Chapter 26 Mariah
“You should not accept that offer from Vince,” Hope said.
I opened the back door and stepped onto the screened porch. Sabrina was in the backyard spray-painting mason jars white. The intensity in her face told me this project was not about creating but escaping.
“This woman is obsessed with mason jars,” I said.
“What?” Hope was thrown off by my inserting what I was observing in the middle of what she was saying.
“Sabrina is spray-painting jars.”
“Her ability to take something and make it more beautiful is a gift,” Hope said.
Hope was always an advocate for my sister’s artistry, maybe because she used to dabble in art herself, but it got on my nerves. Sometimes I just wanted an ally. Someone to say, “Girl, she’s doing too much.” But Hope was always Hope. She was honest to a fault when I wanted a lie.
I suppressed a chuckle. Dr. Johnson would ask, “What do you think that alliance does for you? What does a lie ever do for us?” Did I need therapy? I was getting good with the questions. I could analyze myself.
“My mother never painted the jars. You have to be able to see the cake inside to want it.”
“Sabrina is doing it her own way. Maybe making them fancier makes them more of a keepsake,” Hope replied. “And you are focused on the wrong thing. Have you talked to your attorney about that sorry offer Vince made you?”
“I’ll call today.”
“No, you won’t.” Hope let out an exasperated groan. “You’re dead set on letting Vince rob you.”
I was no longer focused on Sabrina. Hope had snatched me fully into our conversation. “Why would you say that?”
“Because this is what you do.”
“Greenville is not like Turnin County. You don’t know how small counties work. His father, before he died, hunted with two of the three judges for thirty years. His cousin is the third judge.”
“Maybe the lawyer could get your divorce dealt with in another county.”
“A change of venue for a divorce? You watch too much television.”
“And you have way too little faith in God.”
I rolled my eyes. “That’s a leap. How did we get all the way to my faith?”
“I’m not wrong. It’s been more than a week since you received that email with that pitiful offer. Call your attorney and stop acting like you don’t have any power.”
Hope didn’t give me a second to say a thing.
“Losing everything to him will only give you something else to mope about. You already have a long list.”
That hurt. She didn’t have to be so honest. “Wow, Hope. And just why are you friends with me?”
“Because I love your crazy behind. I’ve loved you since those folks at South Carolina State made us roommates freshman year.”
I felt a tug of nostalgia, but still, she wasn’t showing me any mercy right now. “I can’t tell right now.”
“Because I’m holding you accountable? Please.” She chuckled, sending the message that she was sick of me. “Look, I have a meeting with my boss, so I have to go. I fully expect an update, or I’m driving to Georgetown this weekend and kicking you in the butt.”
My heart warmed a little because she’d do just that. “I wouldn’t mind seeing you.”
“You’re looking at me right now,” Hope said. She wagged her index finger in front of her face. “Show up for yourself. You’re the only one who can.”
We ended the FaceTime call. Kenni and Sabrina were playing now. Kenni was chasing Sabrina with a water hose. I watched them for a while. They had such a fun, carefree nature about their relationship. I loved that for Kenni. Children deserved joy.
I turned and walked into the house. It was Monday afternoon; therefore, it was time for yet another therapy session. Hope wasn’t giving me enough credit. I was trying to work out my issues, but this stuff was like a crusty oven. It took time to get the baked-on crud off. That’s what I told myself; however, as I sat in Dr. Johnson’s office, I realized I was already weary of this process. I didn’t want to do this anymore. She had pushed one of my buttons—a big one called Lorraine Holland. Lorraine was not a Monday session kind of conversation.
It’s said that body language is more than 70 percent of communication, or some high number like that. As a therapist, Dr. Johnson would know that, and if she was reading me the way I knew she was, she knew... I was over it.
“Let’s take this conversation in a different direction. Tell me something that was good since the last time you were here.”
I cleared my throat and sat up straighter than I had been sitting. The first thing that popped into my mind surprised me. It wasn’t the fact that we got all the flooring in and it looked fantastic or the fact that the new windows arrived and were ready to be installed or that the installer was coming tomorrow instead of next week like he originally told us. Or even that we had a 50 percent increase in sales on the food truck over the weekend. It was Grandpa—he walked three feet without his cane yesterday—and Kenni—she drew a stick figure of me surrounded by sunshine and flowers. I was not a sunny person, but she saw me that way.
I told Dr. Johnson both, and the corners of her mouth tipped up like I’d said the right answer. But we both knew there were no right answers, so I wondered.
