  Agnes slowly wheeled herself into Room 7.

  She looked at the small figure with the sparse, cotton-candy hair and the faded pink nightgown, the distress etched on her face even in sleep. Olive tossed her head back and forth like she was having a bad dream. Her weak moan sounded like a kitten mewling.

  Poor Olive, Agnes thought. She must be terribly frightened to be in strange surroundings, even this kind and caring place. At this age, we don’t adjust too well to anything new, she mused, even with all of our wits about us. Olive always was a fighter, not a peacemaker. Agnes would have to help her calm down.

  Bending over Olive’s bed made Agnes’ back hurt even more. I’m going to have to sit down, she thought.
But she knew she couldn’t grip her walker and move the room’s only chair closer to the bed at the same time. She would simply have to sit on the bed. Agnes pressed the button and lowered the bed rail. Slowly, she eased her right hip down to the edge of the bed and faced her sister. She took her hand and whispered the universal words of comfort. It’s all right.

  A new story came to her, as a story still did, sometimes. Little children and old people seemed to find her stories soothing. With her left hand, she touched her talisman, the Miraculous Medal with the image of the Virgin Mary, the lining of her blue cloak radiating those beautiful colors, and gave a silent Thank you.

  Agnes whispered, “Once upon a time, there were two little girls who lived in a little house by a creek. In their kitchen was a big bowl of yellow lemons because their mother made lemon cake every week. Their house always smelled wonderful.”

  Olive lay still as if she were listening.

  Agnes continued. “One fine day, their mother opened all the windows in the little house. The delicious smell of lemon cake drifted out the windows and up in the air.”

  The sleeping woman stirred and turned abruptly on her side, knocking Agnes off balance. Awkwardly, in slow motion, she fell on her side and rolled over to face her tiny sister.

  Well, I didn’t expect that, Agnes thought. But what’s the harm? Sometimes people needed basic human touch more than a story. This must be what the Blessed Mother wanted her to do.

  Olive draped her arm, light as a dried husk, on top of Agnes as they lay together.

  “Pickle,” she sighed. “Pickle.” A ghost of a smile flickered on her face. “Pickle,” Olive breathed again.

  Agnes smiled.

  She felt her own eyelids get heavy, and, surrendering, she let herself drift off to sleep.

  But gentle drifting quickly turned into frantic falling. For the first time in a long time, Agnes spiraled down into the black whirlpool of nightmare, the one with the faceless man chasing her around and around, and when she tried to scream, nothing came out. She felt that same heavy weight as she sank to the bottom of the vortex.

  Help me. Please, help me.

  Just before the dark waters overwhelmed her, Agnes found herself in a place where lamplight flickered on a wall.

  She knew this place.

  She was a little girl again, lying beside her sister on a cool cellar floor, with the sounds of summer cicadas and the low murmur of a bedtime story.

  At last, they were home.

  • • •

  Two cheese coneys sat in front of me, piled with tangles of shredded cheese, in our old wooden booth at the House of Chili. The lunchtime crowd had started to thin. I was starving, but the chili dogs could wait. I couldn’t get enough of Ben sitting across from me. Maybe it was because he had been out of town for more than a week. Maybe it was his navy blazer or his crisp shirt, and the slight tan he had picked up on a job in Dallas.

  Maybe it was realizing that what I, too, had been searching for was right under my nose the whole time.

  “I have so much to tell you,” I began, and then filled him in on Jett, who was healing and back to work, and whose stalker ex-boyfriend, Sean, was still in custody awaiting trial. On Diane, who was out of jail on probation. And on the long-separated sisters Pickle and Olive, who were as reunited as Sister Agnes’ limited memory and Mrs. Amici’s dementia would allow. At least they could see each other every day at Mount Saint Mary’s.

  Ben listened with raised eyebrows. “Whoa. Things were never this interesting before you moved back,” he said, taking a sip of his iced tea. “We went years without this much drama.”

  Then he got serious, reaching across the table to take my hand. “It was like these problems we didn’t know we had were just waiting until you came back to fix them.”

  “The power of cake,” I said with a smile.

  “If you say so.” He withdrew his hand. “But how about the power of chili?”

  Ben tore open a small bag of oyster crackers and sprinkled them over his five-way—an oval plate of chili spaghetti with red beans, chopped raw onion, and cheese.

  “Since when did you start putting crackers on top?” I asked.

  “I’ve always liked my five-way like this.”

  Another mental note.

  He swirled this Queen City favorite on his fork and took a satisfying bite.

  He waved his empty fork at me. “Eat, woman.”

  I took a bite of my chili dog, and it tasted just right.

