The bakery isn’t far from Flying Biscuit. It doesn’t look like much—a converted house sandwiched between two lawyers’ offices. A tiny, cake-shaped bell tinkles as we walk in.
The shop is heavy with the scent of potpourri, a thick, sweet smell that sticks to the sides of my lungs. Dad adjusts his tie and coughs uncomfortably. I want to tell him that I don’t think a little cough is going to clear that odor from his throat, but instead I just shrug when our eyes accidentally meet.
“Hi! Welcome to Sweet Bakin’ Cakes!” a woman’s voice shouts above the sound of crackly classical music. I have no idea where this mysterious woman is—it’s impossible to see to the back of the shop because of the maze of giant cakes that adorn tables throughout. They’re huge and look like they’ve been carved rather than baked, boasting displays of perfectly smooth frosting and silk flowers. Most are white or ivory wedding cakes with tiny, poorly painted brides and grooms on the top, but there are a few that are more unusual—one that looks like it’s been pleated, one covered in polka dots, even one with paisley patterns drawn all over it. I’m staring at a cake with plaid icing when the woman appears, swishing out from behind a sign that says Let them eat cake in lavender bubble letters.
The woman might also be made out of cake; her eyes and lips are covered in pink makeup that has a silver, frosted undertone, and her skin is layered with so much foundation that she must have spread it on with a frosting knife. She walks forward, ankles twisting dangerously in hot-pink heels. I glance at my dad and catch a hint of amusement on his face.
“Hi,” Dad says, reaching out to shake her well-manicured hand. “You must be Wanda? I called earlier—we’re here to sample cakes for the Princess Ball?”
“Oh yes! I love Princess Ball time,” Wanda cries, clasping her hands together. “Follow me, follow me.”
Dad almost runs into a seven-tiered wedding cake with pink frosting circles all over it, and I have to keep ducking under balloon displays. Wanda doesn’t seem to notice our struggle, however, and we finally reach the back of the shop. Windows overlook the parking lot, and three tiny café tables are set up and piled high with thick photo albums.
“Just have a seat here,” Wanda says, pulling out one of the café chairs, a white cast-iron contraption with a tiny seat and ornately curved back. I lower myself into it; Dad sinks into the other. While Wanda sorts through the photo albums, mumbling to herself, Dad and I desperately try to arrange ourselves so we aren’t sitting quite so close to each other. The kitchen table at home is vast, especially since the space that used to hold three now holds only two; this tiny little table is meant for two tiny people, not two average-sized people and a rather plump woman.
“Now, I have twelve different varieties of cake and icing combinations for you to sample, and then we’ll select the style of cake,” Wanda informs us. She drops most of the photo albums on the floor with a resounding crack; Dad and I jump. Undeterred, Wanda slides the remaining album toward us. “Just start skimming through those. These are all our larger cakes, because this has to feed… how many is it, again?”
“We’re anticipating about two hundred,” Dad says. Wanda’s eyes fill with joy, and I think she’s clenching her teeth to keep from shouting.
“It’s wonderful to see young ladies excited about a dance with their fathers!” Wanda says. Dad and I share forced smiles. “Anyhow, look through those while I go grab the first few samples.”
And then she leaves, deftly maneuvering through the cakes before vanishing.
Dad taps his fingers for a moment, then slides his thumb under the photo album’s cover. The cellophane covering the photos crackles. I lean over, trying to look interested.
He turns a page. The air-conditioning kicks on, and the silk flowers on the nearest cake begin to tremble.
“This one is very… yellow,” Dad says, pointing to a cake that’s a highlighter shade. Its tiers are oddly shaped and it’s covered in violet flowers, so it looks like something out of a Dr. Seuss book.
“Yeah,” I agree, and when I can’t think of anything else to say, I force a small laugh. This seems to ease Dad a little bit; he chuckles when we turn to a massive cake that’s covered in Star Wars figures drawn in icing.
“That’s actually kind of cool,” I say, turning the book so it faces me.
“I know. What would the rest of the committee do if we showed up at the ball with this?” Dad asks.
“May the force be with them,” I say, relieved when Dad laughs at my terrible joke. I continue, “What if we got that highlighter cake, but then had them put Star Wars drawings on it?”
Dad laughs and turns the page, then another. “And… maybe the topper from this cake?” he suggests, pointing to a cake topper of a couple dressed up as clowns.
“We could even have Darth Vader and Leia on top of the cake. You know, father and daughter?” I add.
Dad cracks up, his laughter brighter and louder than it’s been in years. He winds down from the fit and shakes his head, trying to regain control. “That’d be perfect—I didn’t know you’d watched the original Star Wars.”
“It’s impossible not to. They’re on TV every weekend,” I say with a shrug.
“We should watch them sometime,” Dad says quickly, and when the words leave his mouth, it’s like he remembers the suggestion should be more awkward. “I mean, if you want.”
