Julia’s Kitchen (6 page)

“Which planet?”

“Huh?”

“Which planet are you from?”

“I don't know … Mars.”

“Oh, I thought you were going to say Uranus,” Marlee said, grinning.

“Marlee!” Even though we were too old for Uranus jokes, I laughed. And before long, I felt right at home again in Marlee's house.

We listened through the wall as Max practiced for his Bar Mitzvah, and we giggled every time his voice cracked. I told Marlee about the Sport look-alike, and the apartment, and how Dad still wouldn't talk about the fire.

“It's strange,” I said. “I get the feeling he thinks if we don't talk about it, it'll be like it never actually happened. But not talking about the fire means not talking about Mom and Janie, too. So instead of making the fire disappear, it makes them disappear.”

“Well you're just going to have to make him talk about it, that's all.”

“Easy for you to say. My dad is like a ghost of himself.”

“Hmmm…” Marlee said. She searched through a pile of papers on her desk until she found two folded pieces of newspaper. She handed them to me.

I knew what they were at once—the articles.

Suburban Blaze Kills Mother and Daughter Father Escapes

There it was. The truth for the world to see. And there was my house in flames. I thought about Justin not recognizing our house at first, and I understood. I read on.

Fire swept through a two-story home on Cherokee Lane in north suburban Walden early Sunday, killing 42-year-old Julia Segal and her 8-year-old daughter, Jane, despite firefighter rescue attempts. David Segal, also 42, escaped with minor injuries.

Witnesses said both David and Julia Segal managed to escape the house, but Julia reentered to try to rescue Jane. David attempted to reenter as well, but was driven back by smoke and fire. Another daughter, Cara, 11, was sleeping at a friend's house when the fire broke out.

Firefighters responded to the fire shortly after 6 a.m., at which time they located Julia and Jane in a bedroom on the second floor. Both victims were unconscious due to smoke inhalation. Paramedics tended to them on the scene, then transported all three victims to Walden Hospital. David was treated for smoke inhalation and released. Julia and Jane were both pronounced dead at 7:16 a.m., a hospital spokeswoman said.

Fire officials said the fire is under investigation, but that it appears to have started in the kitchen.

The second article was smaller, and there was no picture.

Electrical Short in Toaster Oven Blamed for Deadly Fire

The fire that ravaged a north suburban Walden home on Sunday, leaving a mother and daughter dead, appears to have started from an electrical short in a toaster oven. Fire inspector Bob Hilbert said beading on the toaster oven wire indicated a short. “This kind of short is one in a million,” Hilbert said, “but it does happen. People should make a habit of unplugging any small kitchen appliances when not in use.”

Services for the victims, Julia and Jane Segal, will be held at 10 a.m. Tuesday at the Goldman Memorial Funeral Home.

I read the articles twice before I said anything. I kept getting stuck on the words “pronounced dead.” I thought about Nana saying I was lucky not to be an orphan. Maybe she was right. Maybe I was somehow lucky. After all, Dad had tried to go back into the house, too. I looked at Marlee, and all I could say was, “Whoa.”

“I know,” Marlee said. “But here's my idea. Why don't you show your dad the articles, and use them to kind of start a conversation?”

“You think that'll work?”

“It's worth a try.”

“Okay,” I said, “I'll try.” I stuck the newspaper articles in my backpack and took out the bag of Janie's things from Miss Woloshin.

We read Janie's journal right away. Almost every page was about sports or Justin. We laughed at all her misspelled words. But then the inside of my nose tingled and my laughter turned to tears as I read “When I grow up, I will play baseball for the Cubs. I will be the picher. I will be an all star. Evryone will cheer for me!”

I looked at Marlee. She had tears in her eyes, too. Then she hiccuped. She closed the journal and handed it to me. “Let's see what else is in here,” Marlee said, emptying the bag.

Janie actually had some cool erasers—every size and shape imaginable. I used to think it was dorky that she collected erasers, but now I could see the attraction. The soft, rubbery texture felt good in my hands, and I liked the smell. Marlee and I found an empty jar and decorated it with scrapbook supplies. She wrote Janie's name in fancy bubble letters, and I placed heart stickers around the top. Then I poured in the erasers. I knew Janie would have liked it.

