The Particular Sadness of Lemon Cake: A Novel by Aimee Bender Page B
Authors: Aimee Bender
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down a hall and accidentally overhear a secret?
He thought about it, for a minute. No, he said. Why?
What if you did?
I'd keep the secret, he said.
I shifted around in my seat. Okay, I said. Okay. Or, just do you have any special skills?
He chuckled a little. No, he said.
I didn't mean that you don't, I mean--
No, really, he said. He turned to me fully, and his face was friendly. I hit the mean all through law school, he said. I scored exactly in the fiftieth percentile on the LSAT. Five oh. He nodded at himself, pleased.
I closed my textbook.
But you were in Briga --I said.
Doon , he said. I was a perfectly average singer, he said. Even the teacher said so.
You hate hospitals, I said.
So?
I don't know, I said, pulling at the corner of my textbook. Why do you hate them?
That's not a special skill, he said.
No, I said, waiting.
He re-shaped the pillow at his back. Show previews skimmed across the screen, advertising our favorite high-intensity medical program, which was coming up soon.
I just don't like sick people, he said.
Is it because you feel something?
What?
Like you feel their sickness, or something?
He scratched his nose. He looked at me a little funny. No, he said. I just don't like them. How do you know about that anyway?
Was he kidding? The TV switched to commercials, of dancing kids on tree-lined streets.
Mom tells our birth stories all the time, I said. How come you can watch it on TV?
He waved his hand at the screen. Oh, that's different, he said. That's fun.
It's in a hospital, I said.
It's a set, he said.
I think it's set in a real hospital, I said.
Doesn't matter, he said. No smell.
But what if you get sick? I said.
I never get sick, he said.
He picked up the remote. Twirled and twisted it, on the sofa. The questions were drumming in me, piling on each other, and I dug deeper into my end of the sofa and tried to remember how George did it, at the dinner table. Softly, as if the answer was not dire. As if the question was a seed placed a few feet in front of a curious bird.
You never get sick? I said, after a pause.
Dad glanced back over. Wiggled his feet.
I just have healthy genes, he said, lifting his shoulders. Always have. All that good Lithuanian chicken.
We stared ahead, together. I picked at the corner of my textbook where the lamination had broken open, revealing the soft layers of brown cardboard.
Would you visit if I have to go to the hospital sometime? I said.
He flapped a hand at me. You're a healthy kid, he said.
But just in case, I said. If it's serious?
Hasn't been, he said.
But if it was?
He looked over at the clock, blinking greenly at the base of the TV. In two minutes our show would come on.
I, he said.
His eyes on the clock.
Might, he said.
His hand rested in the fold of the red ledger. Colors scattered across the screen.
There was nothing much else to say, so we watched the series of car commercials flying by. According to the ads, the first car made you manly, the second made you rich, the last one made you funny.
I pointed out a zippy yellow hatchback driven by a clown. I didn't really like it so much one way or another, but I just needed something to do. Dad peered at the picture. Then he turned to a blank page in his ledger, jotted down the name of the car, and wrote my name, with a precise little arrow pointing to it.
You're not so far from sixteen, he said.
He pressed the mute button, and the room filled with sound. Horns, voice-overs, snatches of songs. It was like we were exchanging codes, on how to be a father and a daughter, like we'd read about it in a manual, translated from another language, and were doing our best with what we could understand. Thanks, Dad, I said. The commercials ended, and the show began with a couple of nurses bustling through an ER. A man had a seizure on the tile. Someone yelled through the intercom. I got pulled into the story, and so at first I didn't hear when he said my name at the break.
For you, Rose?
He thought about it, for a minute. No, he said. Why?
What if you did?
I'd keep the secret, he said.
I shifted around in my seat. Okay, I said. Okay. Or, just do you have any special skills?
He chuckled a little. No, he said.
I didn't mean that you don't, I mean--
No, really, he said. He turned to me fully, and his face was friendly. I hit the mean all through law school, he said. I scored exactly in the fiftieth percentile on the LSAT. Five oh. He nodded at himself, pleased.
I closed my textbook.
But you were in Briga --I said.
Doon , he said. I was a perfectly average singer, he said. Even the teacher said so.
You hate hospitals, I said.
So?
I don't know, I said, pulling at the corner of my textbook. Why do you hate them?
That's not a special skill, he said.
No, I said, waiting.
He re-shaped the pillow at his back. Show previews skimmed across the screen, advertising our favorite high-intensity medical program, which was coming up soon.
I just don't like sick people, he said.
Is it because you feel something?
What?
Like you feel their sickness, or something?
He scratched his nose. He looked at me a little funny. No, he said. I just don't like them. How do you know about that anyway?
Was he kidding? The TV switched to commercials, of dancing kids on tree-lined streets.
Mom tells our birth stories all the time, I said. How come you can watch it on TV?
He waved his hand at the screen. Oh, that's different, he said. That's fun.
It's in a hospital, I said.
It's a set, he said.
I think it's set in a real hospital, I said.
Doesn't matter, he said. No smell.
But what if you get sick? I said.
I never get sick, he said.
He picked up the remote. Twirled and twisted it, on the sofa. The questions were drumming in me, piling on each other, and I dug deeper into my end of the sofa and tried to remember how George did it, at the dinner table. Softly, as if the answer was not dire. As if the question was a seed placed a few feet in front of a curious bird.
You never get sick? I said, after a pause.
Dad glanced back over. Wiggled his feet.
I just have healthy genes, he said, lifting his shoulders. Always have. All that good Lithuanian chicken.
We stared ahead, together. I picked at the corner of my textbook where the lamination had broken open, revealing the soft layers of brown cardboard.
Would you visit if I have to go to the hospital sometime? I said.
He flapped a hand at me. You're a healthy kid, he said.
But just in case, I said. If it's serious?
Hasn't been, he said.
But if it was?
He looked over at the clock, blinking greenly at the base of the TV. In two minutes our show would come on.
I, he said.
His eyes on the clock.
Might, he said.
His hand rested in the fold of the red ledger. Colors scattered across the screen.
There was nothing much else to say, so we watched the series of car commercials flying by. According to the ads, the first car made you manly, the second made you rich, the last one made you funny.
I pointed out a zippy yellow hatchback driven by a clown. I didn't really like it so much one way or another, but I just needed something to do. Dad peered at the picture. Then he turned to a blank page in his ledger, jotted down the name of the car, and wrote my name, with a precise little arrow pointing to it.
You're not so far from sixteen, he said.
He pressed the mute button, and the room filled with sound. Horns, voice-overs, snatches of songs. It was like we were exchanging codes, on how to be a father and a daughter, like we'd read about it in a manual, translated from another language, and were doing our best with what we could understand. Thanks, Dad, I said. The commercials ended, and the show began with a couple of nurses bustling through an ER. A man had a seizure on the tile. Someone yelled through the intercom. I got pulled into the story, and so at first I didn't hear when he said my name at the break.
For you, Rose?
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