Amber House (14 page)

He lifted his eyebrows. “Yeah, I know. Ida told me about the woman who was my great-great-gran, about seven generations back. She sounded like an incredible woman.”

“I didn’t know. Gramma told me about her abolitionist great-grandmother. Somehow she never thought to tell me about our slave-owning ancestors.”

“How’d the subject come up now?”

“Nanga was in there. She was the one who told me how to get out.”

“Nanga?”

“Yeah. She’s — nice. A little strange, but nice.”

“Nanga … I remember Ida used to say that Nanga’d do anything for her friends, but she isn’t a good person to cross. She never forgives and she never forgets.”

I lifted my eyebrows. “Don’t know if her memory is all that perfect — she didn’t really seem to remember our first conversation. Guess that kind of thing happens when you get that old.”

He nodded, amused. “She’s got a few years on her.”

“You know what time it is? I think I’m supposed to be in the kitchen right about now. Your grandma offered me help baking some brownies.”

“I know,” he said. “I’m the help.”

Oh. Really?
“
You’re
gonna do it?”

“Well, not for nothing. We’re doubling the recipe — I’m taking half home.”

“You actually know what you’re doing?” I must have sounded a little incredulous.

He snorted. “It’s just brownies.”

He knew exactly where everything was — the pans, the cocoa and nuts, the flour and sugar. He tossed me a stick of butter and told me to grease the pans.

“
Grease
them?”

Sighing, he took the butter back, cut off a small chunk, and plopped it in the pan. “Use your fingers to smear the whole inside, especially the corners, so the batter won’t stick. Haven’t you ever made a cake before?”

“That’s why there are bakeries,” I said. “Do I
have to
use my fingers?”

“Yes. You have to use your fingers. But wash ’em first,” he said, rolling up his own sleeves and reaching for the soap. I tried really hard not to look at the increasingly thick scars creeping up his forearms. He caught me anyway.

He shrugged slightly. “Car accident when I was three. Burned me pretty bad all over my left side.”

I didn’t know what to say. I mumbled some kind of “sorry.”

“I don’t really remember it,” he said, “except sometimes in dreams. Gran says I would have died, only I’d climbed out of my car seat. The explosion threw me clear. Got a head injury and a few broken ribs, but I survived. My parents didn’t.”

“Do you remember them?”

“Not the way they were.”

Not the way they were?

He must have realized how strange that sounded: “I — I’ve heard loads of stories about them from Gran, of course, and I have pictures in my head of them, how they might have been, how
we
might have been …” His voice trailed off.

If things had been different
, I finished in my head. I thought to myself if we ever did find the diamonds, I would make sure he got half. He had as much a right to them as I did. And he deserved better than what life had given him.

He shook it off. “We better get moving,” he said. “The brownies have to cool before we can cut them.”

After I did that greasing business, he showed me how to flour the pans. Then step-by-step, he took me through the recipe. A
tbsp
was a
tablespoon
; one used a
double boiler
for melting chocolate; one
did not
scoop broken eggshell from a moving mixer with one’s fingers —

He grabbed my wrist as I reached for the disappearing chunk of white shell. “You looking to lose those?”

— and when one inadvertently mashed eggshell into the batter, one poured said batter down the sink and began again.

He took over at that point, efficiently re-measuring the dry ingredients, whisking butter into the melted chocolate, scraping, mixing, pouring vanilla without even measuring, mashing
the nuts up with the palm of his hand. He definitely knew what he was doing.

“Too bad you want to be a doctor,” I said. “You’d make a great chef.”

“I’m not going to be a doctor. Going into research.”

“Research,” I said, surprised. “I just assumed — why would you want to bury yourself in a lab? You’re such a people person. Even Sammy loves you, and he hardly ever likes anybody.”

“Sammy’s a great kid,” he said flatly, keeping all his focus on smoothing the batter in the two pans, and then unnecessarily smoothing it again. I sensed I’d said something wrong, but I didn’t know what. When Jackson looked up, though, his face was smooth. And bland. Again. He changed the subject. “Let’s get these in the oven.”

I started working on the mess while he prepared the frosting. When the timer dinged, he showed me how to check for doneness and declared the pans “cooked.”

“Sit down,” I ordered. “I’ll finish the cleanup. I can do cleanup.”

“If you insist,” he said. He rolled down his sleeves and sat like he had when I met him — leaning back, his long legs stretched out over half the kitchen.

