Julia’s Kitchen (12 page)

“What do you mean?” I yelled. “Why not?”

“No cats. Not anymore.” Dad's voice started to break.

“That's so unfair!” I clenched my fists at my side. Tears welled in my eyes. Why couldn't I have a cat? What was the big deal? Would he make me stop baking, too? He couldn't.

“Marlee,” Dad said, “I think you need to go home. Cara and I have some things to discuss.”

Things to discuss? My heart pounded with anger. He couldn't just show up and start acting like a real dad—making rules, punishing me. Not without telling me his secret. Not without explaining the fire. I wouldn't let him. It wasn't fair. I ran to my room and slammed the door.

I buried my face in my pillow and planned to stay there forever. I heard Marlee call her Mom. I heard her leave.

Then I heard a knock on my bedroom door.

Dad opened the door.

“Go away!” I shouted, my face still buried in the pillow.

I refused to look up. I figured he would stand there for a minute, not knowing what to do, then he would leave. Tomorrow he would change his mind, let me keep Thunder, and everything would be fine. He'd go back to his life, and I'd go back to mine. But at least I'd have a cat to love.

“No, Cara. I'm not going away this time.” Dad's firm voice interrupted my thoughts. He sat on the edge of my bed, not saying anything for about a minute. I would wait him out. I wouldn't talk. I concentrated on breathing. In and out. In and out. Another minute passed. And another. He didn't leave.

I rolled over and propped myself up on my elbow. “What do you want?”

Dad didn't react to my attitude. He kept his voice soft and said, “Cara, please, I know I haven't been much of a father to you lately. I told myself you were okay. You were doing all right at school, and you had the Rosens, and I thought that was enough. I thought you were okay without me. But obviously I made a mistake.”

I sat straight up. “No, you didn't. I
am
okay. I don't need you anymore.”

Dad's face crumpled, but I didn't care. I wanted to hurt him.

“Besides, if Janie were still alive, and I had died in the fire, you'd have done everything you could to be the best father possible.”

“Cara!”

“It's true. You always loved Janie more than me.” My words were like knives, and I hurled them at him. The rest of my thoughts came out of my mouth so fast they ran together.

“Janie was perfect in your eyes. She was funny and athletic, and adventurous. And I was just a worrywart who wanted things safe and predictable. And now, now I finally did something risky—I brought back Julia's Kitchen—and you want to take it away from me.”

Dad put his hand up like a stop sign. “Whoa, Cara. I never said that.”

“But you will. I know it.”

“No, Cara. I won't.”

I sat there, breathing hard, letting his words sink in.

“Cara, I'm not happy you had to keep this a secret from me, but I think I understand why you did. I'm glad you're baking.”

“Glad?”

“Yes.” Dad smiled. “And surprised. And, actually, impressed.”

I didn't know what to say. I thought I might cry.

“But then why did you send Marlee home?”

“Because Marlee's not my daughter.”

I didn't know what to say to that. I felt my heart begin to soften.

“Nana's worried about you,” I said.

Dad nodded. “I know. She's been leaving me messages everywhere. But the truth is, I haven't wanted to deal with Nana's strong opinions, even if her heart is in the right place. I've just been really, really sad. And lonely. Can you understand that?”

“Yes.” Boy, could I ever.

“Cara, I need to be here for you. We need to be here for each other. These last months, I've been walking around in a stupor, blaming myself for the fire, for losing Mom and Janie, for everything. And meanwhile, I see I've been losing you, too.”

Thunder chose that moment to saunter into my room and jump onto my bed. I rubbed his neck. Dad stood and paced the room.

“Dad, I want to know everything about the fire. I need to know. Keeping secrets makes it worse.” My words were slow and measured.

Dad ran his fingers through his hair and looked right at me. I held my breath. I had wanted to know what happened that morning for so long. Then I had kind of gotten used to not knowing. Now I was just plain scared.

“Okay,” he said. “You're right.”

I let out the breath I'd been holding.

