Julia’s Kitchen (7 page)

Dad looked at me, his face blank.

I waved the articles in his face. “This is what I know about the fire. This! Two stupid newspaper articles.”

Dad took the papers from me and slowly unfolded them.

“It was my house, too, Dad! My mother. My sister. And I wasn't there.”

“Thank God,” he said quietly, still looking at the articles.

“What?”

“I
said,
Cara, thank God you weren't there.”

“No, Dad! Don't you get it? If I had been there I could make sense of this. I would know what happened.”

“This
is
what happened, Cara.” He turned the article with the photograph around to show me. “It's all right here.”

“Daddy, no!” Tears burned my eyes. Questions I wanted to ask flared up inside me.
Why did you leave Janie behind? How did you escape? And why did you let Mom go back in the house?
But I couldn't ask them.

Dad shook his head. “I'm sorry Cara. I don't know what you want from me. I'm trying my best. Really I am.”

“Can't you at least go through the boxes with me? Please?”

Dad's face hardened. “No, Cara. I just … can't.”

I looked at him but couldn't find even a spark of the dad I knew before. “Fine,” I said. “Forget it!”

Mom would have known I didn't mean “Forget it” at all. But Dad, I think, was relieved.

I left his room and dragged the boxes into my bedroom. Since he wouldn't go through them with me, I'd do it myself, and I'd keep whatever I wanted. I stared at the boxes. I was afraid to look inside, but I also couldn't wait. Once I looked, that would be it. There would be nothing else from the house or from Mom and Janie's life, nothing. I opened one box just a bit and peeked inside. Ugh, it smelled disgusting, like burnt chemicals. I sat back and picked at my nails. Come on, I told myself, do it!

Breathing only through my mouth, I opened the box completely. Right on top was my container of seashells. I imagined Dad finding it on my nightstand. I was glad he'd thought to take it. The carved wooden bowl had darkened from smoke, and the seashells needed to be washed. But as I ran my fingers over the shells, I felt myself relax, felt my anger at Dad contract into a small corner of my heart.

Underneath the shell bowl was a bunch of file folders with labels: “Insurance,” “Investments,” “ADF Benefits,” and more. Dad's stuff. He had kept his important documents in a green metal file cabinet that must have been fireproof. I had started to push the paperwork aside when I noticed a file labeled “Personal.” It took about two seconds for me to decide to check the contents. After all, it said “Personal,” not “Private: Keep Out.” Inside were dozens of birthday and Father's Day cards made by Janie and me. And there were cards from Mom, too. He had saved each one. I read them and tried to figure out how the dad we'd loved so much could be the same dad I knew now. It didn't make sense.

I returned the cards and tucked the “Personal” file in with the others. Then I pulled out Mom's jewelry box. The silver box was tarnished black, but inside were a bunch of Mom's earrings, necklaces, and bracelets. I picked up a gold chain with a small ruby heart pendant, and felt myself smile. Dad had given it to Mom for her birthday last year. I turned the ruby heart back and forth to catch the light. It sparkled. I put it on and looked in the mirror. It was too fancy to wear every day, but I would wear it someday—I knew it. I took the necklace off and placed it carefully back in the jewelry box.

Then I saw photographs! A whole bunch of the framed photos that had stood on Mom's dresser. Our family before the fire. A regular family. Most of the frames were stained black from smoke. The glass had melted a bit and the photos were faded, but they looked great to me. I took the photos out of the frames and studied each precious picture, memorizing the composition, the light, the expressions on our faces.

The second box held even more treasures. Janie's baseball cards. Not all of them, but I couldn't believe even one had survived. They must have been the cards she'd thrown in her desk drawer—the ones she hadn't yet stored in her plastic, meltable three-ring binder. It seemed impossible that I was holding something that had been so important to Janie.

And there were four mezuzot in the box, too. The biggest one was copper and bronze decorated with a swirly Hebrew letter
shin.
It had been screwed into the doorpost at the front entrance to our house. I rubbed the ash-stained metal with my thumb and saw that it would shine with a little cleaning. Two small silver mezuzot had been affixed to Janie's and my doorposts. And the ceramic mosaic one had graced the doorway to Mom and Dad's room. Tucked inside each of the mezuzot was the prayer scroll with the Shema printed on it. I unrolled one of the scrolls and ran my fingers over the Hebrew letters. I knew what they said. “Hear, O Israel. The Lord is our God. The Lord is One.”