“Sure,” I answer, and flip the page of the cake book again. Wanda soon comes bustling back in, pushing a black cast-iron tea cart. It’s loaded with white plates that have miniature cakes, all immaculately iced and identical in size and shape. The poor man’s version of the dolled-up monstrosities outside.
“Hmm… where to begin…” Wanda says, waving a hand over her display of cakes. “Ah, yes!” She grins at me. “The princess cake! Seems like a good place to start for the Princess Ball! What was your name again, hon?”
“Shelby.”
“Ah, well, how about I call you Princess Shelby, then?” Wanda giggles, clearly not reading the look of horror on my face. “Anyhoo, this is our princess cake—white cake with cream-cheese frosting. That’s a creamy white, because we leave the egg yolks in. We can also do this in an almond flavor. Fairly popular for the Princess Ball, but keep in mind it’s just an option.” Wanda puts the plate in the center of the table and divides it into three slices with a silver knife. She then hands my father and me forks; we tentatively pick off tiny slivers of cake. I expect it’ll taste like the heavy perfume Wanda is wearing and tense my jaw as I take a bite.
It’s the most delicious thing I’ve ever tasted. Seriously. The princess cake half melts in my mouth; the soft, buttery flavor of the cake blends seamlessly with the tangy cream-cheese icing. Its richness makes the chill from the air conditioner fade, like it’s warming me from the inside out. My dad’s eyes widen in matching delight; we make brief eye contact before greedily jumping back for a second taste. That seems to thrill Wanda; she loads up her own fork, smearing her bright pink lipstick when she shovels a second bite into her mouth. My dad abandons all manners and sinks his fork into a piece so large he has to take a moment to balance it. I take a page out of his book and do the same when I go back for a third piece.
I’ve seen enough episodes of those wedding-planning shows with Ruby to know that I’m not really supposed to eat the entire slice. Nonetheless, my dad, Wanda, and I nearly decimate the princess cake. Which is when Wanda pulls out the Black Forest cake—devil’s food cake with cream-cheese frosting and cherries. Then the Italian wedding cake, which has amaretto frosting and almonds baked right in. Then German chocolate, then red velvet, then something decorated with raspberries, then something iced with a fudge ganache and sprinkled with coconut. Wanda brings out bottles of water as we continue on to lemon-raspberry torte and orange buttercream.
By the time we hit the last few, which are basics—chocolate/chocolate, chocolate/vanilla, and vanilla/vanilla—Dad and I are leaning back in our chairs, crumbs decorating our shirts and icing smudges on our fingers. Wanda is still going strong, sampling the chocolate/chocolate with the same vigor that she did the princess cake. I swallow the rest of my water, trying to ignore the rush of sugar that’s coursing through my veins.
“So what do we think?” Wanda asks, the same question she asked after each and every sample cake—all twelve of them.
“Um… well…” Dad says, glancing to me.
I shrug. “I liked the first one, honestly. If we go with any of the really fancy stuff, someone will probably be allergic or hate chocolate or whatever.”
“The first one? The princess cake?” Wanda asks. She eats another forkful of chocolate/chocolate, seemingly disappointed—I get the impression that the princess cake is the least expensive of the set. “And what pattern?”
I remember the yellow Star Wars clown cake and giggle; I get the feeling Dad is thinking of it, too, since I catch him staring at his fork and stifling a secret smile aimed at me.
“We may need to think on that,” Dad finally says. “Unless there was something you liked, Shelby?” He asks it with a twinkle in his eyes, daring me to order it.
“No,” I answer, holding in a snicker. “I’m good.”
“Right, then, Wanda, I’ll just give you a call after we’ve thought on it for a few days.”
“Keep in mind, we can make just about anything,” Wanda says as we rise and move to the door. Avoiding the giant cake displays was hard enough the first time, but now that we’re stuffed and sluggish, it’s near impossible. We somehow make it to the car without sending too many confections teetering on their stands.
“Who knew there were so many types of cake? I thought it was just… cake. Chocolate, vanilla… cake,” Dad says as we back out of the Sweet Bakin’ Cakes parking lot.
“When you said Princess Ball, I figured something less like a wedding,” I say. I instantly worry I’ve said too much—truth is, planning this thing hasn’t been quite as bad as I anticipated. I’d hate to have made it this far without wounding Dad’s feelings only to crush them now.
“You and me both, actually,” Dad answers, and it makes me smile. “You know how much I hate suits….”
“Speaking of,” I add as we zip past the rows of strip malls that flank Sweet Bakin’ Cakes, “do you think I can wear my old winter formal dress to this thing?” I cast away a stab of spite for Mona Banks, all dressed up to give an insincere vow.