Being with Marlee at her house melted something inside of me. It was as if I'd been clenching all my muscles since the morning of the fire, and finally I relaxed.

six

So this was my new life: on school days I waited until I heard Dad leave, then I got out of bed and into the shower. I dressed, ate a bowl of Frosted Flakes, made my lunch, then fought the cold winter wind as I walked to school. Every morning was the same. And every morning, when I heard the school noises, I was reminded of the quiet at home. I missed Mom and Janie the way January misses June. I actually wrote that down in class one day, but I crumpled it up before Mr. Temby could see it. I didn't feel comfortable letting him know my feelings. But I did talk to Mrs. Block every week. And I found I actually looked forward to our meetings. She had a nice way of listening, really listening. I knew I needed to talk to Dad. I needed to show him the newspaper articles. And every morning I told myself I'd do it that night.

After school on Mondays and Wednesdays, I went to Hebrew school with Marlee. Mrs. Rosen drove us there, and Dad picked us up. It was strange because I wasn't even sure I believed in God anymore. Yet there I was, learning Hebrew, Torah stories, prayers—doing all the things I was supposed to do to get ready for my Bat Mitzvah in a little over a year. The one Mom and Janie wouldn't attend.

On Tuesdays and Thursdays I went to Marlee's house, and we hung out and did our homework together. Mrs. Rosen drove me home in time for me to make dinner. It was never anything fancy. Just macaroni and cheese or sloppy joes or something like that. I found out I was pretty good at following recipes on boxes or cans.

There was this little store, Snyder's Old-Time Market, right down the block from our apartment. Mrs. Rosen would drop me off there, and I would pick up whatever I needed before heading home. Mr. Snyder was a short man with almost no hair and round wire-rimmed glasses. He wore a white apron and kept a pencil behind his ear. He called me Miss Cara, and he made me feel like a character in a
Little House on the Prairie
book every time I entered his store. He set up an account for us, so I didn't have to worry about carrying money. I just signed for whatever I bought.

When I got home, there would always be messages on the answering machine. A lady from synagogue wanting to know if she could organize people to make meals for us. Or someone from the PTO wanting the same thing. Messages from Bubbe, Nana, and Roz. And calls for Julia's Kitchen. The only calls I ever returned were Bubbe's. But even with Bubbe, I didn't have much to say. The calls would go something like this:

“Hi, Bubbe.”

“Cara, love! How are you?”

“Fine.”

“And your dad? How's he doing?”

“He's fine.”

“School okay? Doing your homework?”

“Yep. I've got a lot.”

“Well, I won't keep you. I just wanted to say I love you, and that Zayde and I are thinking of you.”

“I love you, too, Bubbe. Bye.”

The person I wanted to talk to—no, needed to talk to—was Dad, and I always had it in my mind that I'd show him the articles before we finished dinner.

We'd sit down to eat and Dad would ask me something about my day, and I'd answer him, but I could tell he wasn't listening. His eyes would be somewhere else. And whether I had aced a test or gotten hit in the face with a snowball, he had the same reaction: “Uh-huh.” So, bite by bite, my courage would slip away. The articles would stay folded up, hidden in the spice drawer where I'd stashed them, and I'd tell myself maybe tomorrow things would be different.

Every day was pretty much the same. Except the weekends. They were worse. Instead of starting off right, with a big Shabbat dinner complete with Mom's brisket, brown potatoes, and home-baked challah, we'd order pizza. We didn't even light Shabbat candles. By Saturday afternoon, with only Ghost-Dad for company, I'd feel as if someone had scooped out my insides and left a hollow shell. So I'd escape to Marlee's. I'd sleep over on Saturday nights, and I'd tell myself not to worry about Dad, alone in the apartment.

But even at Marlee's house, things weren't normal for me. I had no desire to work on my scrapbook, despite Marlee's begging. And when we watched movies, I stopped myself from laughing too hard, even at the funniest parts. Once, I thought Marlee seemed exasperated with me, but I couldn't help it.

