I heard my mother let out a huge exhale in the den and the steady count: three hundred and five, three hundred and six, stopped.
Stepping quietly out of bed, I tiptoed into the hallway; my father was asleep on the couch, and my mother was neatening up the bookshelves, sticking the horizontal books into vertical slats.
Mommy, I called.
She didn’t turn around, just held out her arm and I went right to it.
My baby, she said, and I felt myself blooming.
We sat down on the couch, curled together, my knees in a V on her thigh. Her side was warmer than usual from the sit-ups, even a little bit damp. She leaned her head against mine and we both stared ahead, at the closed drapes that were ivory, specked with brown.
I’m hungry, I said.
Me too.
We stood and went to the refrigerator. I found some leftover spaghetti. My mother opened the freezer doors, rummaged around and brought out half a cake.
I never knew there was cake in there, I mumbled, stuffing a forkful of noodles into my mouth.
It was chocolate on the outside and sealed carefully in plastic.
This was from Grandma’s funeral, she told me.
I blinked. No way, I said. The marzipan one? I loved that cake.
You tried it? My mother unwrapped it.
I ate at least three pieces, I said. It was the best food at the wake by far.
She cut me a thin slice and put it on my place mat.
Most ten-year-olds don’t like marzipan, she told me. It’s Grandma’s favorite, marzipan is, she said. You must’ve gotten the taste from her.
I nibbled at its edge. It was cold and grainy from the freezer.
Delicious, I said, savoring the almond paste as it spread out in my mouth.
My mother cut herself a piece, grabbed a fork from the drying rack and sat down across from me.
Why do we have it? I asked.
She shrugged. You know some people keep pieces of wedding cake, she said, taking a bite.
In the morning, my father was holding the photograph of his father in his lap.
Edwin, I said. Handsome Grandpa Edwin.
He pulled me close to him. Grandpa Edwin had thick brown curls.
He really was an asshole, my father said.
I started laughing: loud, full laughter.
He put a hand over my mouth and I laughed into his palm.
Sssh, Lisa, he said. Don’t laugh about it.
It’s funny, I mumbled.
Don’t laugh at a dead man, he said.
I had a few left in me and I let them out, but they were half their big belly laugh size by then.
How’s the hole? I asked, when I was done. Does it hurt?
Nah, he said. It’s no big deal.
Can I see?
He raised his thin undershirt.
Can I touch? I asked. He nodded. I gingerly put my fingertips on the inner circle; his skin felt like skin.
So where do you think it went? I asked.
What, he said, the skin?
Everything, I said: the skin, the ribs that were in the way, the stomach acid, all of it.
I guess it’s all still in there, he said. I guess it’s just pushed to the side.
I think it’s cool, I said, imagining a new sports game kind of like basketball that revolved around my father.
He put his shirt back down, a curtain falling. I don’t, he said. But it didn’t kill me, he said, and I’m grateful for that.
• • •
At dinner my grandmother cooked her famous soup with tiny hot dogs floating in a thick bean broth.
I missed this soup, I said, I never thought I’d eat this soup again. This is my favorite soup in the whole world.
Hannah promptly lost a piece of bread inside and poked around the bowl with her fork.
Let’s hold hands, said my mother, before we start.
I swallowed the spoonful in my mouth.
I grabbed Hannah’s hand and my grandmother’s hand. One was soft and mushy and the other one was soft and mushy, but different kinds of soft and different kinds of mushy.
My mother closed her eyes.
We never say prayers, I interrupted.
We are today, said my mother.
I bowed my head.
So what do we say? I asked, looking down into my soup which was bobbing along. Something about bread?
Sshh, said my father. It’s a silent prayer.
No, it’s not that, said my mother, I’m still thinking.
Ow, Hannah told my father, you’re squeezing too hard.
I think we’re supposed to be thankful, I hinted.
Hannah turned and glared at me. Shut up, she said. Give her a second.
My grandmother was quiet, smelling her soup.
Needs salt, she whispered.
My mother looked up.
I’m not sure what to say, she said. Her eyebrows furrowed, uncertain.
Let’s make it up, I said. I squeezed Hannah’s hand and my grandma’s hand, and at the same time, they squeezed back.
I’ll start it, I said, and we’ll go around the circle.
My mother looked relieved. Good, she said, that sounds good.
I would like to say thanks, I began, for my parents and my sister and for the special appearance of Grandma … I turned to Hannah.
… And for Grandma’s soup which is the best soup and is way better than that fish thing we were going to eat. She faced my father.
He cleared his throat. There’s usually something about survival in good prayers, he said. Thanks for that.
My mother gave him a look. That’s so impersonal, she said.
He shrugged. I’m on the spot, he said. Survival is important to me.
My mother looked us all over and I could see the candle flame flickering near her eye. Her gaze held on her mother.
We all waited.
It’s your turn, I said, in case she’d forgotten.
She didn’t look at me. She stood up, breaking the handlinks she had made, and sat close to her mother.
My father began eating his soup.
I have a cake from your funeral, she said.
I felt myself lift inside. I squeezed down on Hannah’s hand. She said Ouch.
Cake? my grandmother said. What kind of cake?
Marzipan cake, my mother said.
My grandmother smiled. Marzipan? she said. That’s my favorite.
I stood up; I wanted to be the one; I went to the freezer, opened it, dug around and found the cake wedged beneath the third ice tray like a small football.
Here, I said. Here it is.
My mother grabbed it out of my hands.
Just a taste, she said.
Let’s all have some! I said. We can all eat funeral cake!
Just a little, my mother said.
Oh come on! I said. Let’s make it: into five pieces.
My mother looked at me.
Okay, she said. Five pieces. Her face looked lined and tired as she cut up the cake. I passed a piece to each of us. My grandmother bit into hers right away.
Mmm, she said. That is good, now that is good.
My mother did not eat hers. She wrapped it back in the plastic.
My grandmother kept eating and oohing. I bit into mine. Hannah gave me hers; she hates marzipan. I nearly hugged her. My father ate his quickly, like an appetizer.
I remember, said my mother, we all thought you would’ve liked it. We said you would’ve loved it.
My grandmother licked her lips. I do love it, she said. She pointed. Are you going to eat your piece?
No, said my mother.
Can I have it? she asked. I haven’t had such good marzipan in I don’t know how long.
No, my mother said, closing her fingers over her piece. I want to keep mine, she said.
Oh come on, said my father, let the lady have her cake. It was her funeral cake for God’s sake.
I finished my slice. I still had Hannah’s.
Here, Grandma, I said, Hannah didn’t want hers. I slid the whitish slab onto her plate.