Penny
It was just a simple confession about a boy who loves his Kool-Aid. To most people this would be a story about poverty, but to me it’s about overcoming where you came from and striving to become more.
Frances Eugene Shapiro, quiet and soft spoken. A far cry from his intimidating bouncer persona. I wish there was more to me than what you see. But what you see is what you get.
He’s looking at me, like he’s waiting for an answer. “What?” I mumble.
“I was just wondering … what’s your Kool-Aid?” His curious eyes pierce through me.
“Oh, well … I … uh,” I stutter unsure of what to say, wishing I had some awesome secret confession about a hidden collection tied to my childhood. But being bounced all around in foster homes there wasn’t time for making lasting memories or quirky habits.
“It’s okay. If you don’t.”
Ashamed, I look away. “Maybe I do,” I huff out, trying to think of something.
“I was going to say, you don’t have to share.” He takes a seat next to me placing our drinks on the coffee table, and the popcorn between us.
“Oh.” I stare at the screen as the familiar sounds of Grey’s fills the room. There must be something. But it’s hard wading through the memories I spent so long trying to forget to search for just one worth holding on to. One worth sharing.
Pausing the show, I stand up, grab a throw from the love seat, and plop back down this time facing him.
“Oh good. Story time.” Shapiro throws his arm around the back of the couch and twists toward me.
Cringing, I search for some kind of story, but the truth of it is, there’s nothing. Like most who have a highlight reel of memories, I have forgettable encounters. Situations that are better left in the past.
“Would you believe me if I said, I don’t have one?” Shapiro listens contently, while eating a handful of popcorn. “At least not until recently.” I opt for the truth. “I grew up in foster care. My mother was a druggy who died in an alley sitting on a bed of cardboard boxes with a needle sticking out of her arm.”
“You didn’t have any family who could take you in?” Shapiro asks, setting the bowl of popcorn down. All his attention now on me.
“I had my grandmother, but right after my eighth birthday, she was involved in a head on collision. She died instantly.” I should feel some sort of sadness for myself, but I don’t. When you have been dealt the deck that I have been, you just learn to go with it. This was my norm. “I barely knew my mother and my grandmother tried. She really did …” I throw out there. Not sure who I’m trying to convince, Shapiro or myself. “But we weren’t close. I guess when you have to work extra hours to take care of a child you never wanted in the first place, resentment sets in.”
“I’m sure she loved you, she just wasn’t expecting to raise another child. You know?” Shapiro speaks up trying to convince me that I was loved.
“Maybe … I stayed with the neighbor while she worked and locked myself in my room when we she was home. Just to give her more space.”
“You were eight and basically locked in your room?” Shapiro’s voice is void of emotion, but his facial expression says something different.
“It was a choice.”
Was it?
I’ve never told anyone this before. These memories long gone. Recalling the events makes me see that I was making excuses even back then.
“What about the neighbor. Sounds like you spent a lot of time with them. Couldn’t they take you in?”
“She tried, but she had three other kids. Two boys and one girl, Lisa, who hated me.”
“Ohhhh! Girls can be vicious. I should know, I lived with four.” He chuckles.
“She said she was okay with it. Even said we could be sisters. My eight-year-old self was elated, but once she learned we had to share a room, that was it.”
“You said you were in and out of foster homes?” Shapiro reaches up to rub his dark stubble.
That’s new and I can’t help it, losing my train of thought, I stare for a second before asking, “When did you start growing that?”
“When you were asleep.”
I nod at his omission. “Gotcha.”
“Avoiding the question?”
“Huh?”
“It’s okay if you don’t want to talk, but you mentioned foster homes as in multiple.”
“Sorry. I guess I was just distracted.” I smile.
“By me?”
“By your stubble.” I give Shapiro a toothy grin. “Any who …” I wave him off. The compliment here and then gone. “I’m not sure if I have any other family. If I did, they didn’t claim me.”
“I can’t even begin to imagine. Living in poverty, yeah, I get but I always had my sisters, Mama Ang.”
“It’s okay. I’m used to it.” I try to reassure him.
“No. It’s not.” Shapiro locks his eyes on mine—dark and intense. “Everyone deserves someone to love them.”
Clearing my throat, I look away and whisper, “Mama Ang loved me.”
Feeling the cushion rise, Shapiro is up and kneeling in front of me. “She did. You were the daughter she never had.” He reaches for my hands, this time I don’t pull back. “I know you think she saved you, but you saved her too.” He rubs the soft spot between my finger and thumb with his.
Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath and speak on an exhale. “Baking.”
Shapiro pauses with his relaxing hand massage. “Baking?”
Opening my eyes, I explain, “Yeah. it’s my Kool-Aid.”
His laugh vibrates through me. This room may be soundproof, but with our hands connected, I can feel everything.
Every word.
