27

The recipe for chocolate chip cookies requires 2.25 cups flour, 0.75 cups sugar, 0.875 cups brown sugar, 1 teaspoon baking soda, and 1 teaspoon salt, to yield thirty-one cookies. If you only had three measuring instruments—one cup, one half cup, and one teaspoon—what is the fewest number of cookies you could accurately make? If you made forty-eight cookies, how would the taste differ from a batch of thirty-one?

On Sunday evening, Rory and I relax in the lounge chairs behind the house. The sun is setting, mist settling over the trees. An aircraft is idling on the runway at SFO, the roar of the engines echoing down the canyon. I’m posting items for sale and for free on Greenfield-Neighbors.org. Rory is reading Martin in Space, but he’s distracted, his eyes darting back and forth between the book and his phone.

“Read me something,” I say.

Rory flips to a dog-eared page and reads aloud: “The dial on the control panel spins endlessly, the pinprick of green light bouncing right and left and back again, scanning for a signal, a radio wave, a sign of life. I search for my own center, my anchor, a clear point of reference, but I find only boundless space.”

His next question surprises me. “Do you ever feel that way?”

I think about it for a moment. “Sometimes. Do you?”

He lays the book facedown on his knee. “Yes, ever since Dad died. It’s like Dad was the anchor for our family, and now we’re just sort of floating.”

It feels like an opening to a deeper conversation. I want to reassure him, to promise we won’t be floating forever. But before I can respond, Rory checks his phone again and mutters, “This is so weird. Caroline was supposed to come over tonight. I texted her three hours ago, but she didn’t respond. She always texts right back.”

I close my laptop. “I’m sure she’s just busy.”

“No, she had her final Wonder practice test today.”

“On a Sunday?”

“She had one yesterday too. She was supposed to text me on her walk home today. We had plans to watch a movie.”

“The test probably went long.”

“Impossible. Nothing about the test ever goes long or short. Everything is precise. Nothing is left to chance. If any teacher went off script today, especially with Caroline’s group, they’d have to answer to Kobayashi.”

“What do you mean, especially with Caroline’s group?”

“She’s struggling to improve her score. Which tells you how arbitrary the test is. She’s one of the smartest kids I know.”

“Why is today so important?”

“Mom, what planet are you on? The Wonder Test starts tomorrow. We have it every day this week, then again on Monday and Tuesday of next week. Haven’t you read any of the emails from Kobayashi?”

I groan. “What did I miss, aside from the date?”

“I’m supposed to be taking omega-3 supplements, eating high-protein, high-fiber breakfasts before school every day, and sleeping at least ten hours a night.”

“Sorry, I’ll make you an omelet for breakfast tomorrow. We must have some omega-3 supplements around somewhere. Grandpa was really into vitamins.”

“Those regular brands are crap according to Kobayashi. He wants us to take a proprietary blend, the Wonder Pill, which was created by a neuroscientist whose kid graduated from the school.”

“That sounds unethical,” I say. “Bordering on illegal.” Still, I feel guilty. Have I put Rory at a disadvantage by not keeping up with these details? “I’ll start opening the emails, I promise.”

“Don’t worry about it. Kobayashi means well, but he’s obsessive. Actually, the pill makes kids break out. Most of them just throw it away.” He types into his phone again, frowning.

I weigh my words before suggesting, “You might want to give Caroline some space.”

Rory wrinkles his brow, bewildered. “Why?”

“Girls need space.”

“Not Caroline. She says it’s different in France. She says when you go out with someone, you’re exclusive.”

“So she really is your girlfriend?”

“Mom, yes, she’s my girlfriend, okay? Can we stop talking about it?”

“Okay, no more questions, I promise.” I mime zipping my lips. “Want to make chocolate chip cookies?”

“Sure,” he says, glancing at his phone one more time before sliding it into his pocket.

The cookies were Fred’s specialty. He made them almost every week, tweaking the recipe, experimenting with different brands and ingredients, different temperatures and cooking times, different pans. It was an obsession for him, a kind of Zen meditation. In the weeks after his death, the mere smell of chocolate chip cookies brought me to tears. For more than a month, I didn’t dare bake.

Then, one weekend when the kitchen was empty, save for Fred’s cabinet filled with high-priced vanilla powder and muscovado, Rory suggested we try to re-create the recipe. As the first batch came out of the oven, I felt a blip of joy. It felt almost as if Fred were there cheering us on. Since then, we’ve made the cookies once a week. We don’t go to church, and we don’t go to therapy. At my insistence, Rory did try therapy after Fred died, but it made him uncomfortable. It felt false, he said, a violation rather than a consolation. He didn’t want to dwell on the sadness. So we make cookies. It works for us. It’s a way to honor Fred, to keep him with us.

Between cracking eggs and measuring and stirring, Rory keeps checking his phone.

“Did you argue?” I ask.

“No, we talked on Snapchat this morning before she left home. She was in a great mood. She told me she’s been really happy lately.” He blushes. “She said I make her happy.”

That does sound serious.

“Maybe she lost her phone.”

“Caroline doesn’t lose things. She doesn’t need space. She doesn’t play games. She’s not like that.”

The first batch of cookies comes out. While I’m transferring them to the cooling rack, Rory polishes off three warm cookies and a glass of milk. I put the second batch in.

“Does Caroline have a group of friends she hangs out with?”

“No, just me.”

“Where does she go when you’re not together and she’s not at school?”

“She takes walks around town, sometimes she goes for a run at Crocker Lake. She always texts me, like, a dozen times while she’s out walking, and she posts tons of pictures on Instagram. She also tells me if she’s going to the lake, just so someone will know where she is.”

“She tells you instead of her parents?”

“They never have a clue where she is. They’re totally absentee.” He swipes the screen of his phone again and looks at me, helpless.

“Want me to drive you by her place?”