“How soon can we spread the frosting?”

“Give the chocolate a few more minutes to melt. It’s called
ganache
, by the way. Chocolate and cream mixed together.”

“Okay,” I said, “now you’re just showing off.”

A genuine smile, warm and relaxed. Like the one in the attic. “Who, me?” he said. “Never.”

I laughed, and that’s when my mother walked in. Her lips
were tight; she was irritated. “Sarah, I saw you earlier, running down the path to esca —” She interrupted herself and walked closer to me, staring. “Jesus, how did you manage to get flour all over your face?”

“You looking for Sammy?” I asked hopefully.

“No. I’m looking for you. Sam went to Annapolis with your dad this morning.”

“This morning?” I repeated, confused. “Didn’t you say —” I turned to Jackson.

He was already heading for the door. “I’ll come back and frost both pans a little later, Sarah.” He slipped out.

I turned back to my mother. “Why didn’t they wait for me?”

“
I
needed your help today.”

“What are we doing?” I asked carefully.

“We
were
meeting with the planner, the caterer, and the cake designer. But they left thirty minutes ago.”

“Sorry, Mom,” I said, working hard to sound contrite instead of pleased.

“Yeah. I bet. Doesn’t matter. You need to get ready to leave for Annapolis now. Change your clothes. Comb your hair. And could you throw on a little lip gloss and mascara, please? We
are
trying to make a good impression around here.”

I stood there, feeling instantly inadequate, and wondering for the millionth time if Mom heard herself when she said that kind of stuff, or if it just spilled out unconsciously. She walked away, seemingly oblivious.

I mean, I got that I was a disappointment to her. I couldn’t have been more — not like her. Not beautiful. Not chic. Not sharp. But, you know what? At least I
tried
to be nice.

Also not like her.

Maybe she just didn’t understand that people actually did have feelings.
Not like her.

I trudged upstairs, trying to figure out how the girl who had painted those amazing pictures in the trunk in the attic could have turned out to be my mother.

I opened the door of my bedroom and stopped. The bed was made. My clothes weren’t hanging all over the chair. And something else was different —

It was the walls. They were only partially flowered.

I heard someone humming.

Part of me just wanted to turn around and get out, but I didn’t. I needed to see the person hidden on the other side of the bed.

A girl with long auburn hair sat on the floor, her legs curled under her. She had a palette of paints in her left hand. With the brush in her right, she was making a hollyhock rise up the wall, sprouting leaves and blossoms as it went.

I walked around the end of the bed till I could see the girl’s face.

My mother. About eleven years old.

I watched her a few moments. Busy. At ease. Occasionally humming a snatch of some familiar tune. A little bit of a mess, with paint on her hands and jeans and face. She seemed like a girl I could have been friends with. She seemed — happy.

I wished I could reach across time to speak to her. I wished somehow I could protect her from whatever it was that took that happiness from her.

I spoke without thinking: “I love you, Mom.”

The girl stopped humming and cocked her head, like she was listening. She looked puzzled. Then she dabbed her brush in the paint and went back to her task.

I fled back out the door. I didn’t want to know about the past. I didn’t want this gift. It didn’t change anything, and it only made me feel worse, somehow.

When I peeked in again, my mess was restored. And the garden was all done.

My mother’s Eden. With a quilted apple tree on the bed.

I dressed hurriedly, finished my makeup, and went back downstairs. “Sorry I didn’t help with the party planner,” I mumbled.

My mother gave me a partial smile and a shrug. “It’s not really your thing, is it? It’s fine. It’s pretty much all organized. It’s going to be a fabulous party, if that means anything to you.”

“I’m sure it will be.”

When I knew what to look for, I could still see that girl from upstairs. In the eyes mostly. Her head still cocked. Still listening.

I heard myself saying it again. “I love you, Mom.”

She got the strangest look on her face. Then she said, “I love you too, sweetie.” Immediately she turned away, walking toward her room. “I’ll be ready to go in ten minutes,” she said over her shoulder, her voice a little high. “Meet you at the car?”

“Sure,” I agreed.

I wanted out of the house. I went outside, rolled down the car window, and waited for her in the front seat.

In Annapolis, Mom pulled into a parking space in front of a clothing store.

Ambushed again.
“Hey,” I objected, “I thought we were meeting Dad and Sammy.”

“I never said that. We’re going to church tomorrow and you need something to wear.”