Julia’s Kitchen (3 page)

I sat on a pillow in a corner of the living room. Marlee brought me a hard-boiled egg on a paper plate.

“My mom says you're supposed to eat this,” she said.

I wrinkled my nose. I didn't like hard-boiled eggs.

“Eat it,” Marlee said. “It's symbolic of life.”

I took a small bite. It wasn't so bad.

We watched the room fill with people. It seemed that everyone I'd ever known came to Nana and Papa's that afternoon. The apartment was hot and noisy.

Mrs. Olsen, our gray-haired next-door neighbor, brought me a bagel with lox and cream cheese. She perched on a chair next to Marlee and me and shook her head. “It's such a shame,” she said. “Such wonderful people.”

“Thank you,” I said.

“We don't always understand God's reasons,” she said, sipping her coffee. “But at least your mom and Janie are at peace. They're in a better place now.”

I nodded politely and bit into the bagel. But inside I cringed. A better place? Better than with Dad and me? All day long, people kept saying these things: “God works in mysterious ways,” or “God must have needed them in heaven.” Every mention of God made me tense. I used to think God was my partner. But what kind of partner would let this happen?

Roz came over with a piece of noodle kugel. “How're you doing, honey?” she asked.

I shrugged. We didn't say anything for a minute, and I nibbled at the sweet kugel. Then I looked at Roz and said, “I didn't know Mom ran back into the house to save Janie.”

Roz raised her tweezed eyebrows in surprise. “No? You didn't see the articles in the paper?”

I shook my head.

“And your father didn't talk to you?”

I shook my head again.

“Oh, sweetheart, I'm so sorry.” Roz rubbed my shoulder. “Give your dad time. He'll come around.”

I glanced at Dad, sitting in one of the low chairs on the other side of the living room. He didn't look anything like himself, in Papa's suit, his hair going in every direction.

“Why don't you just talk to him?” Marlee asked.

“I can't,” I said.

Part of me wanted to shake Dad, punch him, yell at him for letting Mom and Janie die. But another part wanted to hug him and have him tell me everything would be all right.

“What else do you know?” I asked Roz. “About the fire.”

Roz uncrossed, then crossed her legs again. “Well, the article today said it started in the kitchen. From an electrical short in the toaster oven, of all things.”

“The toaster oven?” Marlee and I both said at the same time.

Roz nodded. “I guess you're supposed to unplug it when you're not using it. But you should pull it out by the plug, never the cord.”

“Well, ours was always plugged in,” I said.

“I know, honey,” Roz said, patting my hand. “Mine, too. But not anymore. You run the risk of accidentally leaving it on, or a wire shorting out, or who knows what else.”

“Jeez,” Marlee said. “You'd think they'd tell you all that during Fire Safety Week at school!”

I sat there, imagining a spark from our toaster oven lighting—what? A kitchen towel? The curtains? Had I left a napkin out on the counter, next to the toaster oven? Was that how the fire had spread? I pushed the kugel away from me.

Max came over carrying a plate piled high with brownies and coffee cake. Chocolate crumbs edged the corner of his mouth. “Dessert!” he announced.

Marlee rolled her eyes. “You pig.”

“Excuse me!” he said. “I brought these to share.” He held the plate in front of me. “Want some?”

The sweet smell of chocolate made my stomach turn, and I felt the egg, the bagel, and the kugel bubble inside me. “No,” I said. “No desserts.” Then I escaped to the bathroom.

I wished I could cover my brain the way they covered the mirrors. Just shut everything down and quiet my mind. Everyone was trying to comfort me, but I didn't want comfort. I wanted Mom and Janie. And those desserts were the worst of it.
Your mom is gone and she'll never bake with you again.
Well, I knew one thing for sure. I would never eat another dessert. Never.

*   *   *

That night, when everyone finally left, I got ready for bed. I put on pajamas, brushed my teeth, and crawled underneath Nana's flowery bedspread in the guest room. I lay in the dark, thinking about Mom and Janie. I wished Mom could kiss me good night just one more time. I wished Janie could sneak into my room for one more silly knock-knock joke. Or one more peek at my scrapbooks.