“That light green one?” Dad asks, and I’m ashamed to realize it surprises me he remembers. Dad looks over at me as we come to a stoplight, and I nod. “I think you’re supposed to wear white. Maybe they’ve changed the rule, though. But you can buy something new, Shelby. I don’t mind paying.”
“Yeah…” I try not to cringe at the memory of picking out my homecoming dress. Ruby was out of town, so I ended up letting the saleslady pick it out because I just wanted to get out of there. Hearing “This one really minimizes your butt” seventeen times in an hour was not a pleasant experience. The light turns green, but Dad doesn’t stop looking at me; it’s like he’s analyzing, reading something for the first time.
“Maybe we can figure something out,” he says, finally urging the car forward. “If you don’t like dress shopping. That’s it, right? You don’t like dress shopping?”
“You’ve nailed it,” I answer, smiling a little. “I can pull something together, though.”
Dad nods, but I can practically see little gears turning in his head.
There’s not too much left of the day by the time we get home. I watch TV for a while, too full to move, then eventually entertain the notion of cleaning my room. When I toss an armload of clothes into my closet, I uncover the ball questionnaire.
I lift the paper, still folded unevenly, and open it. Same stupid, annoying questions. I scrounge up a pencil from my barely visible carpet and write in, “We both enjoy edible Star Wars memorabilia.” I grin and look at question seven as I lower myself to my bed.
7. What is your favorite memory of your father?
My favorite memory of Dad. Huh. I tap my pencil on the paper for a few moments. The trouble is, I don’t really have any memories of my dad. I have memories of my mom in which Dad was present, but they’re undeniably memories of her. My dad and I are merely players in the scenes, the ensemble of a grand performance that was her life. Everything from my childhood involves her, somehow, with my dad tagging along for the ride. I think back as far as I can go, but no, even my first memory is of her on my fifth birthday, helping me decorate the lopsided cake she made me. I vaguely remember Dad leaning over me as I blew out the candles, but I remember Mom’s arm around me, her face close to mine. I remember the way she smelled, the way she spoke, the way her hair brushed my shoulders. But he was just in the background—I’m not even positive about where he was standing.
The memories mostly exclude Dad all the way up to the point when Mom got sick, and even then my “alone time” with my dad was only a result of her illness. We were still wrapped up in her needs, her wants, her time. What was left of it, anyway.
I sigh and lie back on my pillows. There has to be something, though, something with just Dad and me. Or more Dad and me, even, since cutting Mom out of the picture altogether seems pretty impossible.
The french fries.
Yes, yes, the french fries. I close my eyes, trying to remember the scene perfectly before I write it down. It’s tied up with Mom, of course, but still… it was when Mom had gotten so sick, they’d turned to “experimental” treatment, which even at ten I understood meant “we’re practically just giving her vitamins and seeing what happens.” It was near the end, though of course I didn’t totally realize that. My mom had taken my dad and me to the fall carnival every year before she got sick, and she begged Dad to take me alone since she couldn’t go. I didn’t want to go with him, and I suspect he didn’t really want to leave her bedside to go with me, but we were both so desperate to make her happy that we agreed.
“Bring me something back,” she said with a weak wave as we left the hospital room, bundled up in scarves and hats.
“Like what? A stuffed animal?” Dad asked. I could see the worry in his eyes as he tried to figure out what monumental task of a carnival game he’d have to accomplish to win a giant teddy bear.
“French fries. They have those french fries at that stall. All they sell is french fries. Just bring me back some of those.”
“Jenny, they’ll be cold by the time we get back with them. I could bring you some cotton candy, maybe? It’ll keep.”
But no, she insisted on french fries. So after we walked around the carnival for an hour, rode the Ferris wheel more out of obligation than desire, and tried to ignore the sights of little girls with their beautiful, healthy, perfect mothers, we stopped at the french fries stall. Dad bought a box of french fries and asked for extra aluminum foil to wrap them up tightly. By the time we got back to the hospital, they were all cold, and Mom was so sick she could eat only one.
But still. I remember watching Dad carefully wrap the french fries, and how simply nice I thought it was that he was getting them, knowing they’d be cold and mushy by the time we got back to the hospital. There was something beautiful in someone trying to purchase happiness for a dying woman via a three-dollar box of french fries. I remember hoping that one day someone would buy me french fries if that’s all I wanted, even if he knew they’d be no good in the end.
I remember understanding what love really was. It didn’t hurt; it didn’t ignore your prayers, didn’t seem to not care that your mom was dying. It didn’t leave you wondering what you did wrong. Love tried to make you happy, even if it was useless. Love would do anything to make you happy.
I can’t write all that down. Even if I wanted to, I’m not sure I could find the words. Instead, I just scribble down “French fries day” and figure if Dad wants me to explain when we go over the questionnaires, I can. Or maybe he’ll remember french fries day on his own.
How could he forget it?