Shivers ran up and down my spine. How had
those
survived? Was it a message from God? How else could the mezuzot and prayers have stayed in one piece? But what was the message? Maybe God wanted me to know he did exist, only not the way I'd imagined before. Maybe God couldn't stop my house from burning down, and he couldn't protect me from a car crash or any other danger, but he was still there—doing … something. But what?

I rolled up the prayer scrolls and tucked them back inside the mezuzot. I didn't know what to think. But the possibility of God existing, even if I didn't understand him, comforted me. Maybe I'd hang the mezuzot in this apartment. Maybe Dad would help. After all, he'd taken them from our home. He must have wanted them if he'd gone to the trouble of unscrewing them from the doorposts.

Just when I thought I couldn't be shocked by anything else, I spotted something at the very bottom of the carton. I reached for it and gasped. Mom's black metal recipe box! I opened it and looked inside. All of Mom's recipes, in her curvy handwriting, in perfect order. Impossible! My hands shook as I held the black box.

I found my favorite recipe, chocolate-chip cookies, and read it. I had baked them with Mom about a million times.

I considered surprising Dad tomorrow when he got home from work with a warm, chewy cookie. He would smell the apartment from the hallway. He would think he was dreaming. He would walk in and see the cookies, Mom's cookies, and … and … I didn't know what would happen next. Would it make him happy? Or would it break his heart? Hadn't he seemed so sad when he said I would look like Mom when I grew up? Besides, hadn't I sworn I would never eat another dessert?

It was a bad idea. I could never make her cookies. Who did I think I was, anyway?

*   *   *

On Monday after Hebrew school, Dad and I ate spaghetti for dinner. Then Dad turned on the TV and I went to my room and tried on Mom's ruby necklace again. I gathered all the photographs, along with Janie's journal and baseball cards and Mom's recipes. I got to work putting the photos in my scrapbook. In big block letters I printed AFTER THE FIRE across the top of a double page spread. I wished I could ask Marlee to write it, but she was definitely getting tired of my mourning. I hadn't even told her about the boxes—although I'd really wanted to.

Next I matted the pictures of Mom and Janie. I mounted a photo of Janie in the center of one page and one of Mom in the center of the other. Around their pictures, I listed some of the things I wanted to always remember about them.

On Janie's side, I wrote: Crooked Teeth, Great Athlete, Tomboy, Best Friends with Justin Wittenberg, Scared of Thunderstorms, Cat-Lover, Wanted to Pitch for the Cubs, Messy, Sweet, Sometimes Annoying.

On Mom's side, I wrote: Smelled Like Vanilla, Curly Hair, Hazel Eyes, Best Baker in the World, Helpful, Organized, Loving, Cool Mom, Sometimes Strict.

Then, across the bottom, I wrote: Died Way Too Soon.

To the next pages I attached all the rest of the photos, the baseball cards, and my favorite recipes. I even ripped out some pages of Janie's journal to put in there. I thought about what it would be like to look at this scrapbook next year, or sometime far in the future. I wondered if I would ever forget Mom and Janie. Would they someday be just these pictures and items to me? Would I forget Mom's smell or the feel of her skin? Would Janie's giggles fade away forever?

By the time I'd finished everything, it was eleven-thirty. Dad must have gone to bed without saying good night to me, or maybe he'd fallen asleep on the couch. I knew I'd be exhausted tomorrow. But if I skipped my shower in the morning and got my backpack organized now, I'd be able to sleep a little later. So I checked my assignment notebook and my folder to make sure I had everything I needed. My folder was stuffed with old papers from school. Mom used to look at all the notes and graded papers, but now they just sat in the folder.

I grabbed the papers and walked to the wastebasket. It wasn't as if Dad would care about them. But one piece of pink paper caught my eye. It was a flyer about the Valentine's Day Bake Sale. It would be this Friday, and everyone was invited to bring in baked goods. I thought about Mom's cookies from last year's sale. Janie and I had been so excited when everyone wanted to know who had made the giant, delicious, heart-shaped cookies.