Dad sat next to me on the bed. “We were asleep when the smoke detector went off. At first I thought I was dreaming or that it was a false alarm. But Mom shook me, and I realized it was real. There was smoke everywhere. I told Mom to go next door to call 911, and I would get Janie. It was so dark. I had to crawl down the hall to Janie's room. She was sound asleep. You know how she could sleep through anything. I shook her and explained what was happening. I picked her up and tried to carry her down the stairs, but the smoke was thick and I couldn't stand in it. So I put her down and told her to follow me out on her hands and knees. She was so scared, Cara. She begged me to carry her. And to get Sport. But I'm telling you, it was the only way to escape the smoke. We had to crawl down the stairs.”

Dad paused. “She was right behind me.”

He stopped and closed his eyes. I guessed he was reliving that morning. I wondered if he'd relived it a thousand times by now, and I felt sorry for him in a way I hadn't before. I felt a lump in my throat. I didn't say a word. I just waited for him to go on, bracing myself for the rest of the story. Dad opened his eyes and looked past me, as if he were seeing the images on a screen behind me.

“When I got outside, I saw your mother coming from next door. I went to her, to hug her, but she wasn't looking at me. She seemed to be searching for something, or someone. Then she screamed, ‘Where is she?' And I turned around and realized Janie was gone. She'd been right behind me on the stairs. I swear it. But I should have carried her. I should have carried her.” Dad's voice broke and his eyes filled with tears. Mine did, too.

Dad was breathing fast now, his words coming out choppy. I got the feeling he needed to tell this story as much as I needed to hear it. And he was going to get to the end no matter how hard it was.

“Mom ran right past me, screaming for Janie. I grabbed her. I tried to stop her. But she was frantic. She twisted out of my arms and ran into the house. I chased after her. I almost ran into the house myself. But right after Mom went in, the fire spread to the front door, and I couldn't get through. It was just a moment, but the whole first floor was engulfed by flames.

“Soon after, I heard sirens, and the firefighters arrived. They attempted a rescue. I waited and waited outside. Praying. Wishing I had carried Janie out, or I had stopped Mom, or I had gone in after them both. And then the firefighters carried them out. And I knew. I knew the minute I saw them in the firefighters' arms. I knew they were gone. They gave them CPR, and they rushed them to the hospital. They worked on them there, too. But it was too late. There was too much smoke.”

Dad was sobbing. Hot tears stung my own eyes. I didn't know what to do, so I just hugged him. And we stayed together like that for a long time.

Finally, Dad pulled away. He blew his nose and wiped his eyes. He looked right at me. “They found them together, Cara, in Janie's room. Sport was there, too. They think Janie went back for Sport. She went back to save her cat.” Dad looked at Thunder and shook his head.

My mouth hung open. I felt dizzy and sick. No wonder he wouldn't let me keep Thunder.

“I—I didn't know,” I said.

Dad nodded. “That's my fault. I'm sorry. I am so sorry.” He said each word as if it weighed a hundred pounds.

Tears streamed down my face.

Dad handed me a tissue. Then he went to my dresser and looked at my scrapbook. It was open to the page I had made of Mom and Janie. He studied it, then turned to me. “You are so much like your mother, Cara.” He shook his head.

“I know, I'm sorry.”

Dad scrunched his eyebrows together, obviously not understanding.

“I'm sorry that I remind you of Mom,” I explained.

“Oh, Cara, no. You're a beautiful reminder. I loved her. More than you know. And I love you, too. Always have.”

I bit my lip and stared at Dad, this new dad, this old dad, my father.

“Listen, Cara. I know you're not Janie,” he said. “Janie was Janie. I love you for being you. For being serious and quiet and careful. I even love you for being stubborn and independent and sneaky, too.”

I had been pretty sneaky these last five weeks. But now I wouldn't have to.

“I didn't really like sneaking around with the baking,” I admitted. “It's just that I didn't know how you would react. And I wanted to do it for me. It helped me feel close to Mom. It helped me move on.”

Dad nodded. “I can tell.”

“So what do we do now?” I asked.

“Well, for starters, I can cut back on my hours. I can try to be here for dinner from now on.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, and maybe I can help out with Julia's Kitchen.”

“Dad, you don't bake,” I said, picturing Dad in an apron.

