Page 12 of All That Lies Ahead
“Cook what?”
I pause, thinking about what would be easy for us to make together. My mother didn’t get around to teaching me how to cook, and I’m not even sure my father can turn on an oven. For as long as I can remember, he’s ordered from a food service company that packages fresh meals and has them delivered to his door every day.
“I’m not a very good cook,”I tell her honestly.
She narrows her eyes a bit, then shrugs her little shoulders up to her ears. “Mom isn’t either. Dad does all the cooking. He says cooking is Mom’s own personal version of H-E-L-L. I think mine is homework.”
I laugh, momentarily considering telling her not to say hell, even if it’s only spelled out and whispered, but me telling her what to do isprobably the last thing she wants to hear right now. “I think mine is being stuck in crowds.”
“Crowds?” Willow frowns like she doesn’t quite understand. “Why? You don’t like being around people?”
“Not a lot of them anyway. When I’m in the middle of a crowd, I feel like everyone is staring at me. It makes me feel self-conscious. I don’t like when a lot of attention is on me.”
“We don’t have crowds in Gamble Springs,” she says decidedly.
“No, you don’t.” I laugh, hoping I can keep the momentum of our turning conversation. “Anyway, like I said, I’m not a chef by any means, but I do know how to make peanut butter cookies.”
I pause and she turns her head toward me, raising one eyebrow in question. If I thought she knew who The Rock was, I’d think she stole his signature look, but I have a feeling this expression is all Willow.
“Do you like cookies?” I ask her. After saying no to ice cream, who knows what other childhood sacrilege she’s going to commit.
“Well, yeah.” One corner of her mouth lifts.
“Let’s get started!”
We hop up and breeze around the kitchen in a frenzy to get started. Since I haven’t yet memorized where everything is in the cabinets, she gathers the kitchen supplies while I head to the pantry for the dry ingredients.
I’m surprised at how excited I am. It’s been years since I’ve made my mother’s recipe, and it’s fun to get to share that with another little girl. I give Willow step-by-step instructions, which she executes flawlessly.
“You have the recipe memorized? The whole thing?” Willow asks, looking at me in wonder.
It makes me laugh because I can’t remember a single time in my life anyone ever looked at me like she is right now, like I made the moon and hung it in the sky, when all I did was memorize an easy cookie recipe.“I made them all the time with my mom when I was a kid. She had a big sweet tooth and peanut butter cookies were her weakness. She loved them plain, but she’d let me sneak in chocolate chips every once in a while.”Eyebrows raised, I push the plastic bag of chocolate chips her way, letting her decide whether or not we add any.
She doesn’t hesitate, picking it up and tipping it into the bowl for a second or two. She stops and we both peer into the bowl. I shrug my shoulders in permission, and she tips it again, this time seeming pleased with the results.
“My mom was a dancer, like you,” I tell her. “Only she went on to dance professionally in the ballet.”
“Oh, wow. She must have been really good.” She begins mixing the chips into the dough.
“Yeah, she was. She taught me how to dance and then put me in classes so I could learn the different types, also like you.”
She stops stirring and tips her head to the side. “So we both like pancakes, and we both like to dance. We kind of have a lot in common.”
“Yeah, we do.” I smile warmly at her. “I teach dance too. Since you had to stop lessons, maybe I can teach you a few things here and there. We wouldn’t want my teaching skills to get rusty.”
“Are you a good dance teacher?” she asks, cocking her head to the side.
I laugh. “I like to think so. My mom was always so patient and kind with me, and it really helped me not feel discouraged, especially when I was learning a difficult skill. I try to do the same for my students.”
“Where is she now?” she asks, moving aside the bowl of cookie batter. “Will I meet her?”
She’s looking up at me with expectant eyes, and I hesitate. I don’t want to lie to her, but I’m not sure the truth will be any better.
“She died,” I say quietly, watching as the small light that had made it back into her eyes is extinguished. I turn away quickly, busying myself by grabbing the cookie sheet and coating it with non-stick spray. I grab the ice cream scoop and spoon a few round balls onto the sheet.
“How?” I hear behind me.
I stop scooping and turn to face her. She hasn’t moved from where I last saw her, shock displayed on her face.