100 Days of Cake (18 page)

“How did you . . . Where?” I ask.

“On my way over I drove by Captain Snack's on Sunflower, and there was this guy standing on the side of the road in this getup, offering samples of their new extra crunchy. I'm a sucker for anything fried, so I stop, and I see the poor dude is literally dripping with sweat.”

“Yeah, I can smell,” says Elle, and I shoot her a look.

“He looked so miserable that I jokingly offered to buy the suit from him for twenty bucks.” Alex is having trouble
keeping a straight face. “And he just starts stripping, right there in the middle of the parking lot. The only thing he had on underneath was a pair of tightie whities!”

“Gross,” says Elle, but I can't stop laughing.

“Ohmygod, I love it so much.”

“He even threw in the samples.” Alex holds up the box, and Jimmy comes by and takes a fistful. “Not gonna lie, I kinda understand; this thing is a freaking sauna.”

I want to throw my arms around him, but my nerves and the grimy costume help keep my composure. Patting his right flipper, I volunteer to get him a soda from Wang's.

The three of us spend all day in front of FishTopia trying to lure people into the store and making sure Jimmy doesn't kill himself or anybody else. By six o'clock we haven't sold a single fish.

“It's because Alex smells like ass.” Elle swats Alex's dorsal fin out of her face. “Who in their right mind would come here when you reek of fried death?”

Alex gestures toward Jimmy, who's furiously riding his bike in a circle in front of the store. “Please. People aren't coming in because they're terrified of getting run down by Dale Earnhardt Jr. over there.”

“Guys, guys, let's not start blaming each other.” I try not to let my panic show; I have to keep it together. “Eyes on the prize, right?”

Everyone mumbles agreement and looks at their feet, even Jimmy. Alex suggests that since the day is almost over and he has band practice that we close up for the night and pick it up tomorrow. Elle agrees, saying she has to get home and feed Jimmy something that isn't “genetically modified fish product.”

They both offer me rides, but I say I'll take my bike, so they pile into their cars and drive away.

When they've gone, I go back into the store. We got some extra fans, so it's actually pleasant. Really, it looks so good since we fixed it up. The hum of the pumps makes it feel like the aquamarine walls are moving, gentle waves. And with all the tanks and lights cleaned, you can really see the amazing beauty of the fish. Those brilliant yellows and oranges, electric blues and greens, colors you can't believe occur in nature. And the bizarre ways some of these creatures are put together—with eyes on the tops of their heads or on antenna. Tentacles drifting in the water, an iridescent glow from the eel tank.

“Don't worry, guys,” I tell them. “I'll find some way to save you; I promise.”

S
ometimes on
Golden Girls
a guest star shows up, and the studio audience gasps and claps because it's some person everyone knew in the eighties—maybe another big actor, or a politician or singer who was huge back then. I never have any idea who the person is, so the whole thing is utterly lost on me, a joke I'm not in on.

Anyway, nine times out of ten, the guest star rings the doorbell, and Sophia (sometimes Dorothy or Blanche, but never Rose) answers, and then slams the door in the guest star's face as soon as he or she says “Hi,” because it's someone she had a falling-out with in the old country or New York or wherever.

It's the one time I don't absolutely adore the show or feel safe watching it. When the audience reacts to the stranger, it's this creepy reminder that there is a whole universe
outside of the loud floral prints and wicker furniture in the girls' Miami house.

This is exactly how it feels when I come home from another fruitless day of trying to save FishTopia with Alex and Elle, and find Dr. Brooks in the model-home living room, chatting with my apron-clad mother and sipping a glass of red wine.

Dr. B. on my couch . . . with my mom.

Seeing him completely out of context like this is so jarring that I don't even recognize him for a few seconds. My eyes just send a message to my brain that there is some good-looking, clean-shaven guy in jeans and a polo shirt. Even when the synapses start firing and I make the connection that this is
my Dr. B
., I kind of want to pull a Sophia and slam the door in his face. He doesn't belong in the world on this set, where my mom is wearing a breezy summer dress under her apron, where the big family portrait of the four of us before Dad died haunts the dining room table.

No, this is all wrong. Dr. B. and I have a different show, and it has a specific set—his office.

When they see me, Mom and Dr. B. both stand up.

“Wha—” I say, instead of “hello” or any sentiment a normal person might express in this situation. Feeling that my jaw is actually hanging open, I shut my mouth.

“Oh, hi, sweetie. Guess who I ran into at the grocery store on my way home from the salon?”

Probably she means it as a rhetorical question, but I go ahead and answer: “Dr. Brooks?”

Dr. B. gives a strained chuckle and tells me, “Yep, you got it!” Which makes me feel even stupider.

He reaches out to give me this weird quick hug. And yeah, I might be pretty damn confused about what's going on, but I can't help but notice that Dr. B. feels super firm and kind of muscle-y under his shirt. And he smells really, really good again!

