I’m going to be happy.”
There’s no use talking to her when she gets like this. I’m supposed to tell her now that she deserves whatever it is her heart desires, but I’m not going to do it. Not this time. My mother is an only child. Just like Chantal.
“So … who have you got lined up for day care?” I ask.
She drops the black lace underwear she’s holding. “I told you I didn’t need your attitude. You know I need you to help me. And I’ll pay you.”
Right. I’ll put it on her tab.
“What if something goes wrong?”
“Jesus, Jillian, nothing is going to go wrong.” But she’s never left them with me alone overnight.
She carries her clean clothes out of the room, singing a country music song about a woman going after what she wants. I want to stop her and tell her to get out. Before the boys get up. I also want her to know that when she leaves I’ll stay in my bedroom because the worst part is watching her shut the door behind her. What my mother will never understand is that, like the boys, I have separation anxiety, too.
She’s gone within thirty-five minutes. The last I see of her she’s concentrating on getting her lipstick on straight. She promises she’ll be home by Monday at 4 P.M. since I’ve got a party to go to.
Chantal
A Social Retard Cake .
M y mother’s crystal bowls cradle flour, cocoa powder, baking powder, baking soda, salt, unsalted butter (2 sticks), sugar, eggs, egg yolks, vanilla, buttermilk, and bittersweet chocolate (melted and cooled). I am surrounded by sparkle in the kitchen spotlight. I am a cake princess.
What makes me a top student also makes a confident baker. It’s all about precision and focus. As I take on the first step, buttering the cake pans, dusting the insides with flour, tapping out the excess, and lining the bottoms with wax paper, guilt begins to creep in. My parents left this morning, but it’s as if my mother is still here, trying to protect me from the evils of sugar.
On Sunday afternoon Mom and Dad returned from the coffee shop as I finished my shopping list. I sat on the ottoman to hear their final statement. “Your father has convinced me that giving you responsibility in stages is a good thing. This next week will be a trial period. We can revoke your privileges at any time.”
I nodded, though I had no choice.
“And. This is a request.” She looked at my dad for approval. He shrugged. “No junk food. It’s only a week.”
“Request heard,” I answered. I don’t even ask her anymore why she’s so freaked about sweets and cookies and cakes. It’s one of
those off-limits topics. I don’t want to endure her lectures about sexual abstinence and she doesn’t want to discuss dessert with me. The deal works.
I whisk together the flour, cocoa powder, baking powder, baking soda, and salt.
The stand mixer I borrowed from Mrs. Ellis next door (my mother-in-case-of-an-emergency) is a beautiful machine. Pale yellow with silver bling, it sparks sunshine.
I slide the slab of butter into the mixer bowl and beat on medium speed until soft and creamy. Sugar falls in. More beating. A yellow color forms; a color that is difficult to describe as anything but hopeful. Next come the eggs, one at a time, then the yolks. I beat in the vanilla.
“One could be no more happy if one had won the lottery,” I say to my invisible television audience.
I turn the mixer down to low and add the dry ingredients alternately with the buttermilk, mixing sparingly.
Socially delayed individuals would probably eat the cake with their mouths open, crumbs spilling out. Or take the last piece instead of cutting it in half and offering someone else the rest. Or taste the cake and announce that it tastes disgusting. Or worse, spit it out. If I am a social retard, then this cake will redeem me. I may be different from the rest of the crowd but that doesn’t have to be a bad thing.
I divide the batter between the two cake pans and it nearly doesn’t fit.
There’s no use talking to her when she gets like this. I’m supposed to tell her now that she deserves whatever it is her heart desires, but I’m not going to do it. Not this time. My mother is an only child. Just like Chantal.
“So … who have you got lined up for day care?” I ask.
She drops the black lace underwear she’s holding. “I told you I didn’t need your attitude. You know I need you to help me. And I’ll pay you.”
Right. I’ll put it on her tab.
“What if something goes wrong?”
“Jesus, Jillian, nothing is going to go wrong.” But she’s never left them with me alone overnight.
She carries her clean clothes out of the room, singing a country music song about a woman going after what she wants. I want to stop her and tell her to get out. Before the boys get up. I also want her to know that when she leaves I’ll stay in my bedroom because the worst part is watching her shut the door behind her. What my mother will never understand is that, like the boys, I have separation anxiety, too.
She’s gone within thirty-five minutes. The last I see of her she’s concentrating on getting her lipstick on straight. She promises she’ll be home by Monday at 4 P.M. since I’ve got a party to go to.
Chantal
A Social Retard Cake .
M y mother’s crystal bowls cradle flour, cocoa powder, baking powder, baking soda, salt, unsalted butter (2 sticks), sugar, eggs, egg yolks, vanilla, buttermilk, and bittersweet chocolate (melted and cooled). I am surrounded by sparkle in the kitchen spotlight. I am a cake princess.
What makes me a top student also makes a confident baker. It’s all about precision and focus. As I take on the first step, buttering the cake pans, dusting the insides with flour, tapping out the excess, and lining the bottoms with wax paper, guilt begins to creep in. My parents left this morning, but it’s as if my mother is still here, trying to protect me from the evils of sugar.
On Sunday afternoon Mom and Dad returned from the coffee shop as I finished my shopping list. I sat on the ottoman to hear their final statement. “Your father has convinced me that giving you responsibility in stages is a good thing. This next week will be a trial period. We can revoke your privileges at any time.”
I nodded, though I had no choice.
“And. This is a request.” She looked at my dad for approval. He shrugged. “No junk food. It’s only a week.”
“Request heard,” I answered. I don’t even ask her anymore why she’s so freaked about sweets and cookies and cakes. It’s one of
those off-limits topics. I don’t want to endure her lectures about sexual abstinence and she doesn’t want to discuss dessert with me. The deal works.
I whisk together the flour, cocoa powder, baking powder, baking soda, and salt.
The stand mixer I borrowed from Mrs. Ellis next door (my mother-in-case-of-an-emergency) is a beautiful machine. Pale yellow with silver bling, it sparks sunshine.
I slide the slab of butter into the mixer bowl and beat on medium speed until soft and creamy. Sugar falls in. More beating. A yellow color forms; a color that is difficult to describe as anything but hopeful. Next come the eggs, one at a time, then the yolks. I beat in the vanilla.
“One could be no more happy if one had won the lottery,” I say to my invisible television audience.
I turn the mixer down to low and add the dry ingredients alternately with the buttermilk, mixing sparingly.
Socially delayed individuals would probably eat the cake with their mouths open, crumbs spilling out. Or take the last piece instead of cutting it in half and offering someone else the rest. Or taste the cake and announce that it tastes disgusting. Or worse, spit it out. If I am a social retard, then this cake will redeem me. I may be different from the rest of the crowd but that doesn’t have to be a bad thing.
I divide the batter between the two cake pans and it nearly doesn’t fit.
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