I look down at the book in my hands, which I was so excited to share with my mother. When I glance back at her, she’s blurry, and I realize it’s because I have tears in my eyes. I blink them back.
My mom is in there somewhere, but the disease has taken over for the moment. I doubt it would appreciate an African retelling of Rapunzel as much as my mom would.
I stand. “I’ll see you later.” I catch myself before saying “Mom” at the end. That would only upset her more.
She looks up at me, her eyes blank. “Who are you?”
This time I don’t say my name. I just wave and leave. When I close the door behind me, I swipe at the tear spilling over.
I have a choice. I can dwell on the fact that my mom is slipping away and let myself feel sad and a bit sorry (and some hard days Idomake this choice), or I can choose to see the positive. There will be more good days. I still have time to be with her and make more memories.
Memories like the ones some of my coworkers shared with me today. The things that brought a smile to their faces as they reminisced about their Christmases as children. What made the holidays special and what things they missed.
Memories are precious things. Not to be taken for granted. They have the power to bring comfort, to make us smile and feel warm inside. Everyone should take the time to cherish the memories they have and be more intentional about making new, good, and lasting ones with those they love.
I can’t do much to help my mom regain her memories, but I can do a lot to help those at work relive theirs.
13
Of course Annabelle’s Nana had to make her gingerbread from scratch.
I stare at the mess I’ve made in the kitchen. Flour on the counters and even some on the floor. Speckles of cinnamon and dustings of ginger. Every surface is covered with cookie sheets, and pre-fab gingerbread walls and roofs ready to be assembled are either cooling or stacked and waiting to be hauled to the construction site—Limitless Designs. I just need to make one more batch of icing to work as mortar, and everything will be ready.
Keri stumbles into the kitchen, blinking against the light. She sniffs, her nose scrunching like a cottontail bunny. “What smells so good?”
I stop whisking my meringue powder, confectioners’ sugar, and vanilla extract mixture. “I made gingerbread.”
“Men?” She steps closer, and her eyes widen when they take in all the golden-brown rectangles.
“Umm ... not men.”
She grins and lifts her hand for a high five. I’m not sure why we’re high-fiving, but I smack her palm with mine anyway.
“I didn’t know you had it in you,” she says.
To bake enough gingerbread for everyone at work to make a house? Sure, it took a while, but it wasn’tthatdifficult.
“To one-up Jeremy like this,” she continues. “His bakery-bought cliched cookies ended in disaster, and the next day you’re showing up with all the essentials to assemble our own gingerbread houses. With gingerbread you made. From scratch.”
“That’s not why I—”
“You go, girl.”
“Keri.” The pride she’s directing at me is nice, but I don’t like that her perspective is that I deserve it at someone else’s expense. “I’m not trying to show my superiority over Jeremy. Even if my baking skills surpass his, that has no bearing on who can perform the duties of the new job better. Sofiya’s smart. She knows this.”
One of Keri’s brows slants up. “As we’ve already established, Sofiya’s judgment gets a little skewed at Christmastime. Whether you meant to or not, this right here”—she sweeps her hand over the kitchen and my three hours of hard work—“will make you look good to Sofiya.”
My stomach sinks like it just took a step in fresh snow and didn’t realize how deep the drift was.
I think of Annabelle. The wistful, happy look on her face as she told me about going to her Nana’s house as a child and making gingerbread houses. How more candy would end up in their stomachs than decorating the roofs and walls.
I hadn’t spent all morning baking to impress Sofiya or try to outshine Jeremy. I’d missed precious sleep to bring back a cherished memory for Annabelle.
“I’m going to get ready for work.” Keri turns and pads to the bathroom. A couple of minutes later, the shower turns on.
I package up everything I’ve made, careful not to crack or break any of the baked goods. The candy remains in the grocery bags from the store. I need a shower to wash away the flour and other ingredients pebbling my skin, but I have to wait my turn.Instead, I walk back to my room and stare at my clothes in the closet.
I’ve given a lot of thought to which character I should personify today, but I can’t make up my mind. It can’t be someone too crazy. I thought I was safe yesterday, but I don’t think my outfit was subtle enough. In fact, I think Jeremy may have recognized the similarities between my dress and brooch and the Starfleet uniform.