That very night, we talked Mom into starting Julia's Kitchen. We sat around the dinner table, all four of us, coming up with names for the business. “That's the Way the Cookie Crumbles” was Dad's suggestion. We cracked up over that one. We thought of “Cookies and More,” “Cookies Galore,” “Segal's Sweets,” and “Just Desserts.” Then I came up with “Julia's Kitchen.” Mom said she liked it because it sounded “sophisticated, sweet, and homey.”

I had pictured Mom as the next Mrs. Field or Famous Amos. Not dead within a year. I crumpled the flyer and tossed it into the trash with the rest of my papers. Taking off Mom's necklace, I stared at the picture of her on the raft in Florida, and went to sleep.

seven

The day before our Valentine's Day celebration at school, Marlee and I signed valentines for the class party at her kitchen table. Personally, I thought we were too old to pass out those silly valentines, but Mr. Temby said that signing valentines was our homework assignment that night. The cards I'd bought at Snyder's weren't too cutesy. No little teddy bears or ducks or anything. And no hearts or lovey-dovey things either. They were just plain cards with a tie-dyed design that said, Happy Valentine's Day, Friend! Marlee's valentines were the kind you stick a lollipop through.

While we worked, the stuffed pasta shells Mrs. Rosen was making for dinner bubbled and baked in the oven, and we breathed in the smells of garlic and melted mozzarella. I was halfway through the class list, going alphabetically. Marlee didn't look at the list. She just wrote out the cards as she thought of the kids in our class.

Max came into the kitchen and swiped a lollipop off the table.

“Hey, give it!” Marlee said.

Max ripped open the plastic and shoved the lollipop into his mouth. “Oops! Too late,” he said, grinning. “Unless you want it now.” He held the wet candy in front of Marlee's face.

“You're disgusting,” she said.

I tried not to smile. Max was funny even if he was annoying. He pulled out a chair, turned it around, and sat on it backwards. “So, you're getting all ready for the annual Foster Valentine's party? I remember it like it was yesterday.”

“Duh, Max. You're just one year ahead of us,” Marlee said. She rolled her eyes at me.

“Yeah, but junior high is another world. You'll see.”

“Whatever.” Marlee stuck another lollipop through a valentine. “Don't you have any homework, Mr. Cool Junior High Student? Or maybe you should practice for your Bar Mitzvah. Just be sure you put any glass away before you start singing.”

Max ignored Marlee's last comment. “I'm taking a break,” he said. “I wanted to know what you guys are baking for the bake sale. Wondering when there will be a spoon to lick.”

Marlee looked at me. I stared at my valentines and picked my nails. Marlee and I had already discussed the bake sale. I'd told her I wasn't baking, and she had seemed to understand. But now I thought maybe she wanted to bake and felt I wasn't letting her.

“What?” Max asked. “They still have the bake sale, don't they?”

“Yes,” Marlee said, glaring at Max. “They still have the bake sale.”

“So what are you making?”

“I don't know!”
Marlee shouted.

I noticed she hadn't said, Nothing.

“Jeez. Calm down,” Max said, getting up from the table. “I was just asking.”

Max left the room and whispered under his breath, “Brownies are always a good choice.”

Marlee blew her bangs out of her eyes. “We don't have to bake anything,” she said to me.

“But you want to,” I said.

Marlee grinned, caught. “Well, it is fun to bake brownies. And we haven't done anything really fun since … well, you know.”

No, I thought. It would not be fun. It would be sad and empty and unfair to Mom.

“I wouldn't make you do it, Cara. I mean, it's totally up to you. I know you said you didn't want to bake, and I get it, but … Mr. Temby did promise extra credit to kids who brought in baked goods, and I sure could use some of that.” Marlee raised her eyebrows and tilted her head to the side. “So?”

I was torn between wanting to satisfy Marlee and needing to be loyal to Mom. “Can't you just bake tonight, after I leave?”

Marlee sighed. “I guess. But, Cara, come on. It'd be more fun if we did it together. We've never done that. And who knows? It might actually make you happy.”

I doubted that. But Marlee was my best friend. I supposed I could do this for her. “Oh, fine, fine, fine! Let's do it.” I tossed my pen aside and stacked my valentines in a pile.