“You smiled a little,” I said. “What made you do that?”
“You found the joy quickly.”
“That’s improvement?” I asked, stating the obvious.
“Do you feel like it is?”
I let out a wry chuckle. “Of course. I’ve struggled to see...” I stopped talking, remembering how Sabrina was always telling me I saw glasses as half empty, and then a memory surfaced strong in my mind. It was of me in the kitchen with my mother. Me on a stool at the island, arms folded watching her pour ingredients into a bowl from glass mixing cups—large ones and small ones, all the cup sizes. She used flour, sugar, cocoa powder, and other ingredients.
My mother was trying to teach me to make a cake. She was always showing me and giving me cooking tips, or maybe she was talking to herself, enjoying her craft while using me as her audience. It reminded me of someone narrating a recipe on a cooking show.
“See, I sift the dry ingredients first.”
She mixed them with a whisk until it looked like she was tired of doing it, and then she reached for the cup that held the yellow milk.
“Buttermilk is heavier than regular milk, so I use a little less water.”
“A half-empty cup,” I offered.
“No, the cup is half full.” Mama smiled and tipped my chin up. “It’s always half full, not half empty.”
“What are you thinking about, Mariah?”
“My mother.”
“What about her?”
“She and I spent a lot of time in the kitchen.”
Dr. Johnson looked curious. “Okay, and...”
I shifted in my chair. That memory. It was my last one. “My father’s favorite cake was my mother’s chocolate, and it was the last cake she baked.”
I wanted to get back to the topic. “You asked me if I thought finding the joy faster was an improvement. I was going to say... Sabrina sees glasses half full, and I see them half empty. But my mother told me glasses were always half full.”
“Go on.”
“Mama didn’t have to tell Sabrina that. She figured it out on her own.”
“And?”
“What would my mother think if she knew I was down here seeing life through the wrong lens? At six, she was telling me that it’s always half full.”
Dr. Johnson made a note.
“You told me last week that the brain processes information whether it’s real or not.”
Dr. Johnson nodded. “I did.”
“I see half-empty glasses everywhere, Dr. Johnson. I have lived my life being negative, being afraid, never believing I would have abundance. Even when I had it, I didn’t expect it to last, so I have gotten exactly what I have believed in.”
I thought about Hope’s words about my faith. She’d been so right. I hadn’t followed up with my divorce attorney, using the excuse that I had time because in this state you had to be separated for a year, but that was no reason for me not to have my demands in writing.
I cocked my head and looked at Dr. Johnson. “I accept half-empty glasses.”
“You’re here, Mariah.”
Tears streamed down my face, a river of hot, salty ones that I could not hold back.
Dr. Johnson gave me a minute before she said, “How are you and Sabrina doing?”
“I think she has something going on with her. She seems sad or stressed. She and Grandma have had some hushed conversations.”
“Have you thought about asking her if she’s okay?”
I shook my head. “I don’t think I’ve ever asked my sister if she was okay.”
“Maybe you can give it a try.”
“She’d probably faint from shock.” I chuckled bitterly.
“Find something nice to say to Sabrina. Maybe about something at the restaurant that she’s done.”
I reached across the desk for a tissue. My nose was still running a little from the crying.
“Remember, Sabrina is a creative person. She’s not as practical as you are. That doesn’t mean either of your styles is wrong. It just means she probably appreciates a compliment about something she’s used her creativity for.”
“I like what she’s done with the décor.”
“Then tell her. It’ll be a nice way to enter into a conversation with her. Remember, you have to do the work at home too.”
I was out of time. The session was over.
“Do I have homework this week?”
Dr. Johnson stood and walked me to the door. “Yes. I want you to make a list of things that trigger sadness. Chocolate cake might be near the top. If you feel like you can’t do it, we can save it for a session.”
I nodded. I already felt triggered by writing the trigger list. I supposed the homework was supposed to get harder.
“Don’t dwell on the list as you make it. Don’t try to psychoanalyze yourself.” Dr. Johnson smiled. “Don’t get stuck in the crossfire of inner talk. Sorting through the whats and whys can be polarizing. Give yourself grace.”
***
I didn’t want to ask anyone for a recipe for chocolate cake, not Sabrina or Grandma or even Dante, so I found a recipe on the internet. I didn’t want anyone to know I was making it, so much so that I purchased all the ingredients and took them to the restaurant to bake on Tuesday night when no one was going to be there.
