Whatever (7 page)

“Ever consider that not everyone has a computer or an e-reader?”

“Oh, come on. Everyone does. Everyone who's normal.”

“Well, then you're in an abnormal house with an abnormal woman. I have neither. Nor do I have a cellphone.”

“You're kidding.”

“Nope. Besides, newspapers can be recycled and used again. I use mine for mulch in the garden and for starting the fire in the fireplace.”

“You're still using up trees. It's a waste.”

“And toilet paper is made from what exactly? Is that a waste of trees, too?”

“We need toilet paper. We don't need newspapers, not anymore.”

I glared at her and she glared back. There was a knock on the door, which was a good thing because I was angry and so was she.

“It's nearly six,” said Mrs. Johnson. “That's probably your dad. Don't keep him waiting. You can see yourself out, and we can continue this conversation on Wednesday.”

“Whatever,” I said, heading for the front door.

I was so upset I walked outside in the purple slippers. Dad stared at my feet, astonished. I caught the door before it swung shut behind me and changed footgear. Once we were in the car, Dad asked, “Well, how did it go?”

“Stupid old woman,” I said. “Thinks she knows everything.”

Chapter Six

ON WEDNESDAY, MOM
wasn't waiting to pick me up after school but there was a message on my cellphone. “I'm with Andrew at the hospital. He had a bad one, hit his head, the ambulance . . .” Her voice shook; she was crying. “Phone Mrs. Johnson and tell her you won't be there today, I'm at the hospital and can't pick you up to take you. Go home.”

One of the doctors my parents took my brother to said that when Andrew reached puberty, his seizures could end. Another doctor told Mom that sometimes brain surgery could fix epilepsy, but they wouldn't consider surgery until they were sure they couldn't control the seizures with medication. So for now, medications were the only way to handle them, and they weren't working very well.

I thought about how all of our lives changed so much last spring when the school phoned to say that Andrew had been taken to the hospital, that he'd had a seizure. It was a warm day, like today, too warm for the early spring. Mom called me that day too, and told me to take the bus home, but my parents didn't come home for hours. No one let me know what was happening; I sat alone and waited. Andrew stayed in the hospital overnight, so did Mom. Then they sent him in an ambulance to Vancouver to see a specialist at the Children's Hospital. Mom went in the ambulance with him, but Dad and I drove down. I didn't want to go, but they didn't have time to “make arrangements” for me, so I had to go with Dad. I was nearly sixteen, I could have stayed in the house by myself.

We were gone a week. When we came home, I went back to school and so did Andrew. Everything was supposed to go back to normal, but it didn't because we had all transformed into the seizure police. Mom and Dad watched Andrew every second. If they went out, they left me with a list of instructions: who to call, what to do, what not to do, even what to say to him.

I crossed the street to the bus stop. The bus that was just pulling in was a number eight. On Wednesday, I'd seen that number bus stopping outside Mrs. Johnson's. Without thinking, I hopped on. Going to help a cranky, crazy old lady was better than going home to an empty house.

I wasn't more than a few minutes late. She was leaning against the picnic table again, face turned up, eyes closed.
“Got to get my sun while I can,” she said, without opening her eyes. “In a few weeks, my garden will be in shade all day. Damn, I hate winters. Come, sit awhile. A dose of Vitamin D won't hurt you after being cooped up in school.”

I propped myself up on the table beside her. With her head back, the wrinkles seemed to smooth out; she didn't look that old. Maybe it was the sunshine, washing her face with warmth. I put my own head back and shut my eyes, pretending it was still summer and I was at the beach.

We were both quiet for a while. Then I asked, “What do you want me to do today?” The front lawn was covered with leaves, and it was so nice outside I hoped she'd ask me to rake them. I didn't want to read more newspaper articles—not if she was going to be so opinionated about what we read.

“I've got a hankering for biscuits,” she said. “You can make them.”

“Biscuits?” I said, thinking of those dry cracker-like things my grandmother used to call “tea biscuits.”

“You can buy them in the grocery store. Why do you want to make them?”

“Baking powder biscuits. With cheese. Hot from the oven. You can't buy those, young lady, except in a bakery, and they aren't as good as the ones I make.”

“I don't do cooking. Except grilled cheese sandwiches.”

“They don't make you take home economics in school anymore?”

“It's an elective. I take drama.”

“Lord, what is our education system coming to?” She pushed herself away from the picnic table, standing for a moment to get her balance before heading inside. “How old are you again? Sixteen? A girl your age should be able to help out in the kitchen.”

I shrugged. “We like takeout, especially when Mom's working.”

“Takeout! Fat, salt and additives. What is your mother thinking?”

“She's busy, she's an accountant and she works part-time. She's been busier since Andrew . . .”

“Well, you're not busy, are you?”

“I don't want to cook. It's boring.”

“Then I shall bore you thoroughly. Let's get started.”

I chose the pumpkin orange slippers, in honour of the sunshine highlighting the yellow-orange leaves on the trees. These slippers were thicker than the purple ones, warmer. I shuffled into the kitchen, and Mrs. Johnson handed me a slim red book. It was so old that the insides were falling out; someone had taped the pages back in so long ago the tape was yellow and brittle. I read the title:
Foods, Nutrition and Home Management
, Revised 1955.

“What's this?”

“That little book contains everything a young woman needed to know about setting up and managing her home. It's a recipe book, a calorie counter, an etiquette guide and even has instructions for removing stains, washing silk
garments and cleaning silver, linoleum, and windows. It also tells you how to make your own soup stock and lard.”

“Yuck. You had to study stuff like that?”

