Lily White Lies (6 page)

“Yes, I’m a pastry chef.  I do some catering, luncheons and parties, that sort of thing, but I also sell baked goods wholesale to businesses... restaurants and such around town.  I’d like to open my own bakery so I can expand to sell retail.”

Relaxing into his chair, he nodded and said, “Wonderful!  You bring in the items we discussed, leave them with my secretary and as soon as I’ve had a chance to go through all of it, I’ll call you and let you know if we can proceed with an appraisal.”  On a lighter, less professional note, he added, “Cross your fingers, Meg.  I’m rooting for you; my wife just loves her desserts and can’t bake to save her soul.  She’d be one of your biggest customers.”  He let out a jolly laugh that stretched his vest at the buttons, making them look like they would fly off in my direction at any moment.

I smiled in appreciation and extended my hand, saying, “Thank you very much for taking the time to see me, Mr. Anderson.”

“Please, call me Ron.  And tell Brian I’m sorry I missed him last night, but I’ll be ready for him next week.”

“I will and I’ll talk to you soon.  Bye.”

My meeting with Ron had enabled me to put aside my grandmother’s news, my hangover and even the fight with Brian.  Most of my life seemed to be in an upheaval, but my long-standing dream had never seemed more attainable.  As I walked to work, I felt a bounce in my steps, each one sparking a reason to smile.

When I arrived at the building I rented by the month, I stopped and remembered the first time Brian and I came to look at it.  He saw stained walls, missing linoleum tiles, stopgap equipment and—as he put it—not enough space to trip in.  I saw what he didn’t.  I saw the dream.

I recalled an expression often used by my grandmother; ‘From small things, big things one day come’.  This run-down workspace was the small thing that would one day bring all the big things to life. 

As I reached for the knob, the door swung open with such force, I stumbled backward, catching myself before I fell.  Nelda, one of my employees, burst through the door with the energy of a Latin tornado, muttering things that sounded vulgar, even in Spanish.

Taking hold of one of her arms, I asked, “Nelda, what’s wrong?  What happened?”

Shaking a fist toward the open door, she replied, “Marco… estupido… lio grande!  Too much soap… washer blew up… mucho agua por todas partes.”

“Alright, alright, I’ll take care of it.  Calm down and let’s go inside.”  I took a deep breath and made my way through the doorway, preparing for what had recently become a common scene between Nelda and Marco.

They hadn’t been dating that long and even though the relationship seemed to be blossoming nicely outside of work, during work they fought like democrats and republicans.

Surveying the damages, I knew that too much soap in the dishwasher was not the cause of this mess.  There was water dripping from every inch of the room.  If I didn’t know better, I would think the two of them had been amusing themselves with a good-old-fashioned water fight.

“This wasn’t caused by too much soap…”  Before I could finish, Marco broke in.

“See!  I told you I didn’t do it.”  His thick Spanish accent made his words sound sharp and crisp as he defended himself.  Turning to me, he added, “She don’t think I can do things right.  Tell her I didn’t do it, Meg.”

At times like this, I felt that having employees—especially romantically involved employees—might be very similar to having small children.

“Nelda, Marco didn’t do this…”

Nelda interrupted, “I didn’t do it!  I mind my business… next thing… it’s raining … he laughs…”

Patting her hand and trying to conceal a smile, I said, “The equipment’s rather old.  It’s probably a break in a hose or something like that.  It’s no one’s fault.  I’ll call a repairman to come look at it, but for now,” turning my attention to Marco, I asked, “how much damage are we looking at?”

Marco looked around the room, and replied, “I make Napoleons and éclair shells again and throw out crème for French horns, but everything else packaged or not started.  Is okay.”

Nodding with relief, I began to wipe down the tables and racks.  I had wanted the day off, hoping to make a solo trip to Brickway, but knew that leaving them alone with the mess would be like leaving children alone with dirt and water and asking them to stay clean.

I spent the next two hours wiping and drying, while Nelda and Marco continued making the days orders.  This latest mess made me that much more hopeful the loan would go through, as I said silent prayers to that effect.  I had been working out of this kitchen for almost three years, had put thousands of dollars into it and still had to deal with breakdowns, repairs and set backs on a regular basis.  But, even with the hindrances, my business had steadily continued to grow. 

Nelda and Marco were a gift from me—to me.  I hired them as an extravagance, thinking it would allow me to spend more time with Brian.  Naturally, that never happened, but luxury turned to necessity when business became too much for one person.  They were loyal, hard workers who fought with a passion, but could put out more pastry in a day than anyone I’d ever seen—including myself.

“Okay guys, I think the mess is pretty well cleaned up, you seem to be caught up on orders and the repairman should be here before three.”  Giving the small kitchen a quick once-over, I added, “Unless you need me for anything, I think I’m going to take off now.”

Nelda closed the gap between her and Marco, linking an arm through his.  After giving him an affectionate smile, which he lovingly returned, she said, “You go.  We are fine now.”

Unlike Brian and me, Nelda and Marco looked so happy, even on the heels of a fight.  The look of love I saw pass between them was something I hadn’t seen pass between Brian and I for a very long time.  There were so many affirmations surfacing where Brian and I were concerned, but for the moment, I didn’t have the desire or mindset to acknowledge them.

With goodbyes said and thoughts of Brian, repairmen and the loan behind me, I stepped into the cab, saying, “Cherry Hall in Brickway” and focused on my aunt and my newly discovered past.

Five

...I have a mother, but can’t make her understand she has a daughter.  It feels painfully similar to not having her at all...

Friday’s weren’t the regular visiting days at Cherry Hall and  I didn’t usually ask for special privileges, but after the visit to my grandmother last night, today’s visit seemed extremely urgent.