Then there's a splinter of a second when the three of us stand there, before my mom must realize that running into someone at Coral Cove Food Mart and that someone drinking pinot noir on your living room sofa requires a few more steps.

“Since you've been spending so much time with Dr. Brooks, I thought it might be nice if we got to know him a little better too, so I asked if he might want to join us for dinner.”

I freeze. I never did tell my mom about my extra sessions with Dr. Brooks—the ones he said he'd wave the co-pay on—and I have this moment of panic, thinking that she found out somehow or he told her. Not that I'm doing anything wrong or anything, but Mom likes to stay on top of my appointments and stuff.

“Oh,” I say. No one mentions the extra appointments.

“I'm never one to pass on a home-cooked meal.” Dr. B. smiles, and it really does seem like the bad dialogue of
a TV series. “With my fiancée in Miami during the week, I pretty much live on takeout.”

Up until Mom started this cake craze, she used to take great pride in pointing to this lame refrigerator magnet that V and I once got her that reads:
The house specialty is reservations
. But now Mom is going on about some new Bolognese she wanted to try, and giving Dr. B. this doting smile as if she were Julia Child herself bringing five-star cuisine to the masses.

“Well,” she says. “I'm just delighted you could make it, Glen.”

Glen? Glen!

On Dr. B.'s office door, there
is
a sign with his full name, and of course it was on his diplomas, so somewhere in the back of my mind, I knew he had a first name. But hearing my mom use it is so messed up.

Mom excuses herself to check on the pasta, and I look at the spot on the couch next to Dr. B. where she was sitting. There's also a red tulip chair (one of the home stager's “dramatic accent pieces”) off to the side, and I'm not really sure which place is the most appropriate to sit. Remembering how we sat next to each other when we watched
Say Anything . . .
in his office, I go with the couch.

“So it's okay that I'm here, right?” he asks. “You seem uncomfortable.”

“Yeah, it's . . . surprising, I guess.”

“Sorry about that.” He shakes his head lightly. “Let's just say your mom can be pretty, um, persistent.”

A kick in my chest. He's only here because Mom attacked him in the produce aisle; of course, that makes complete sense. Mom's whole “everyone can be a client” and “never take no for an answer” shtick. It must show on my face that I'm hurt or something, because Dr. B. lightly touches my forearm—and there's a weird nervous electricity.

“Not that it isn't lovely to see you, Molly,” he says, and even though he's probably required to say it for his job, I instantly feel lighter. “And it is nice to see you in your natural setting—like field research.”

“Well, anything in the name of science,
Glen
.”

“Why, thank you,
Miss Byrne
.” He smiles kind of slowly, and looks right into my eyes, and I actually feel that same jolt of something even without touching.

The front door swings open, and immediately I slide a few inches away from him and toward the arm of the couch as V clomps in. Even though she's been at work at Jaclyn's Attic all day, she's still effervescent in a long pastel maxi dress and chunky wood necklaces and bracelets.

Seeing us on the couch, she raises her perfectly shaped left eyebrow in a question.

“You must be Veronica.” Dr. B. stands and extends his hand. “I'm Glen Brooks, Molly's therapist.”

“So you do house calls now?” V raises her eyebrow even
higher, a nonverbal way of asking me what's going on.

“Mom bumped into him at the grocery store and brought him home for dinner,” I say.

“Like a stray dog?” V asks.

“I promise, I don't have fleas,” Dr. B. says.

The three of us laugh a little, but it seems more out of nervousness than genuine amusement.

Twenty minutes later we're all eating pasta with a “robust” (Mom's word) meat sauce that would be delicious if it weren't seven thousand degrees outside. Mom went all out. There's garlic bread where you can see that she used actual chopped garlic—not just garlic salt—and a salad with peppery dressing and caramelized onions.

“Really just delicious,” Dr. B. keeps saying.

“I'm so glad you like it.” Mom is practically sparkling. “The recipe is from Tabitha Hitchens, the woman who wrote
A Baker's Journey
and started the 100 Days of Cake challenge—Molly probably told you about that. . . .”

“Oh yes, she's definitely mentioned it,” Dr. B. says lightly, and I look away.

I did tell Dr. B. about Mom's cake making, but I was so frustrated by the whole thing, I
may
have used a lot of expletives and the phrase “How am I the crazy one?” more than once.

“We're having her Rainbow Ribbon Cake for dessert,”
Mom continues. “I'm not sure how it's going to taste, but it looks lovely.”

“I can't wait to give it a try,” says Dr. B.

My sister just shakes her head above her spaghetti. If we were seated closer to each other, I'd totally kick her under the table.

“Veronica.” Dr. B. turns toward her. “I meant to say something about it when you came in, but your jewelry is really unique.”