I measured out all the ingredients, set the temperature on the oven, and then stood there looking at everything. I knew this was going to be hard when I shopped for the ingredients, but now it felt impossible. Dr. Johnson did not tell me to do this, but I didn’t need her to tell me everything. Baking was a trauma trigger.
Some triggers could be avoided. You don’t have to go to certain places if you were traumatized there. If you almost drowned, you don’t have to go near a pool. If you were attacked by a mugger while jogging, you don’t have to jog the same trail or run at all. But a trigger that you had to meet needed a solution. Restaurants had baked goods. Confronting this one was necessary.
I poured the flour in the mixing bowl, then the sugar, baking soda, and baking powder. I continued until I had the batter complete. By the time I put it in the oven, I was perspiring, feeling nauseous, and in general wanted to escape. By the time the cake came out of the oven, I had one of my headaches.
“This was a bad idea.”
My phone rang. I glanced down and saw Dante’s name and face flashing. I answered.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
I felt oddly seen. “What, are you psychic?”
“No. I’m outside wondering why you’re inside at this time of night.”
I sighed. “I’m fine.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m positive.”
“You still haven’t told me why you’re in there.”
“It’s personal.”
“Are you on a cooking date or something?”
I smirked like he could see me. “I don’t date.”
“Well, then I’m coming in.”
“Don’t,” I cried.
“Too late,” he said. I heard the key in the back door, and seconds later he was standing there. “A what gwan on in me kitchen?”
I chuckled, glad to see him. I was always glad to see Dante. He was like the brother I never had. Younger but older at the same time, because if someone could be blessed with the gift of wisdom, he had it.
Dante squinted like he had to be imagining the scene in front of his eyes. He walked to the island. “You baked a cake?”
I took a deep breath. “I’m minding my business.”
“I thought you didn’t bake.”
“I’m in therapy. Baking is apparently something I need to do.”
Dante rubbed his hand over his head. “Why is your relationship with cake so complicated, Mariah?”
“Sir, I pay someone to ask me that question.”
“Okay, so this is some kind of serious.” He leaned against the island. “I’m sorry I interrupted.” He looked like he meant it, but still, he didn’t move.
Neither did I. I propped my hand on my hip and looked down at my flour-dusted shoes. When I was done calming my inner enemy, I raised my eyes. “My mother was a baker.”
Dante nodded. “This I’ve been told.”
“And I’ve had a really complicated relationship with chocolate cake.”
“And de jar cakes too,” Dante said, infusing his Gullah tongue. I liked when he did that. It reminded me of my grandfather, but not quite, because Dante’s Gullah was kind of hot.
“It’s just the jar cakes baked by my sister.”
He nodded. “That explains a lot—I think.”
He did not look like I was making sense to him, so I continued, “You’ve seen me be crazy about it.”
Dante’s facial expression was downgraded to a frown. “Don’t use that word. It’s not right.”
“My therapist told me that. I think it’s a habit.”
“A bad one.”
“On the list of others I have to break on this journey to being a better human.”
Dante pushed off the island and came closer. He stood right in front of me, raised his arms, and said, “Bring it in, boss.”
I hesitated before stepping forward, but then let myself be hugged. I closed my eyes. Allowed him to tighten his grip. He squeezed in the right places. It felt good to be hugged by someone strong. It also didn’t feel brotherly, which was a bit concerning.
Dante smelled good, like cinnamon and lavender with hints of orange and something spicy. My nose was sharp. The ingredients were food, but they came together and gave off a heady scent that was sexy.
Dante let me wiggle free. I swiped a tear off my cheek and got myself together.
“You’re good,” he said. “At least you will be.”
I nodded and released a cleansing breath.
“So,” he said, looking at my cake, “we gwan cut this or what?”
I stared at it for a long moment before realizing what I needed to do. “Or what.” I picked up the plate and turned it upside down over the trash.
Dante frowned. “It probably wasn’t that good anyway.”
I laughed, loud and strong and gut clearing.
He shrugged. “I’m just saying. You ain’t baked in almost thirty years.”
I laughed some more.
He sucked his teeth. “Wastin’ food like it grows on trees. That’s not the Gullah way.”
“It’s cheaper than my copay with the doctor.”
He raised a finger and said, “Ah, I see what you did there. Smart woman.” Dante pulled the trash bag out of the can, tied it, and tossed it near the door; then he rolled up his sleeves. “Let me help you clean up my kitchen.” He took the plate from my hand and walked to the sink, carrying my burden with him.
I was wrong. This was a good idea.