Starting From Scratch (32 page)

cookie sheets with parchment paper, there was a small

knock on the sliding glass door. Max smiled crookedly and

waved at me, his little hands pressing fingerprints all over

the glass. Steve stood beside him, tail wagging, looking

proud as if to say,
Look what I found wandering around back

here!

I took a deep breath and crossed the room to let him

in.

“Hi, Coach,” he said, smelling of little boy and the

outdoors.

“Hi, buddy.”

I turned and headed back into the kitchen, he and

Steve following me.

“Whatcha doin’?” he asked.

“Making cookies.”

“Need help?” He seemed less animated than usual, a

little subdued.

“Sure.”

I went back to my mixer while he pulled a chair over

to the sink and climbed up to wash his hands.

“Cece’s over,” he said, even though I hadn’t asked. He

wiped his hands on the dish towel, then slid the chair

around to the other side of me. “ey’re arguing, so I came

here.” It was all the explanation I needed and all he

intended to give.

Apparently not having learned my lesson the first

time, I didn’t ask if his mother knew where he was. I didn’t

tell him he should call. I didn’t want to think about Elena,

plus Max was quiet and I was honestly grateful for

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somebody else’s presence, so we worked together in silence,

both in our own mental worlds. He watched as I rolled a

small ball of dough in the bowl of sugar and then he

followed suit.

Once we filled up the cookie sheets, I made another

batch of dough and we repeated the process all over again.

When my kitchen table was covered with four dozen

cooling lemon cookies, I mixed up the ingredients for

thumbprint cookies, which were my grandma’s favorites. I

rolled the dough balls in the chopped walnuts and gave

Max a quick demonstration of how to push his thumb

down into the middle to create a little crater in each one,

then fill it with a tiny taste of jam. We used raspberry and

strawberry preserves, again my grandma’s favorites. He

worked hard, concentrating on his job and not saying

much at all. He was the perfect baking partner and I loved

him for it.

When we’d added the thumbprint cookies to the

lemon cookies on the table, I searched for the recipe for

Grandma’s second favorites, the ones she simply called

“chocolate balls.” Max stood by the table, munching on a

lemon cookie, and as I started putting ingredients into the

mixer, I could feel his eyes on me.

“Coach?” he asked quietly, as if afraid his voice might

break something in the air.

“Hm?”

“Why are we making so many cookies? Are you

having a party or something?”

“No.” e sad chuckle I gave held no energy and no

humor. “No parties.”

“en why?”

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I stopped what I was doing and stared into my mixing

bowl, watching the silver beaters fuse a handful of items

into one smooth combination. en I said, very softly, “My

grandma died last night.”

I didn’t look at him. I simply stood there, my hands

bracing my body against the counter, thinking,
Why on

earth would I say that to a six-year-old? Elena was right. I

know nothing about kids.

And then I felt it.

Max wrapped his small arms around my waist and

hugged me tightly, his cheek pressed against my side. I

imagined it was the only way his young brain knew how to

convey what he was feeling: sympathy. I swallowed the

lump in my throat and put my hand gently on his head.

“anks,” I whispered to him.

“Welcome,” he whispered in return.

We went back to work.

After two batches of chocolate balls, I finally sent Max

home, not wanting him to get in trouble and not at all

ready for the wrath of Elena, should she have to come

looking for him again. I wrapped up an enormous plate of

cookies and sent them with him, then watched from my

front stoop until he was inside his own house.

I’m not sure how long I stood in the kitchen in my

flour-covered apron, surveying the mess, trying to decide

what to make next. As long as I kept baking, I felt

strangely connected to Grandma. It was weird and

ridiculous and I knew that, but I was afraid to stop, afraid

to let that last, tenuous thread slip through my fingers. At

the same time, I was virtually exhausted, at least mentally.

Who knew it was just as grueling to hold your emotions at

bay as it was to be overwhelmed by them?

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I was counting the eggs I had left, trying to decide

how many snickerdoodles I could conceivably make before

I had to make a trip to the grocery store when there was a

staccato knock on the front door. Four quick raps, like the

person on the other side was anxious to have the door

opened. I closed my eyes and sighed, not wanting to deal

with any neighbors, salespeople, Jehovah’s Witnesses, girl

scouts. I stood quietly and didn’t move, bringing a finger to

my lips to shush Steve, who’d lifted his head from the

kitchen floor, ears pricked up.

e knock sounded again in the same rhythm.

“Damn it,” I muttered as Steve jumped up and barked.

I wiped my hands on my apron as I entered the foyer.

When I opened the door, I couldn’t have been more

surprised.

“Avery.” Elena stood there, no trace of the anger or

pain I’d seen on her face the last time she’d been here, no

ice in her tone as she said my name like the last time I’d

spoken to her. She stepped inside and before I could say

anything, she lifted a hand to my face and stroked my

cheek so gently my eyes filled. “Baby, I’m so sorry. Are you

okay?”

at was it. at was all it took. As if my protective

walls were made of sand and Elena’s voice was the tide

coming in, they simply disintegrated.  ere was no loud

crashing sound, no shocked feeling of destruction. e

barrier around my emotions was simply there…and then it

had slipped away. All the pain, all the sorrow came pouring

out as I crumpled, Elena’s arms suddenly around me,

holding me, trying to cushion my descent with her body

and we ended up on the floor, a tangled mass of limbs.

