| |
VERONICA PLUNGED HER fork into the fat wedge of triple layered mud cake and popped it in her mouth. She knew before her taste buds had time to acknowledge what they were being served up that no matter how sweet its taste it would still be bittersweet. Today, March the tenth was Isabel’s birthday. She’d be turning twenty-seven and it was this knowledge that yet another year had ticked by that would turn the chocolate ganache slightly bitter.
She was eating the decadent dessert not because she’d had a craving for cake but because it was tradition. Her tradition. It was a tradition that involved unearthing the shoebox from the shelf in her wardrobe first thing in the morning too. It was tucked in behind the pile of sweaters she’d folded up hoping not to have need of them again until next winter. She’d pushed them aside and slid the box out before carrying it over to her unmade bed. Perching on the edge of the mattress, she’d taken the lid off casting it aside to allow her fingers to touch the precious bits and pieces contained inside. A small photograph, a plastic identity bracelet, paperwork and Isabel’s blanket. She’d sat for an age remembering and wondering, a tear sliding down her cheek.
She’d only moved when Haydn bellowed, ‘Mum! Hurry up. We’ll be late.’ It was an about-turn given it was usually her shouting the sentiment and, brushing the tear away, she’d put the box back from where she’d gotten it. She wouldn’t look at it again for another year. She’d learned a long time ago that some memories were too painful to touch and she had the boys to think of, she couldn’t wallow. It wouldn’t be fair but she was allowed to today, on Bel’s birthday.
Her morning ritual with the memory box and this cake ceremony of sorts had been her way of marking Isabel’s birthday for the last twenty-seven years and she wasn’t about to stop now even if she was supposed to be watching her calorie intake.
An attractive young woman with mid-brown hair who reminded her of her younger self minced into the café shaking off the chill of early spring. Her hair was pulled back in a low ponytail and she was dressed in a high-necked leopard spot blouse with a pencil skirt and black, heeled ankle boots. She stood eyeing the cabinet of food and Veronica wondered what she did for a job. Her confident air and clothes suggested something high-powered and, realising she was staring, she forced herself to look away before she got caught out. She’d be around the same age as Bel and the tug of loss came keenly.