I thumbed through the book, looking at some of the recipes: “Harvard Beets,” “Escalloped Potatoes,” “Lemon Snow,” “Albumenized Water,” “Finnan Haddie.”

“Listen to this.” I read aloud, “‘Unit Four: Food Preparation, Personal Cleanliness. 1. A wash-dress or a dress well-covered with an apron is to be preferred. 2. The hair should be fastened with a band, so that no hairs may fall into the food while . . .' What's a wash-dress? What is this book?”

“This is my old Home Economics textbook. A wash dress is one that doesn't have to be dry-cleaned.”

“They told you in school what to wear in your own kitchen? That's bizarre.”

“I used those recipes a lot when I was first married. Didn't know how to cook anything except what I'd learned in Home Ec. It came in handy.”

“‘Escalloped Vegetables,' ‘Franconia Potatoes' . . . are these Julia Child's recipes?”

“You saw the movie, right? No, it's nothing like her cookbooks. This is a text, an instructional manual. Back in those days, not many women went out into the world to work. Their work was considered running a household, and supplying a family with healthy, nutritious and inexpensive meals. Julia's recipes used a lot of butter, which was expensive when this book was first published, probably ten years before that ‘new' edition.”

I was flipping through the book again. “‘Rules for Serving without a Maid.' Maid?”

“Some girls married rich men and had household help. Same as today.”

“‘Lighting the Coal Stove.' You're kidding. People used coal in their stoves? It pollutes.”

“We used electric stoves in the Home Economics room at school, but many houses still had wood—or coal-fired—cook stoves. I never had to use one, thank heavens.”

“‘Care of Refrigerator and Cooler: keep the ice compartment filled at least one half.' They must have served tons of iced drinks in those days.”

She laughed. “The ice was to keep the food cold. Although there were electric refrigerators when this book was first published, some families still used ice boxes. Those were insulated ‘boxes' with a big chunk of ice in them to keep everything cold.”

“Like a picnic cooler?”

“Exactly. But the ice boxes had a drip pan you had to empty every day, and ice was delivered to your house. I remember the ice man coming to our house. He had huge tongs with pointed ends to grab the block of ice. Then he'd sling it over his shoulder and carry it in.”

“You're really old, aren't you?”

“You're really rude, aren't you?”

I felt my cheeks going red. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean ‘old,' I meant . . .”

“Nice try, but I think ‘old' is exactly what you meant. You
can be extremely tactless, you know.”

“I'm sorry, Mrs. J.”

“Mrs. J? Why did you call me that?”

“Sorry, it just sort of slipped out, Mrs. Johnson.”

“It's all right. I think I like it. Now, turn to page ninety and let's get started.”

I found the recipe for baking powder biscuits and read it out loud. “Two cups of bread flour, one-half teaspoon salt, four teaspoons baking powder . . .”

“Four teaspoons? No wonder mine didn't rise the last time, I thought it was . . . Go on.”

“Two to four tablespoons fat, two-thirds of a cup of milk. Follow the general rules.” I looked at her blankly. “What rules?”

“Turn back a page.”

There were eight general rules. Number one was “see to oven” (I guess that meant firing up the stove with coal or wood), and the final one was “bake 15-20 minutes.” In between were instructions for adding stuff, mixing and kneading.
Okay
, I thought,
that doesn't sound too hard
.

Mrs. Johnson hoisted herself up to perch on the tall stool and pointed. “In that bottom cupboard there's a stack of white bowls. Bring them to me and I'll show you which one to use.” Kneeling down, I found the stack of bowls. Once I had put them on the table, she tilted her head to one side, looked at them carefully then pointed to one in the middle.

“This should do.”

She directed me to the cupboard where I found flour, to the fridge for lard (good thing I wasn't vegetarian) and to the drawer where the measuring cups and spoons were kept. She knew where everything was, right down to the exact shelf in the refrigerator where the cheese was stored.

I sifted flour, added “the leavening agent” (baking powder) and used two knives to cut the lard (the “fat” the recipe instructions called it) into the flour until it was the consistency of oatmeal. I'd never felt uncooked oatmeal, so I kept passing the bowl back to Mrs. J. until she declared it perfect.

Kneading the dough was easy, but rolling it out was a challenge. “Too thick; not thick enough; don't work it too hard or it will get tough.” She rejected half a dozen sample pieces before declaring that I finally had the right thickness. Reaching into a cupboard above the counter where she sat, she pulled out a heavy drinking glass. “Don't know where my biscuit cutter is at the moment. Use this glass to cut the biscuits. It's a bit small, but the shape's perfect.”

By the time the kitchen filled with the smell of baking biscuits, I had flour on my nose and dough in my hair. I'd wiped my hands along my jeans without realizing it, and noticed that they, too, were dusted with flour. Mrs. J. laughed at me.

“You better go clean up,” she said. “Before your father gets here.”

“He's probably not coming,” I said, belatedly realizing that I hadn't left my parents a message telling them where I'd gone. With any luck they weren't home yet. Mom and Dad
had stupid rules about knowing where I was every second of every day. Once, when I walked to school, Mom phoned me twice before I got there—during a twenty-minute walk!

I guess my panic showed. “Trouble?” she asked.

“My parents. They don't know I'm here. I have to call them right now.” Floury hands and all, I dashed for my phone in the front hall, getting white hand prints all over my backpack.

Mom answered. “Darrah, where are you? I've been frantic. You're not answering your phone and I've checked with all your friends.”

“I thought I should do my sanctions anyway,” I tried to explain. “So I took the bus. My phone was in my backpack in the front hall; I didn't hear it.”

“Well, you're not taking a bus home; it's almost dark. I'll send your father over to get you. He can pick up a pizza on the way back.”