So January turned to February, and on February 1, Dad was watching the Super Bowl with a bag of microwave popcorn in his lap. He looked so alone, sitting on the couch without Janie. She had loved to watch sports with him. She knew every player's name and position, strengths and weaknesses. I couldn't care less about that stuff. But I sat down next to Dad anyway.

“Who's playing?” I asked.

Dad looked at me funny. “Panthers and Patriots.”

“Oh.” Awkward silence. “Which ones are the Panthers?”

“The ones in the white jerseys.”

“Oh.” Another awkward silence.

Then Dad said, “You know, Cara, you don't have to do this.”

I looked at him hard.

“I know you don't like football.”

I shook my head. “That's not true. I just don't really
know
football.”

Dad shrugged.

I sat there until halftime. Dad was right. I didn't like football. The game was putting me to sleep. But I didn't want to admit it. And sitting there so close to Dad, even though I felt in my heart he wished I was Janie, somehow felt good to me. Maybe someday I would like football. Maybe someday Dad would love me the way he had loved Janie. The way Mom had loved me.

*   *   *

A week later, Dad walked into the apartment carefully balancing two huge cartons in his arms.

“What are those?” I asked as I reached for one.

“Careful, Cara!”

“I got it,” I said. But it was heavier than it looked, and I dropped it to the floor with a clatter and a thud. “Oh, sorry,” I said, looking quickly for Dad's reaction. I was trying so hard to do everything right, not wanting to upset him in any way.

Dad let out an angry sigh and shook his head.

“I'm sorry,” I said again. “I was just trying to help. What's in there?”

“Those
were
some things from the house.”

My eyes opened wide. “
Our
house?”

Dad nodded and opened the box to check the contents. “I told you I put some things in storage that first day.”

I looked at the two boxes, which suddenly didn't seem so big. “That's everything?”

“These and your bike. It's in a bike room downstairs.”

I couldn't believe it.

Dad pulled a framed wedding photo of him and Mom out of the box. I hadn't expected any pictures to survive the fire, and now I wondered if there were more.

“It's still in one piece,” Dad said. He sat at the kitchen table and smiled a sad sort of smile. Then he looked at me. “Someday you'll look just like her.” He jutted his chin to the side and stared at the picture.

My heart thumped heavily. I knew I looked like Mom. Dad used to love that about me. He'd even called me Julia Junior last Thanksgiving when I'd put on lip gloss and blush. But now, I suddenly realized, that might be the problem. Maybe my resembling Mom was why Dad never seemed able to look me in the eyes. I was a constant reminder of what he'd lost.

I looked over Dad's shoulder at the wedding picture. They were so young. Dad with no gray hair and a thinner face. Mom looking at him with love in her eyes. I put my hand gently on Dad's back. I wanted him to look at me again. To see me, not Mom. “What else is in there?” I whispered.

Dad shook his head as if he were waking up from a daydream, and I pulled my hand away. He stood up, holding on to the wedding picture. “Not much. Almost nothing made it from the main floor of the house, and just a few things were worth salvaging from upstairs. Listen, Cara, I've decided to sell the house.”

My mouth opened as if I had something to say, but nothing came out.

“It would be a huge headache to rebuild,” Dad explained, “and we don't need all that space anyhow.”

“Oh,” I said, and forced myself to swallow the lump that had formed in my throat. “But where will we live?”

“Here for now. We'll see what the future holds. We won't be homeless, Cara, I promise.” Dad sighed. “I'm tired. It's been a long day. Feel free to go through these boxes yourself. I'm going to lie down.”

What? Dad was leaving me alone with those boxes? Those two boxes held everything that was left from our house. Everything. It wasn't fair. None of this was fair! I wanted to grab Dad and make him see me. His living daughter. His daughter who needed him. But I just stood there, shocked into silence.

He picked up a magazine, went to his room, and closed the door. I stared at the boxes. I noticed my breath coming faster, shallower. I knew I had to do something now!

I stomped into the kitchen, yanked open the spice drawer, and grabbed the newspaper articles. Then I marched to his room and knocked on the door. Hard.

“Come in,” Dad said.

I took a breath and opened the door. “It's not fair,” I said, holding up the articles.