“No, but you're going to have to advertise if you want to be a success, right? I know a little about that.”

Dad grabbed a pencil and a notebook and started sketching ad ideas. “We could do flyers, hit the local paper. That shouldn't cost too much. What do you think?”

I smiled through my tears. “I think it sounds great, Dad. Great.”

twelve

The next morning, the sun streamed in through the slats of my mini-blinds. I opened my bedroom window and breathed in that fresh after-rain smell. The streets were wet, and trees dripped water when the wind blew. The storm had passed.

I went to the kitchen and found Thunder standing by his empty bowl, looking up at me expectantly with his cute brown-and-white face. Oh, how I wished I could keep him. I sat for a minute on the kitchen floor, petting his soft, silky fur. I thought about begging Dad one more time, promising him I would never risk my life to save a cat. But I knew it was more than that. Just having a cat around would remind Dad every minute of that horrible day and of Janie's mistake.

“What am I going to do with you?” I asked Thunder. He purred and flopped over for a belly rub.

I couldn't give him to Marlee because of her mom's allergies. And no way would I take him to the animal shelter. They kill cats who don't get adopted quickly enough there. I could put up signs and find a good family for him. Or maybe … maybe I already knew a good family—Justin's. They had taken care of Sport when we went to Florida. Maybe they would take Thunder. It was worth a try.

I fed Thunder and was about to get myself some Frosted Flakes when I noticed a note taped to the cereal box. “Cara, Have a grreat day. Love, Dad.” He was being funny. Making a joke of Tony the Tiger. Not such a great joke, but still. At least he was trying. I took the note and tucked it carefully into my scrapbook. I would glue it in later.

I poured the cereal, but then I changed my mind. The peanut-butter cookies Marlee and I'd made yesterday sat on the counter, tempting me. I remembered the day of the funeral, when I'd sworn not to eat another dessert again. I'd thought then that Mom would never bake with me, but I was wrong. Mom was with me all the time. Not in a way I could see or touch. But in a way I could feel. In my heart. And just like that, I knew it was time. I stuck two cookies in the microwave for seven seconds, just enough to warm and soften them. I poured myself a tall glass of milk. Then I sat at the kitchen table and took a bite.

Oh, delicious! Nutty, and buttery, and sweet. The cookie melted in my mouth, and the cold milk washed it down perfectly. A little piece of heaven.
Thanks, Mom!

As I ate the cookies, my mind started spinning. I needed to take care of Thunder. And talking to Dad last night had helped me figure out how I could honor Mom and Janie's memory with the money from Julia's Kitchen. I could give it to the fire department, and they could use it for safety education. Plus, it was Friday—tonight was Shabbat. Mom had always made sure our Shabbat dinners were extra special when we were celebrating something—a birthday, their anniversary, the end of the school year, whatever. I felt that Dad and I had something to celebrate, too. A new beginning.

So after I finished eating the cookies, I called Bubbe.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Bubbe.”

“Well, good morning, love! How are you, Cara, dear?”

“I'm good. But I need your help with something.”

“Oh? What can I do for you, sweetheart?”

“Well … I want to bake Mom's challah.”

“That's terrific. Zayde and I were just talking about planning a trip to see you this summer. We can do it then.”

“But, Bubbe … I want to bake it today, after school. I need to bake it today.”

“Oh…” Bubbe said, and silence filled the air. I pictured her on the other end of the line. Was she sitting down in her yellow kitchen? Or was she in the beige living room with her bright paintings covering the walls?

I had looked at Mom's challah recipe dozens of times before, but unlike her other recipes, this one was extremely vague. One part said, “Add 9 to 11 cups of flour slowly until dough forms ball and bounces back at touch.” There was a huge difference between 9 cups of flour and 11. How was I supposed to know what kind of ball it should form? Or how bouncy it should be? The recipe was just a sketch. If only I had made the dough with Mom. Instead, I would have to rely on Bubbe.

Thankfully, Bubbe didn't ask me why it had to be today. She didn't tell me baking challah was too hard to explain over the phone or that she'd have to call me after her hair appointment, or golf game, or anything.