I thought about Dad, sleeping on the pull-out sofa in the den. We hadn't spoken to each other since yesterday. I was scared to hear what he'd have to say, but at the same time I wanted to talk to him so badly. I tiptoed out of the guest room. I didn't want to wake Nana and Papa. I needed Dad to myself. I needed to know what happened the morning of the fire. I needed to know everything.

As I tiptoed down the hall, I imagined the conversation Dad and I would have. I'd say, Daddy, I'm so sorry I wasn't there to help. Please, tell me what happened. And he'd say, It was terrible, Cara. And then he'd tell me every detail, and we'd hug and promise to take care of each other and to never leave the toaster oven plugged in again.

But as I got closer to the end of the hall, I heard the sound of muffled sobs. I took two tiny steps forward and cracked open the door to the den. In the moonlit room I saw Dad, huddled on the bed, crying into a pillow.

I stood, frozen. I had never seen him cry before. Even at the funeral, his eyes got all watery, but he didn't cry. Watching him now made my own eyes fill with tears. My legs started to shake. I didn't know what to do. I knew Dad wouldn't want me to see him that way. So I backed away from the door. I hurried into bed and hugged my knees to my chest. I squeezed my eyes shut and tried to erase the picture of Dad crying like that. But it burned into the back of my eyelids.

three

Wednesday morning, when there were no visitors, Bubbe and I sat in the living room while Dad, Zayde, Nana, and Papa ate breakfast in the kitchen. Bubbe took out her sketchpad and colored pencils. “Turn on that lamp next to you, love,” she said.

I did as Bubbe asked, then settled back in the green chair. “You're not going to draw me, are you?”

“Why not?” She had already started sketching. Her eyes darted from the paper to me, and back again.

“I look ugly. That's why. I haven't even seen a mirror since yesterday morning.”

“Don't be ridiculous. You're beautiful.” Bubbe paused, gazing at me. “You look just like your mother.”

We smiled at each other then. But they weren't regular smiles. They were smiles tinged with sadness.

Bubbe's pencils made a soft scratching sound. The refrigerator hummed. The apartment smelled like coffee. “Bubbe?” I asked.

“Yes, love?”

“What's going to happen to me?”

Bubbe looked up from her drawing and met my eyes. She studied me for a moment. “You're going to be okay, Cara. We'll all be okay eventually.”

“But, Bubbe, Dad is different now,” I whispered. “I feel like I don't even know him.”

Bubbe sighed. “I know, love. But he's your father. And he's a good man. We just have to give him some time. Right now I think he's still in shock.”

“Well, so am I.”

Bubbe frowned, but her eyes smiled. She patted the seat next to her. “Come here.” I snuggled next to her and watched as she finished the drawing. “I suppose we're all in shock now,” she said, adding different shades of brown to my hair and eyes. “We have to take care of each other.” She signed her name to the bottom of the picture, dated it, and handed it to me. “Now, is that an ugly girl?” she asked.

There I was, the same Cara as before. Curly hair pulled back in a ponytail. Brown eyes and dark curly lashes. Long nose, long chin, long neck. It was Mom's face. Everyone said so. I looked like Mom, and Janie looked like Dad. It was fair that way. We each had our match. And not just in appearance, but in personality, too. Dad and Janie were the ones who rode the rickety roller coasters while Mom and I ate cotton candy and took in a show. And Mom and I were the ones who cheered from the sidelines while Janie played soccer and Dad coached. Mom and I were sensible, quiet, maybe even a little boring. If not for Marlee, I'd say Mom had been my best friend.

I gave the picture back to Bubbe. “It's good,” I said. “You should keep it.”

*   *   *

Shiva turned into a haze of naps, deli trays, visiting, and praying. At the prayer services each morning and evening, I pretended to follow along while I daydreamed about Mom and Janie. I found I could say simple things to Dad, such as, “Is there any more coleslaw?” or “The synagogue sure collected a lot of nice clothes for us.”

Which they had, thank goodness. Because that first day when Dad had gone to the house, he'd brought back the clothes that had made it through the fire. The only items not damaged by smoke and heat had been in closed dresser drawers. In my case that meant socks and underwear. I guess I'd been in a hurry when I'd packed for Marlee's, and I'd neglected to shut all but one of my drawers. Dad, on the other hand, retrieved most of his sweats and T-shirts and stuff. But I bet he was pretty upset about losing the suits and work clothes that had hung in his closet. Not that he'd say so. Anyway, Dad seemed satisfied with our bits of conversation, and he never once mentioned Mom, Janie, or the fire.

