my mother’s handwriting. I’m so glad you’re home! You can help me.”
And now I see the snow down the front of her red kimono. The white smears that dust her cheeks, the delicate flecks of dandruff in her hair.
Flour.
I see the bag, too—King Arthur’s Unbleached—sitting open next to her on the counter.
The lump of dough.
The rolling pin.
Berries. And a pie tin.
My mother is baking.
Or trying to.
My eyes shift back to the pink metal box. The index cards in it.
It must be a different one.
I take a few steps closer.
Recipes.
A recipe box.
She doesn’t know about the money.
I nearly collapse from relief. I nearly start laughing. And really, my mother is so off, so out of it, even if the money was missing, she might not even know. She might think she spent it herself. Bought some stamps. For her nine thousand letters to Jack Kerouac.
“Why are you baking?” I ask.
“I’m making a pie; I told you,” she says cheerfully. “Come help.” She turns back to the lump and starts kneading.
My eyes shift again to the pink metal box as I walk over. She’s propped the index card up against the coffeemaker. At the top it reads: “Nana’s Famous Loganberry Tarts.”
“That’s for tarts,” I say, pointing.
“Tarts, pie, all the same,” she says.
In the sink is a strainer full of blueberries, their empty plastic containers rinsed and stacked to the side.
“I don’t think those are loganberries, either?” I say. She laughs, and blows a wisp of hair from her eyes. I reach out and push it behind her ear for her, slip an elastic band from my wrist, and pull it into a ponytail. “You’re supposed to tie your hair back when you cook.”
“Hard to find those,” she says.
“Elastic bands?”
“No, silly.” She rubs her floured cheek against her shoulder. “Loganberries, Jean Louise. Loganberries.”
She has the lump of dough flatter, starts to work at it with the rolling pin.
“Where did you think you could get them?”
“Damned if I know,” she says.
I stand watching, confused, yet a little elated. She may be acting weird, but it’s been months since I’ve seen her look this happy. She rocks with the roll of the pin, singing some weird tune I’ve never heard of:
“Your lips are sweet as honey,
Red as loganberry pie.
I could pinch your cheeks like dough.
You’re the apple of my eye.”
My mother is baking and singing. My mother doesn’t cook, let alone bake, so my head spins, trying to understand.
“And why exactly are you doing this?” I finally ask, reaching into the sink to grab a handful of blueberries. I toss them in my mouth, and add with a mumble, “Making pie?”
“Because I spoke to your father, and we’re celebrating.” My heart skips a beat. Real spoke or fake spoke? “He’s coming home, Jean Louise! First week of July, possibly sooner.” I nearly choke on the berries. “Home for good. Once and for all! Isn’t that wonderful? Something that calls for pie, don’t you think?”
“Tarts,” I snap, angry. Furious. I can’t think straight, I can’t deal with her, and I sure don’t know what to believe. Has Dad really called to say he’s coming home or is it some wishful, delusional hallucination? And, if he is coming home, what will I do about Max? Now that Blue Morpho will be fixed, he can leave. How will I lose him after everything?
I race through the alibis I’ve spent sleepless nights perfecting, the phone calls I’ve rehearsed, the intricate stories. If I can’t go, and he’s leaving in two measly weeks, I may never see Max Gordon again!
I cough on the lump of blueberries, mingled with tears lodged in my throat. I can’t let them spill. How will I explain tears in the face of her very good news? News I’ve been waiting more than a year for. Already she’s staring at me, waiting for me to join in her jubilation.
I need time to think. What if it is the end of June? That would still give me a week after school ends to make the trip with Max, and have a few days alone with him, before flying back home with my father. I can tell Dad I want to see Malibu before he leaves, how I’m sorry I haven’t come sooner. How I’ll help him pack up his things.
That way, I’ll have a little more time with Max, and get my father back home. I’ll worry about the rest as it comes.
I look at my mother, but she’s returned to her mess, to pressing and pinching