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That our mother called them nukadells.
That Aunt Effie has little love left towards her own sister-in-law.
Our paternal and maternal side descend from two different parts of Italy. Aunt Effie, our father’s sister, likes to believe she’s “proper” Italian and our mother was poor, uneducated. At the end of the day, we’re all Italian-American. We’re all part of a culture taught dusted-in-flour in the kitchen and spoken through unwritten words.
And I can’t hate my mother—no matter how hard I’ve tried to loathe her. My memories of her were always kind. She was the warmest person in my family. Sometimes I think that I refuse to wipe her from existence because I believe it’s what she wanted.
To be a missing person.
To be gone.
So I’ve decided to keep her alive. Vindictive, possibly.
But does she deserve anything sweeter? She left two young daughters: a seven-year-old, a nine-year-old. Why? How could she possibly think that was okay?
How could our father think that was right?
Babette would force herself not to cry after I told her the truth in high school. How our parents weren’t killed by hitchhikers or eaten by bears. How they’re still alive.
How they aren’t looking for us like we’d been foolishly looking for them.
And she’d whisper to me, “They’re evil. To do what they did. Truly evil, October.”
“Or maybe they had a reason,” I’d whisper back. We theorized for years. We still do some days. The possibilities of why they left have shrouded the hurt. Have muffled the pain. Have silenced the heartache. All that’s left of our mother and father is a mystery.
One we’re not eager to solve.
I open a cupboard, hearing the faint chirps of my birds in the house. “I always thought you’d agree with Aunt Effie. Destroy every trace of Mom in the house. Burn the cookbooks.”
Babette sighs. “I did think about it. But I saw Aunt Effie go off the deep-end when she torched Dad’s clothes. She hates her own brother for leaving town.”
“Or she hates him for leaving us.”
She’s more cynical. “You think so good of bad people, OB.”
“We’re all bad, Baby.” I use her nickname, and I grab the container labeled powdered sugar.
Babette watches me return to the cookies at the island. “All I know is that I don’t want to be her. Cold. Snooty. Mean.”
I’m like her.
Can’t you see that?
A chill snakes through me, but I don’t shiver. “She might not be kind, but she showed us kindness when she took us in.”
Our other aunts and uncles already have loads of children, and if we’d gone to live with one of them, we could’ve easily been overlooked. Aunt Effie married young, and her husband left early. A divorce. Not “the right fit”—she’d say. And “I’m not meant for marriage”—she’d decree.
She gave us all her attention and all the love she could muster. Like we were her own daughters.
I add, “And she’d do absolutely anything for us.”
“Anything?” Babette says with a scoff. “She won’t even let you make other desserts, October. I’m so sick of crème brûlée and peanut butter cheesecake.” She reknots her sleek ponytail. “And don’t even get me started on fried crullers.” She gags dramatically and leaves the bowtie cookies untouched.
I let out a laugh. My sister is my biggest fan. As I am hers.
Babette grins. “She laughs.”
“She listens,” I reply. “And I understand where Aunt Effie is coming from. The menu at Fisherman’s Wharf hasn’t changed in years. The more I make other pastries and desserts in my spare time, the more I’m just sticking a knife into my gut. It won’t change Uncle Milo’s position.”
Uncle Milo owns the restaurant and is also the executive chef. When he hired me on as a pastry chef after high school, he explicitly told me that the menu isn’t up for negotiation. Every day I’m to make the same three desserts.
Crème brûlée.
Peanut butter cheesecake.
Fried crullers.
It’s been my life for seven years.
“Uncle Milo sucks,” Babette says pointedly. “You’re better than peanut butter cheesecake.”
I don’t disagree, but I’m imprisoned in cheesecake purgatory. No one will pay me as well as Fisherman’s Wharf for baking.
I pop the lid of powdered sugar. “Meet anyone new?”
“Sure did.” She tucks her blouse into her slacks. “Cute boy coming into town for a couple days. He’s passing through on a road trip to Niagara Falls. He saw Mistpoint on Trip Advisor as a place of interest.”
“Don’t they all.” I pick up the bowl of homemade icing. “How old is he?”
She mumbles the number.
Oh no.
“Baby.” I give her a look.
“Thirty-nine-ish.”
I set the bowl hard on the counter.
“-ish, OB,” she emphasizes.
“So forty?”
Babette bites her lip. “Possibly, slightly forty.”
“That’s not a boy—that’s a fucking man. And what is he doing talking to a twenty-three-year-old?”
“I engaged first,” she mentions. “He was alone at Harbor Perk. He seemed interesting, sitting there. Drinking coffee. Reading Into the Wild.”
Oh God. I cast her an iced look. “He sounds like a cliché.”