Every beat.
Every breath.
I feel him.
Slowly pulling back his hands, he rises. “I think this story calls for popcorn.” He grabs the bowl from the coffee table and offers me some.
“No, thank you.”
“Suit yourself. It’s the movie theater kind.” He grabs a handful as he falls back into his spot.
I can’t help but watch him pop a handful in his mouth. Trying to get every kernel in, his tongue darts out to lick the corner of his mouth. His lips glistening from the extra butter.
“Umm …” I clear my throat.
“Here.” He hands me my drink. A special occasion blend of grape and lemonade. “A Kool-Aid for your Kool-Aid.”
Throwing my head back, I shake with laughter. “Cute, Shapiro. Real cute,” I admit taking the glass from him.
“I thought it was.” The corner of his lips curl as he waves me on. “Don’t let me stop you. Go on.”
“You know how Kool-Aid is your happy place?” I wait for him to answer.
“Yeah.”
“Well, apparently baking is mine.”
Shapiro nods, as he drains his glass. Suddenly, his eyes go wide as he points to me. “Easy Bake Oven!” he shouts. “My sisters loved theirs, except we couldn’t afford the mixes, but that didn’t stop them. They tried to make their own. Can you believe that?”
“I bet that was messy.” I bring my legs up to curl them under me. Attentively hanging on every word.
“Beyond.” Shapiro erupts in laughter. “Mom would get so pissed.” He shakes his head at the memory.
“Unfortunately, I never had the privilege of owning one, but I did have one foster mom who loved those brownie and cookie mixes. We may not have had bread and milk, but we always had oil and eggs.”
“That sucks.” Shapiro purses his lips.
“I thought it was pretty cool. What kid wouldn’t want brownies or cookies for every meal?”
“One that has to have milk with their baked goods.” He shrugs. “It’s a must.”
“Noted.” I can’t help but smile.
I dreaded this conversation, but now? I want to make it last because when it’s over, Grey’s will come back on and our thoughts will be just that.
“I’m sorry. I keep interrupting you. So, tell me more.” Shapiro reaches over and grabs the end of my throw, covering his feet.
Moving around, to get comfortable, his feet brush up against mine and I pull away.
“What? Feet gross you out?”
“No …”
“Then why move?”
“It’s too tempting.” I’m honest with him. “You see. I have this issue …” I try to explain the best I can. Tyler thought it was weird and would never let me do it. “You get too close and my feet have this way of burrowing under people. I’m just saving you from becoming a victim.”
“Foot-coddler.” He points to me. “Freya, my twin, does the exact same thing.”
“Good to know.”
“Dammit. I did it again.” Shapiro slaps the back of the couch. “I’m sorry. Tell me about your Kool-Aid. I think we left off at brownies and cookies without milk.” He feigns a gasp.
“Okay, yeah … that is when it started. Then in high school, I took a cooking class, which I sucked at.”
“Wait! You failed cooking one-oh-one?”
“Not exactly. Luckily the cupcakes and other bakery lessons kept my grade up.” I laugh awkwardly. “Apparently, I suck at cooking, but I can boil water. So, that’s a plus.”
“Here I was hoping to get a few good meals from you.” He gives me a smirky smile.
“I can do the basics and cook enough to survive, it’s just not my specialty.”
“Penny?”
“Yeah.”
“Why do you keep letting me interrupt?”
“I don’t know. Maybe because you make me smile … and I like it.” I expose myself with one little truth.
“It’s a pretty one.” He points to his own. “What do you think of this?” he jokes.
Kissing the tips of my fingers, I throw it away and call out. “Magnifico.”
Stretching out, he nudges his foot against my leg. “Now go on.”
“Okay.” I tap my chin trying to remember where I left off. “Well, we covered foster mom and school, but it wasn’t until I moved in with Tyler that I had an opportunity to bake.”
Shapiro coughs, “Bastard,” and coughs again.
Raising an eyebrow, I dare him to interrupt.
“Between school and working I was left home. A LOT. And they had these bake-off show marathons on TV. The ones I loved, I would look up the recipes on their website and see if I could do it.”
“I bet the asshole loved it,” he says, wringing his hands together in his lap.
“He would taste them but said he didn’t need the calories.”
“Nonsense. It’s called a gym. Eat what you want. Hit the weights … it’s an excuse to complain.” He reaches out and pats my leg. “Carry on.”
“I had cookies, muffins, tortes … you name it, I tried to make it. Since Tyler wouldn’t eat hardly anything I made, he would take it to work. My ‘experiment of the day’ he called it. Turns out his coworkers loved everything I sent. And Tyler ate it up … the attention as the doting and proud boyfriend, not the actual treats,” I remind him. “Until one suggested I start my own bakery, since we didn’t have one nearby. We had the cupcakeries, but not a full-scale bakery.”