  Readers Guide

  THE CAKE THERAPIST

  DISCUSSION QUESTIONS

  Claire admits that she is better at intuiting someone else’s life rather than her own. Why do you think this is the case? In what ways did helping others allow Claire to realize more about herself?

  Do you think Claire’s ability to “taste” feelings is a blessing or a curse? Would you want her power to read people?

  From Ethel Parsons, the textile designer in the 1908 flashback, to Claire O’Neil, who owns her own bakery in the present day, the expectations and roles of women in this novel drastically change. Compare and contrast how the women in The Cake Therapist fit in their respective time periods. What positions do they occupy in the workplace and at home? Do any of these women defy society’s limitations or, alternatively, succumb to them?

  The novel revisits the evocative time period of World War II, including the infamous attack on Pearl Harbor and the involuntary draft. Did reading about this era evoke any memories for you regarding your own family’s history?

  Claire originally thinks of Jett “as ‘the Goth Van Gogh’ on a good day or ‘Vampira’ on a bad one,” but by the novel’s end their rapport has significantly changed. How does Claire and Jett’s relationship evolve throughout the novel? If you were Claire, would you have handled Jett differently?

  In the beginning of The Cake Therapist, Maggie holds a lot of disdain for the Professor, but she gradually grows affection for him. Have you ever experienced a similar change of heart in your own relationships? What spurred the transformation?

  In a twist of fate, Shemuel becomes a self-made man and achieves the American dream. Do you think the American dream is attainable in today’s world? Does this freedom to prosper also mean there’s an equal possibility for failure? How do the events in The Cake Therapist support or debunk this?

  Were you surprised by the true identities revealed at the novel’s end, or did you suspect any of these alter egos earlier on? If so, what hints helped you come to these revelations?

  Claire struggles with her strong but uncertain feelings for Luke and softer but consistent affection for Ben. Were you frustrated with Claire’s indecision regarding the men in her life or sympathetic? What did you think of her revelation about why she stayed with Luke for so long?

  Rainbow Cake very much becomes a safe haven for the characters in the novel, particularly for Claire and Jett. Do you have a place like that, or your own comfort food or flavor?

  Edie and Olive have a tenuous relationship at times. When Edie is attacked, she does not tell Olive and, moreover, assumes her sister’s reaction would be unsympathetically harsh. “Olive would be mad—and ashamed of her. Olive would say it was all Edie’s fault. . . . Olive would tell her to stop being a baby. To stop being scared.” Do you agree with Edie’s perception of young Olive? Why or why not?

  By the novel’s end, Claire starts to find peace with her dad. What emotional hurdles did she overcome throughout the novel to reach this point? If you were Claire, would you be willing to forgive her father?

  Turn the page for a preview of the next book from Judith Fertig

  THE MEMORY OF LEMON

  Available soon from Berkley Books!

  Prologue

  LATE MARCH

  The spring blizzard had blasted down from Canada, covering everything in sparkly white. That m
ay have been bad news for commuters and daffodils, but it was good news for Jack O’Neil.

  Jack’s buddy Marvin was doing the rounds of the parking lots on old Route 40—fast-food drive-ins, no-tell motels, and porn palaces—with the snow plow hitched to his pickup, making a little extra money. Marvin took the dog with him. He said he’d bring back a pizza and some soda.

  Jack stayed behind for his tour of duty at the beat-up desk in the motel office.

  The “No Vacancy” sign was crooked in the City Vue’s window, but he wasn’t expecting any travelers in this weather. I-70, which ran parallel to Route 40 a little ways to the north, was closed.

  Most of the City Vue tenants were on welfare and rented by the week, so there was little need for hospitality. But you never knew what might happen. The numbers he needed were right by the old push-button phone: the Independence, Missouri, police department; the ambulance service; and the fire department. If you called 911, you got all three and a lot of flack afterward. It was better to be particular and ask for only what you needed in the low-rent district.

  Jack had worked some construction last year so he would have a warmer place to stay in deep winter. Ever since he got frostbite on one of his toes—it looked like freezer burn and hurt like hell—he didn’t sleep rough when it got too cold.

  Yet it wasn’t like he had the TV on and a weather report he could check. Hell, he didn’t even have a cell phone. In Kansas City, the temperature could plummet fifty degrees in twelve hours. Despite the layers of sock, plastic bag, sock, plastic bag, then boot, he almost lost that toe and could have lost others during a cold snap last year. No way was he going to be a cripple.

  So when Marvin, another regular at the nearby VA Hospital, had offered him this temporary gig, Jack took it.

  By April, it should be okay to go back to his old place.