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I cried like a child, missing my grandmother so badly I

thought I might just shatter into a million pieces, never to

be repaired. Elena held me and rocked me and whispered

comforting words as her lips pressed to my hair, to my

temple, as her arms wrapped tightly around me. I fisted her

shirt in my hand and let it all out, sobbing against her

chest and feeling such a sense of loss, I wondered if I’d ever

recover.

I have no idea how long we sat there. I think I’d

started to doze a bit because the next thing I knew, Steve

was curled up beside me, his little body warming my hip. I

petted him absently and as he lifted his head and looked at

me, I had a flash of something almost…human in his eyes,

like he knew exactly what was going on and he was

comforting me the only way he could. I scratched behind

his ears and tried to offer a reassuring smile. I think I fell

short.

“Hey, let’s get you to bed,” Elena said softly. “You need

to rest. Come on.”

She somehow managed to stand up and pull me up,

too, without letting me lose contact with her body. Her

arm tightly around my shoulders and holding me close, she

walked me up the stairs and to my room. In my zombie-

like state, I was barely able to operate. I have very little

recollection of Elena undressing me or helping me into a

T-shirt and pulling back the covers on my bed.

“Steve,” I croaked.

“I’ll take care of him. Just lie down. I’ll be right back.”

She left the room, calling my dog with her. I

remember hearing the sliding glass door open and close a

couple times. en I thought I heard Elena’s voice, but I

wasn’t sure. My body felt like lead and my eyelids were

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lined with sandpaper and didn’t want to stay open. I turned

on my side and my gaze fell on the 5 x 7 framed photo of

Grandma and me on the day I graduated from college.

Tears blurred my vision and I buried my face in my pillow

so I couldn’t see the picture.

Sleep must have claimed me for a while because the

next thing I remember was Elena crawling under the

covers with me. It was fully dark out now and she smelled

of dish soap and toothpaste. She spooned up behind me,

wrapping me in the warmth of her embrace.

“What about Max?” I asked, worried about her leaving

her son home alone, not registering that she’d never do

such a thing.

“He’s fine. Cindy’s got him.”

“What? What about—”

But she interrupted me. “We have a lot to talk about

and we’ll get to that.” Her lips grazed my ear in a sweet

kiss. “But for tonight, I’m right here.”

“Why?”

“Because you need me.”

“I do.”

I was surprised by my own sleepy admission and I

wasn’t so tired and emotionally wrecked that I didn’t

understand what she was doing for me or that it didn’t

make everything between us magically better. I wanted to

grab onto her comment that we had to talk, but my brain

was too fogged with grief and exhaustion. I was simply

thankful and chose not to look beyond that, at least for the

moment.

“Elena?”

“Hm?”

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“I don’t know what to do. I mean…about a funeral or

any of that. I have no idea what to do.”

“It’s okay.” I could feel her breath against my hair in

the dark. “We’ll figure it out together tomorrow.”

“Okay.” I let the relief wash over me, so much better

than the sorrow. But the funny thing about sorrow is that

it never quite goes away. It just hides for a little while and

then pops back up like a spot of grease you thought you

washed out. “Elena?”

“Hm?”

“I’m all alone now.” I sounded eight years old and I

knew it and I didn’t care. It was how I felt.

“No, you’re not.” Elena’s arms tightened around my

worn out body and battered soul. “You have me.”

I wanted to think about that, to ask her exactly what

she meant, to tell myself she was just trying to make me

feel better. But my mind couldn’t hang on to any individual

thought. ey floated away like balloons on a sunny day as

grogginess overtook me and I fell into a deep, dreamless

sleep.

275

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Maria Walker turned out to be a godsend in the days

that followed. Elena called her on Saturday morning and

said only one thing: “Mama, Avery and I need your help.”

She was on my doorstep within an hour, gave me a

lengthy, heartfelt hug that almost started my waterworks

up all over again, and took over like the best of personal

assistants. Coming from a Greek family whose size and

scope I couldn’t even begin to fathom, she’d been through

dozens of wakes and funerals and knew exactly what

needed to be done.

e two of them went with me to Grandma’s

apartment. I wasn’t sure I was ready to go in, but Elena was

right: if Grandma was as organized as I always claimed she

was, she probably had files with her final wishes, a will, etc.

Turned out she’d already made arrangements with the

funeral home of her choice, the one whose card Sandra

Johnson had given me previously. She even had a burial

plot, of which I was completely unaware, that she and my

long-lost grandfather had purchased over thirty years

earlier. She would be laid to rest next to her own parents,

which gave me some sense of comfort.

Maria helped me go through Grandma’s clothes, for

which I was grateful because it would have been easy to

simply stand in her closet for hours and smell each and

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every item, becoming lost in sense memory. I chose her

emerald green suit, which she not only loved, but looked

smashing in. She had matching low-heeled pumps to go

with it, so I grabbed those, too. Maria reminded me to also

select undergarments, which was kind of weird. Even as a

child, I don’t remember ever going through my

grandmother’s underclothes or seeing her in less than a slip

and pantyhose. I must have looked a bit hesitant because

Maria cheered me up by telling me the story of when her

older sister Angela’s husband passed away and she forgot

to bring his underpants to the funeral home. e thought

of her husband entering the Great Beyond while going

commando really didn’t sit well with Angela and she’d

turned teary-eyed to her brother, Stavros, who sighed and

went into the men’s room to take off his own BVDs, which

he then donated to his sister’s late husband.

I’m not a religious person at all, but I was thanking