The visit wasn’t important because I thought my aunt would confirm or deny anything my grandmother had told me the night before.  I would be equally happy if she offered no more than a smile, as she had last Saturday.  If I were lucky, maybe she would acknowledge my presence or my conversation.  It was more than a dream to think she would respond, but I would be lying to say it hadn’t crossed my mind.

I never usually said much during a visit with my aunt, letting Gram do most of the talking, but today I thought I would try to keep an upbeat conversation going in the hopes of putting Aunt Karen at ease with my unexpected visit.

As I entered the room, I noted the smell of clean linens; I saw fresh flowers on the night table and I heard a soothing stream of Mozart throughout the room.  I thought how pleased Gram would be.

I spoke softly to keep from startling her.

“Aunt Karen... hi.  I hope you’re up for company.” 

She slowly turned her head to face me and I checked carefully for signs of annoyance or displeasure.  I saw neither so I took a seat on the uncomfortable, cast iron radiator Gram usually occupied and faced her.

“I know you weren’t expecting me today but… you don’t mind do you?”

It was silly of me to expect an answer, but I was inexperienced when it came to talking to someone who wouldn’t respond.  I didn’t want to sound like I was pacifying her, but I didn’t want to seem ignorant to her special condition.  It seemed like such a tough call and it was only now that I fully understood the emotional drain each visit had on my grandmother.

Her attention had gone back to something on the other side of the glass.  I turned myself to face the window and stared with her, using the time to form my thoughts into words—words she probably wouldn’t understand.

After a few minutes, I faced her again and began to speak, slowly and thoughtfully.

“Aunt Karen, this is hard for me.  I don’t know if you’ll understand what I say, but I have to say it.”   

She continued to stare out the window without acknowledging my words and I decided to continue.

“I went to visit Gram last night, I’m sure she’ll tell you about it when she comes tomorrow.  I didn’t get to spend any time with Gramp while I was there.  I wish I had though.  Gram says he spends all of his time outside with his animals… has Gram told you about them?”  Feeling silly for asking another question, I continued, “Yeah well, he has quite a few animals now.”

She was still staring out the window with no readable expression on her face.  I never realized how hard it was to keep a one-way conversation interesting.  I found myself admiring my grandmother for something she had done each week for as long as I could remember, always making it look so easy.

Reluctantly, I continued, “Anyway, Gram and I talked about when you were little.  She told me how much you loved people and how much she loved you…” 

I couldn’t have known how difficult this would be before I arrived.  Telling me about Aunt Karen had left Gram in tears, while it left me speechless.  Only now did I consider the effect it might have on my aunt after all this time.

I sniffled once, and continued, “You know, I had wanted to talk to you about something when I got here, but now that I’m here, I think… well, how about we just relax and look out the window together, okay?”

Relieved to have a moment to compose myself, I turned and closed my eyes in an attempt to hold back the tears I felt welling up inside.  Gram told me to do what I felt was necessary, but now that I was here, my visit seemed much more selfish than it did necessary.

We had been relaxing in the peace and quiet of a serene view, when all of a sudden and quite unexpectedly, I felt a touch on the back of my hand.  My breath caught in my throat briefly, and I slowly opened my eyes to find Aunt Karen’s hand resting on top of my own.  Her touch was cool, but soft.  From the lack of making use of herself physically, her skin felt like that of a baby.

This one, simple gesture told me she had been listening and was now ready to hear more. 

I began slowly. 

“Did Gram ever tell you about the time I went to the hospital to get my tonsils out?  I was seven and had never been so scared in all my life.” 

I no longer looked in her direction when I phrased things as questions.  I focused on the story I was telling, wondering how much, if any, she would understand.

“The day before I was supposed to have them removed, Gram took me to the carnival in Wheaton.  It was a special treat on account of my surgery and all.” 

I noticed she was still resting her hand on top of mine as I spoke, and I smiled inwardly.

“I rode a lot of rides that night, most of them, I think.  But the one that looked like the most fun—was the one that scared me to death.” 

From the corner of my eye, I could see she was looking in my direction.  I deliberately kept my eyes from falling directly on hers, as I continued with my story.

“I was in awe of the bright lights and the seats that rocked gently with each stop... well…  I watched as my friends climbed into the seats all night long... taking one turn after another.”  Smiling at what was now a fond memory, I continued, “Gram asked me many times if I wanted to go on the Ferris wheel and I kept telling her no.  I lied and told her it didn’t look like it was much fun.”  I gave her hand an affectionate rub.  “We stayed until the very end of the night, until all of my friends had gone home.  Once the lights on all of the rides had gone out for the night, Gram took hold of my hand, led me over to the man who operated the Ferris wheel, and tapped him on the shoulder.  She said, ‘Excuse me sir, my granddaughter is having her tonsils out tomorrow and she’s about scared out of her mind.  She’s also scared of this ride.  Will you please take us for one quick trip around so I can show her that scary things aren’t always bad things?’

He grumbled about how late it was and how he wasn’t supposed to run it for just two people—but you know Gram.  I think her mind was made up to stay there for as long as it took him to agree, which he finally did.”

Just thinking about what Gram had done for me that night caused a tear to dampen my lashes.

“I was so scared I was trembling, but Gram took hold of my hand and never let it go.  I was nervous as we worked our way to the top of the wheel, but once we came back down…  I couldn’t wait to get to the top again.”

I directed my attention toward my aunt.  She was still very much involved in me and my story and I decided to use the story as a stepping-stone to the real reason I was here.

I continued, “I remember that so well because when it was over, Gram admitted that before that night, she had never been on a Ferris wheel in her life.  When I asked her why not, she said it was because she was always afraid to ride one but that night, she put her fears aside to help me deal with mine.”