“Why didn’t you?” Shapiro asks, but given the situation I’m currently in, I’m betting he already knows the answer.
“It would take too much time away from him. He stopped taking my treats to work, told everyone I was busy. Baking was cut out of my everyday life. He said I was wasting money we didn’t have.”
Shapiro grunts. I know he wants to say more, but his restraint is strong.
“I know what you’re thinking.”
“Trust me, you don’t.”
“I didn’t see the signs. I know they were there, but I didn’t see them,” I defend myself.
“Penny …” He drags out my name. “Love is blind. Stop blaming yourself.”
I wish it was that easy.
I can’t. How can I when I had the power to stop this? I stayed with a man, thinking I could change him. I did this.
“Shut it off.” He leans over tapping my head. “The wheels are going.”
“Fine,” I huff out.
“Now, stop interrupting yourself.” He leans back and chuckles.
“You did!” I snort. “You grunted.”
“It’s a noise, Penny. Just a noise.”
“A loud one that made me forget what I was talking about.” I bite back the laugh fighting to get out.
“Carry on.” He’s waving me on again.
My eyes narrow into slits. “I stopped baking.”
“Huh?”
“He wanted more time. I stopped baking.”
“Oh!” He raises his finger in the air like a light bulb went off.
“Spoiler alert!” he shouts. “Mama Ang!”
My turn now, I lean up and smack his leg. “My story!” I shout, falling back against the armrest, crossing my arms.
“Touché.”
As I prepare to carry on and tell him how Mama Ang helped me find my Kool-Aid, I can’t help but get lost in the memory of that evening. It’s the night I figured out what she already knew, that baking wasn’t just a hobby it was a need.
“I’m not sure what’s wrong with me?” I begin pacing the family room. Rattling the shelves of ceramic gingerbread houses.
“Talk to me, dear. Tell Mama Ang what’s bothering you.” She tries to walk beside me.
“I don’t know.” I bend over, hands on knees trying to get my breathing under control. Claiming I don’t have a clue, but I do.
We were just watching a marathon of one of the bake-off shows I used to love. Mama Ang would shout at the television while I just smiled, but then there was an episode where a woman told her backstory and hers was similar to mine. She was in an unhealthy relationship and after years of catering to everyone else, she finally walked out to do something for herself. The prize money was going to be her new beginning.
“I know what you need.” She takes ahold of my hand and guides me to the kitchen. “Shortbread roll-out.”
“What?” I look around the room trying to figure out what she wants me to do. Everything is put up. Today was our day off from baking. The first one since I got here.
“The cookie recipe. Tell me the ingredients.” She stands there waiting. “Butter.”
“Butter,” I repeat as she grabs the butter from the fridge.
“Keep going,” she encourages.
“Sugar, vanilla, eggs …” I count off and she continues to gather the ingredients. “… flour and baking powder.”
“Good.” She rubs my back, her touch calming. “Now mix,” she orders as she pulls out the stand-mixer.
“What?”
“Mix the dough for tomorrows cookies,” she repeats.
“I thought today was a no-bake day,” I reply as I throw the sticks of butter into the mixer, followed by the sugar. Flipping the switch to beat them together.
“How do you feel?” Mama Ang calls over the mixer.
Standing there, breaking open the eggs, adding one at a time, I smile. My breathing is under control. Heart rate down. I’m good.
“I’m going to be okay.” I turn off the mixer and throw in the dry ingredients.
“Kiddo, you just had a panic attack.”
“But why? I’ve been here for a couple weeks and nothing.” I prop my hip against the counter and wait for Mama Ang to shed a little light on this.
“Think about it. Since you’ve been here we have been going nonstop. Baking is your distraction. You need it, it’s your air.”
Holy crap. She’s right.
“Some people are stress eaters, some are stress bakers, and some …” She rubs her belly. “… are both.”
Since I started to bake, I’ve done this. My foster mom, high school, Tyler … I was always worried about something. Moving to another house when I just got settled in, school, and making Tyler happy.
“Baking was the only thing constant in my life.” My eyes begin to water, realizing that a few ingredients replaced my need for family.
“Kiddo …” Mama Ang pats my hand. “From now on we bake when we want.”
“I think I could tell Mama Ang stories all night.” Shapiro shakes me from my thoughts as he reaches for the remote. “But, we have a whole lot of Grey’s to catch up on.”
“First one asleep has to make breakfast.” I stand up, picking up our glasses, “Refill?”
“It’s on and yes please.” He flashes me a quick grin.
“You’re going down, Frances!” I holler out over my shoulder as I pad to the kitchen.
“Sha … !” he growls out to correct me but thinks better of it. “Oh, just forget it.”
Pouring the refills, I couldn’t help but beam with happiness. I have been through hell and back, but today, I decided to wake up and take on life.
I’m getting high!