Whatever (14 page)

“Probably. I'll ask Mrs. J. if she has a good recipe for brownies. It would be fun to make them.”

Mom finally said something. “You like cooking? I hate it.”

“You don't like cooking?” said my father, surprised. “You've never told me that.”

Mom shrugged. “What could I say? Announce ‘I'm a lousy cook and I hate doing it' and hire a chef?”

“Don't need to hire anyone,” said Andrew. “Darrah can cook for us.”

“Would you?” asked Mom.

“Could you?” asked Dad.

“I . . . I . . . yes, I think I can. Maybe a couple of dinners a
week. I'm just learning, but I don't mind trying.”

Mom burst into tears again. “Oh, Darrah, oh, Darrah, oh, Darrah.”

“Oh, Mom, don't do that. It's no big deal.” But it was a big deal. That was the first time in months that Mom had oh-Darrahed me because she was proud of something I'd done, not ashamed, and not because she was upset with me.

“It's no big deal,” I repeated. “Stop crying, Mom.”

Dad smiled. “I'm sure we can work out a satisfactory raise in your allowance if you take on more household responsibility.”

Wow, I wasn't expecting that one. But maybe there was a catch. “Only cooking, okay? I'm not going to push that heavy vacuum around, and no cleaning toilets! Yuck!”

Mom stood up, came over and hugged me. “Cooking is more than enough, Darrah. The vacuum and I are on good terms, and I don't mind doing the other housework. You just cook.”

“It's a deal,” I said.

“Good. Since you made dinner tonight, I'll clean up. You and Andrew go upstairs and do your homework. Take your laptop, Darrah. I think we can forget that consequence.”

She'd lifted Consequence Number Two! That barbecued chicken rice soup must be magical. I made a mental note to write down the recipe before I forgot it.

Consequence Number One, using my phone, had ended after the circle—I think Mom couldn't stand not being able
to call me any time she wanted to. Only Consequence Number Three was left. Grounding. “Maybe I could . . .” I started, then thought better of it. Once I produced some great dinners, it would be a better time to ask about going out with Robin. For now, I'd stay quiet and earn some more parental appreciation.

“That's okay, Mom. I can clean up. Why don't you and Andrew clear the table and I'll do the rest?”

The look on Mom's face made me wish I'd been more sincere about my offer, not just angling for good behaviour points.

“I'll help,” said Dad, and he was beaming, too, smiling as if I'd just ridden my new two-wheeler down the sidewalk by myself.

My parents being so grateful was almost harder to take than their being angry at me. I picked up two soup bowls and scurried into the kitchen where no one could see my face. All this gratitude—I had a horrible suspicion I was blushing.

Chapter Twelve

I CHECKED OUT BROWNIE
recipes on the internet, but decided not to try to make them until I'd asked Mrs. J. Maybe she had a special never-fail recipe, or maybe the red book had some tips. I wouldn't mind a good recipe for chocolate chip cookies, either. Mom sometimes made the kind of cookies where the dough is already mixed and frozen in a big pail and you just thaw, scoop and bake. I bet I could learn to make cookies from scratch.

When I arrived at Mrs. J.'s on Wednesday, I grabbed slippers in a hurry, then headed into the kitchen. She wasn't there, waiting for me, her tea sitting beside her.

“Mrs. J? It's me.” No answer. I called again. “Mrs. J?”

“Who is it?” Her voice came from down the hall, maybe from her bedroom. She wasn't in the bathroom. That door was open.

“It's me, Darrah.”

“Is it that time already? I'll be right there.” While I waited for her, I looked for the red
Foods, Nutrition and Home Management
book, hoping to find a recipe for brownies, but the book wasn't on the kitchen table. Nothing was on the table except two prescription bottles of pills. I picked one up. “Take one or two every four hours for pain.” That bottle was almost empty, but the second bottle was full, even had the fluffy cotton stuffed into the top. Don't know why drugstores stick that cotton on top of the pills. Maybe so they don't rattle around? Or maybe it's some sort of pharmacists' rule?

I heard her cane thump on the floor, then Mrs. J. came down the hall from her bedroom. She moved slowly, and held on to the counter as she edged her way around to her usual seat. “Put the kettle on, girl. I need tea.” She wasn't wearing the air boot today, just using her cane.

I filled the kettle, turned it on, then rummaged in the cupboard for her blueberry tea. There wasn't any. “What kind of tea would you like? The blueberry stuff 's all gone.”

“Doesn't matter, just something hot.” She groaned as she hitched herself up on the stool. “Put those away,” she said, gesturing at the pills. “Damn things make me nauseous.”

My own stomach lurched as I realized that her pain was my fault. I didn't say anything except: “Where do you want me to put the pills?”

“Second shelf, by the tea.”

I started to do as she asked, but she stopped me. “No, changed my mind. Pass me a glass of water and one of them before you put them away.”

“Are you hurting?” What a stupid question to ask. Why would she ask for a pain pill if she felt fine. “I'm so sorry your leg's still sore, Mrs. J. I'm really sorry.”

I put the glass of water and one pill, the second last one in the nearly empty container, in front of her. She put it in her mouth, grimaced, swallowed, then grimaced again. “Forget it. What do you want to do today?”

“Make brownies.”

“Brownies?”

“With sprinkles.”

“Don't have any sprinkles. Besides, good, moist brownies aren't as easy to make as most people think.”

“Oh.” Disappointed, I poured out the warming water from the teapot, and added boiling water and a scoop of tea called “Constant Comment.” I knew she liked this one, it smelled of oranges and other spices, as well as tea. “My brother asked for brownies. He had a seizure last night and I thought—”

“He has epilepsy, doesn't he? He's the reason you were at the hospital the same day I was there. Is he all right?”

