Chapter 12
Cake Makes Everything Better
I decide that avoiding Adrian is the best way to keep my hormones, and sanity, in check. I certainly don’t want to find myself on my knees in front of him, begging him to kiss me again. Or, offering to do other things while I’m on my knees.
A few days later, I discover I didn't need to strategize how to avoid him because he's doing an awesome job being invisible. I don't see him for the rest of that week and he’s MIA for the entire weekend. I don’t ask his roommates where he is because I don’t care. Well, that’s what I’m working on believing.
Gemma, Shy, Robert and I hang at home Friday night, not feeling into the bar scene. Saturday I try to get some studying done, but I'm in a funk. Knowing it's not my best idea, I decide to go volunteer. I try not to go on days like these, but sometimes I can’t stop myself. Or I can, I just don’t.
After the loss of my own child, I thought helping other families in the neonatal intensive care unit, could be a way to help me heal. Instead, it’s become a place I go to when I’m feeling guilty about his death.
"Where you going?" Gemma asks, catching me trying to sneak out without telling her.
I avert my eyes, not wanting to see the disappointment on her face. "To the hospital." I grab my keys and open the door hoping I can escape before her lecture begins.
"Keegan." Her voice is surprisingly soothing, not that sharp edge of judgment I'm used to during this conversation. I turn to meet her gaze.
"You should think about going to the barn with Shy. She's doing some great work with Isaac, maybe it could help you work through some stuff too.”
She’s talking about Isaac, one of the foster boys she works with. He’s been hanging out at the barn with Shyanne, working with abused horses, and apparently getting better therapy than he’s gotten with any therapist.
I give her a half smile, but no commitment, and she doesn’t push it. This is a wagon we’ve circled for three years now, no major change, or insight is happening tonight.
After several hours surrounded by grieving families, pulling me deeper into my funk, I decide to spend the evening with my mom. There are some positives and negatives to attending a college twenty minutes from home.
I'm extremely close with my mom. We’ve been through a lot together. We've had some rough times, financially and emotionally. After my dad left, she had to pick up a second job for a long time. She may have been dealt a shit hand, but I rarely ever heard her complain. She does what needs to be done because that's life. This is not a trait I inherited.
I grew up about two hours east of the college, but after high school graduation, we moved to a small town twenty minutes from the college. Because I was still going to go to college, after I had the baby, we knew we needed to live closer—since most colleges don’t allow babies in dorms, I’d planned on commuting. My younger brother, Christopher, was not happy that he had to change schools the summer before his junior year, but he adjusted.
I push through the front door and I'm not surprised to see her in the kitchen, with the mixer running. My mom loves to bake and she often makes goodies to take to the café where she works. The smell of cake fills the air, and I immediately wonder if she has any cake batter left. Sitting at the counter, licking the beaters, and anything left in the bowl is where we had some of our greatest bonding moments.
Mom wipes the flower from her face as I cross the room to give her a hug. "Hey sweetie, I didn't expect to see you again so soon."
"I was at the hospital and thought I’d come hang out with my mom for the night." I may as well get the hospital information out there now so we can get the circling-the-wagon routine out of the way.
As expected, mom looks at me disapprovingly. "Keegan honey, you have to stop torturing yourself."
I sigh. “Let's not do this again, please. Besides I told you it's not about me, I'm there to volunteer… to help others."
"And I told you that you can't help others through something you've not yet overcome yourself. Every time you go there you're reliving your own trauma, and that's preventing you from healing."
There it is, the old “You’ve got to take care of yourself first” lecture. I’ve heard this so many times, from both her and Gemma, that I recite it in my head while they’re saying it. It lost its intended effect after the first seven or eight times. They need to get some new material if they expect me to learn anything from these talks.
"What smell's so good?" I ask, skirting around her and the conversation. I lean on the counter across from her, hoping we can move past this.
She studies my face for a few seconds then closes her eyes. When she opens them, she manages a weak smile, indicating she would let it go.
"Well, I’m not sure I want to tell you what I'm making."
I crease my forehead. “Because…” I hedge.
"Well,” she says, placing the measuring cups and spoons in the sink, “I’m making it for Julie, at work. Her birthday is tomorrow so I'm making her a cake."
I glance around the counter and see a can of crushed pineapple.
"Pig lickin’ cake?" I practically squeal, feeling like a kid.
My grandpa, mom’s dad, used to love pig lickin’ cake, so my grandma made it for him at least once a month. My brother was like a dog on the hunt anytime we went their house, searching to find any indication that a cake was somewhere in the house. When he’d find one, grandpa would tease us, every time, for at least ten minutes, before he’d let us have a piece. All the other food in the house was fair game, but we always knew that was his cake. He would even cut it and serve it to use. I remember thinking it was cute the way he wanted to give it to us, but now I think it was because he wanted to make sure we didn’t take too much.
Mom grimaces. "Yes, but like I said it's for Julie. I can't exactly cut a piece out for you and take it to her, missing a slice."
"You made a pig lickin’ cake and you didn't make enough for me?" I give her my biggest most pitiful, puppy dog eyes.
She sighs, exasperated. ”If we run to the store and get more Cool Whip, I have everything else we need to make another one." She says this like she's trying to appease a five-year-old.
I push off the counter and march toward the door. "Let's go."
I hear her laugh behind me, which makes me smile. Since I've graduated, and let's be honest, matured a bit, she has much less stress. So, coming back home, and having these moments where we simply enjoy being together, are some of my greatest memories.