Page 52 - San Diego Woman Magazine

WRITER ' S SPO TLIGHT

A Birthday Cake

by Ava Lepor

“I make a special exception for Matil- you be having Thanksgiving dinner with
da’s birthday,” she says, interrupting my your family?” I ask the old lady.
thoughts. “I will be alone,” she says. Her emer-
“And what kind of cake will Matilda ald-green eyes do not hide her sadness.
be getting?” I ask, regretting the question “But what about your daughter,
I am waiting at the Sweet Dreams as it tumbles out of my mouth. Matilda?”
Bake Shop with my ticket, number fif- “Same as always, strawberry short- “Matilda was killed long ago by a
ty-four, in my hand. cake with a fresh cherry on top!” she drunk driver,” she says, “or she’d be with
The white-capped bakery clerk stands insists. “I will never let them stick a me now.”
behind the counter over the display case doctored-up cherry on my daughter’s I register this bit of information
filled with all the desserts I crave: Delec- birthday cake. Never!” She waves a bony, with difficulty, trying to hide my shock
table, decadent chocolate éclairs, Italian blue-veined fist. and confusion. Is this a demented old
crostata di frutta, lemon meringue pie, “Ticket number thirty-two!” an- woman or a bitter mother grieving a
and so much more. nounces the clerk. The smiling customer child long gone?
It is the day before Thanksgiving, and collects her pumpkin pies and a box of “But you said you were here to
it seems like the entire town is shop- lemon cookies. My mouth hasn’t stopped buy Matilda’s birthday cake,” I object
ping here. Based on my number, there watering the entire time I’ve been wait- obtusely.
are twenty-six customers ahead of me. I ing. “Yes, I am. Every year, I get my
came for bagels and baguettes, but I don’t The old lady scowls as the next cus- daughter a birthday cake and bring it
believe I can withstand a long wait in a tomer, a portly middle-aged gentleman, home. I celebrate her birthday the same
bakery smelling of apple pie and chocolate orders three dozen glazed doughnuts, a as ever.”
chip cookies. Tough luck, I think, this seven-layer cake, brioche, and a cherry It occurs to me that she may be
really is sweet torture. pie. bitter and eccentric, though not actual-
“Sugar is the devil,” someone says to “He’s digging his own grave,” the sour ly demented. My heart goes out to the
nobody in particular. It is an elderly wom- old lady snorts. She looks around at the bereft old lady. I instinctively want to
an seated on her walker. other customers, shaking her head. She protect her, to befriend her. To take her
“Have you come just for bread, then?” looks as though she has never tasted a home with me.
I inquire, trying to be polite. doughnut in her life. My thoughts are interrupted by the
She shakes her head. “Matilda is turn- “I’ve just come for bread,” I say, hop- insistent ringing of my cell phone. “Hel-
ing six, so I’m buying her birthday cake.” ing she will think better of me than the lo,” I answer. “Yes, this is Kate Wetherly.”
She fingers her ticket, number fif- others. She looks me over, and I wonder It’s the architecture firm I’m slated to
ty-two, only two ahead of mine. We might if she will criticize me, too. begin work at on Monday. They want
as well chat; we both have a long wait “Well, I can see you don’t eat sugar,” me to show up an hour early the first
ahead. she finally decides, satisfied. I exhale, day. “Okay, no problem,” I say politely,
“How lovely,” I say. “So is Matilda your thinking I give in sometimes, though I do thinking longingly about the extra hour
great-granddaughter?” try to limit it. I’m also an exercise nut, so of sleep I will be missing.
She frowns, disapproval etched on her I burn up calories like crazy. Yet I still feel The old lady eyes me curiously.
face. “Matilda is my daughter,” she says guilty by nature. “Well, now, Miss Wetherly, is it?”
icily. The aromas in the bakery are over- “Yes,” I smile. “And you are—?”
“I see,” I say, as I don’t see at all. powering. I fear that my willpower will “Cybill McLintock. Pleased to make
Looking at her, I figure the old lady must be defeated, especially if the old lady your acquaintance.” She offers her hand,
be in her nineties, probably suffering from leaves before I place my order. making the introduction official.
dementia. My great-aunt Gertrude used to The clerk calls ticket number thir- We talk some more. I tell her about
believe she was a teenager when she was in ty-seven. I’m getting antsy, so I figure I my upcoming design-consulting job,
her eighties. might as well make more small talk. “Will and that I recently moved to San Diego

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