“He will be,” I said, taking the tea strainer out of the drawer. “But Mom gets upset when he has a seizure.” Then, perhaps to change the subject, I announced, “I made dinner last night, soup from a left-over barbecued chicken, and I baked biscuits, too.”

She nodded. “I thought you'd be a good cook. You're clever, and a cook has to be inventive. Takeout barbecued chicken carcass for stock? Never thought of that.”

“It was a success; everyone liked it. Now I'm going to cook two dinners a week for the family, and get a raise in my allowance.”

“Good.” She tried to pick up the teapot, then let it thump back onto the counter. “You filled it too full. Come over here and pour my tea. The pot's too heavy.”

I'd only filled it halfway, but I did as she asked. “So you don't think I'm ready for brownies?”

She held the mug to her lips, blew across the tea and sighed. “No, you probably could manage them fine. I'm too tired today to help you.”

“Is something wrong with your leg? Shouldn't it be getting better by now? It's been weeks since . . .”

“Don't want to talk about it.”

“Sorry, I just . . .”

“Wacky Cake, that's what we'll make.”

“Wacky Cake?”

“It's all mixed in one pan, the one you bake it in, then you serve it from the same pan. It's fast, easy and fail-proof. An old recipe of my mother's. Grab my recipes, there, on top of the fridge.”

Her recipes were in a small box, written out on file cards, the kind I use to make cue cards when I'm trying to learn lines for a play. The box smelled musty and the headings on the section dividers were written in faded ink. I peered at
them—“Soups,” “Salad Dressings,” “Breads,” “Desserts”—and decided to look in “Cakes and Cookies.” Logical. There it was, a pale blue card labelled “Wacky Cake.” In spidery writing, the same writing as the recipe, beside a smudge of what looked like chocolate, was a date: September 20, 193_. The smudge covered the last number. Underneath that was a note “Janie made this by herself today.” Janie? Oh, Mrs. Johnson! This recipe card must have belonged to Mrs. J.'s mother!

The old lady in the kitchen vanished, and I saw instead a small girl with long pigtails and a flour smudge on her nose.

“Find the recipe?” The pigtails were gone; Mrs. J., grey hair, cane and all, was back.

“What? Oh, yes, I found it.” I scanned the ingredients. “Vinegar? What kind of a cake has vinegar in it?”

“This one,” she said curtly, and then the phone rang.

She grabbed it, grunted “hello,” then listened. Finally she said, “No, no need to do that. Drop the boy off here. I'll get Robin to drive him home later. Go do what you have to do, he'll be fine.”

She grunted a few more times then, with a final “you're welcome,” she hung up the phone. I was only half listening, still checking the Wacky Cake recipe. “Who's Robin driving home?” I asked.

“You. And your brother.”

“Andrew? Andrew's coming here?” I dropped the file card. “Why?” I asked, scrambling to pick it up.

“There's an emergency at your mother's office. She has to go help out, right away, something that has to be dealt with
immediately or dire consequences will befall the whole company. Your father's in an important meeting; it's going to run late and he can't get away to look after your brother. Or to pick you up. She doesn't want to leave your brother alone.”

“She always watches him carefully after a seizure,” I said, thinking of how Mom hovered around Andrew until he blew up and told her to leave him alone, to stop helicoptering.

“Your mom said she would come and get you and take you home so you could keep an eye on your brother. I told her to bring him to you instead. You can watch out for him here just as well as at your house.”

“Here?” My brain wasn't absorbing what she'd said. “Andrew's coming to your house?”

“That's what I said. While you're making sure he takes off his shoes and puts on slippers, you might want to look at your own feet. You're multicolored this afternoon.”

She was right. I was wearing one purple and one orange slipper. “I was thinking about brownies; wasn't paying attention.”

“I know the feeling very well. People say you're forgetting things, but what you are really doing is not focusing on the right thing at the right time.”

“You don't forget things, Mrs. J. You know where everything in this kitchen is. Bet you know where everything in the whole house is kept.”

“Told you, girl. It's my house. I know it and it knows me. The only way anyone will get me out of here is—”

“Don't say that!”

“Interrupting is very rude, girl.”

“I'm sorry, but I know what you were going to say and it gives me the creeps. I don't want to hear it. Please.” I shivered and wished that whoever was walking where my grave would be some day would go walk somewhere else.

“You have a point. It is a rather ‘creepy' statement. I won't say it again.”

“Thanks.” I looked at the recipe for Wacky Cake. “I bet you know this one by heart. You've been making it since you were, how old?”

“I can't remember how old I was when I first made it, but I had to stand on a chair to reach the sugar in the cupboard. Mother was out and I decided to bake a cake to surprise her. I think I got the bigger surprise, a good spanking when my father got home.”

“Your father beat you?”

“They called it discipline back then, not abuse. But yes, he did. With the back of a hairbrush. On my behind.”

“Why? You were doing something good.”

“I wasn't allowed to use the stove by myself.”

“Did you have to light a fire? Was it one of those wood stoves?”

“No, it was a brand new electric stove. All gleaming white. My mother kept telling me how easy it was to use, so I thought I'd try.” She winced, as if the spanking she had received so many decades ago still stung.

“Get the square glass baking pan, and let's get started. No
bowls to wash up; everything is mixed in that one pan.”

I had my head in the low cupboard where the baking dishes were kept when the doorbell rang.

“Ouch!” Even though I knew Mom was coming, I'd still jumped at the sound, banging my head against the top of the cupboard. “I'll get it,” I said, needlessly as Mrs. J. made no attempt to move from her perch.

Mom told me to make sure Andrew did his homework and keep an eye on him, reminded him to mind his manners, and said she was sorry she couldn't come in and say “hello” to Mrs. Johnson but she had to dash.