*   *   *

Thursday night, as I listened to some people from Dad's ad agency go on and on about their recent trip to Costa Rica, Mrs. Rosen and Marlee walked in carrying my scrapbook box. Marlee smiled and waved at me, then set the big plastic box on the foyer table and took off her coat. The sight of my scrapbook box, something so normal from before the fire, gave me a jolt of energy.

“Excuse me for a minute,” I said, and practically ran to greet Marlee.

“Ta-da!” she said, handing me the box.

“Oh, Marlee! Thank you!”

Mrs. Rosen gave me a kiss and asked, “How're you doing, sweetie?”

“Better now,” I said, nodding at the box. “Thanks for bringing it … and Marlee!”

“Marlee said it'd make your day. I'm so glad.”

As Marlee and I headed back to the guest room, where we could go through the scrapbook box in private, she told me, “I found the articles in the paper—both of them—about the fire. They were in our recycle bin. Mom wouldn't let me bring them tonight, but I'm saving them for you.”

“Did you read them?”

Marlee nodded.

“Well?”

“They didn't really say anything we don't already know, but … well … there's a picture. And, I don't know, you'll have to read them. It's weird. They make it seem so real.”

Real. Would I ever get used to it?

I had already made a mental list of everything in the scrapbook box. Besides my newest scrapbook and all the stickers, papers, markers, and scissors, I knew there were two envelopes with photos in there—one from Thanksgiving and Hanukkah, and one from our December vacation to Florida.

Marlee and I sat on the bed with the box between us. “Well, come on. Open it,” Marlee urged.

I stared at the box. Then I traced my finger around the top. “It's just hard to believe this is all there is.”

“I know,” Marlee said. Then she tilted her head to the side. “But at least you have this.”

That was true. I snapped off the lid and took in a sharp breath. Right on top were two framed photos—one of Mom relaxing on a raft in the ocean and one of Janie standing proudly next to a sandcastle. Tears instantly filled my eyes and spilled out onto my cheeks.

Marlee put her arms around me. “Cara, Cara, I'm so sorry! Don't cry. I thought this would make you happy.”

I caught my breath and wiped at my tears. “No, it's okay. I am. I mean, thank you.”

We sat there together, looking at the pictures, not saying anything for a minute.

Finally, Marlee said, “There were doubles of these pictures, so I figured it would be okay. My mom helped me frame them.”

I felt a huge lump in my throat. “I remember this day.” I pointed to the picture of Janie. She was smiling her goofy smile, her tongue squeezing out between her teeth. “Janie and Dad worked on that sandcastle all afternoon. They were so proud of it.

“And this one,” I said, looking at the picture of Mom. “I remember squishing in with her on the raft right after I took this.”

“Good memories, huh?”

“Yeah. Thanks, Mar.” I wiped one last tear from my eye and gave her a hug.

We looked through my scrapbook. It was a new one, and I'd only filled four pages so far. The picture of my family at the Cubs game reminded me of Sunday morning at Marlee's. Marlee had written “Go Cubs!” just the way I'd wanted. But now when I looked at the four of us together, the caption seemed wrong. It should have said “Go Segals!”

I closed the scrapbook and took out the other photographs from the envelopes. There was Mom spreading whipped cream on her pumpkin pie just before I licked the bowl clean. And Janie and Dad putting up the Hanukkah decorations. There was Janie playing in the ocean with Dad. And there was Mom looking at one of my older scrapbooks. I began to see a pattern.

“Marlee, you know how people have been saying God must have a reason for this that we just don't understand?”

“Yeah?”

“Well, what if that's true? What if God actually did this for a reason?”

“No way,” Marlee said, scrunching up her round freckled face. “What reason could there be?”

“I don't know,” I said. I got up from the bed and propped the framed photos on the dresser. With my back to Marlee I said, “What if maybe God thought I wasn't spending enough time alone with my dad? What if he wanted us to be closer?”