Nest (14 page)

“Okay,” Rachel says, “now we’re supposed to stir this frequently until it comes to a boil.” Rachel’s reading the recipe from the cookbook.

“How frequent is frequently?” I ask, starting to stir.

“I don’t know,” she says. “Just keep an eye on it. Make sure it doesn’t burn. The lemony part is really important. I’ll start cracking the eggs.”

Mom’s going to be surprised when we hand her the pie this afternoon.
Wow, my girls, lemon meringue! My favorite!

“Do you think Mom will share the pie with her new friends?” I ask Rachel.

“Oh, c’mon, Chirp,” she says, sounding irritated, but then she stops. She looks at me. She tips her head to the side and wrinkles her forehead like she’s trying to figure something out. “Actually, I have no idea what to expect. I can’t picture what it’s like there.” Rachel looks like a little girl in Mom’s pink flannel nightgown. She keeps pushing up the sleeves, but they keep slipping back down. She’s worn the nightgown every night since Mom left.

“You know, Dad says we shouldn’t call it a nuthouse,” I say.

“Well, it is a nuthouse,” Rachel says.

“Dad says there’s a maple tree and a frog pond in the courtyard.”

“And lots of nutbars inside.”

“Mom isn’t a nutbar.”

“Exactly,” Rachel says. “That’s why she shouldn’t
be there.” Rachel scoops some of the hot lemony stuff out of the saucepan, dumps it into the beaten eggs, mixes it, and then pours it back into the saucepan.

“At least it’s much, much better than the state hospital in Taunton,” I say.

“You need to stir constantly now until it thickens,” Rachel says.

“Dad said he absolutely never would have taken Mom to Taunton, even though McLean is expensive and he’s having to work extra hard to keep our heads above water.”

“Keep stirring,” Rachel says.

“I
am
,” I say.

Rachel cracks the eggs for the meringue. She turns the mixer on high, and we can’t talk anymore. The lemony stuff is hot and bubbly. I stir and stir and stir. I think maybe we did something wrong, because it’s not getting thick, and we don’t have time to start over again, because Dad said we have to be out the door and on the road by nine o’clock sharp, because we might run into Thanksgiving traffic.

“Rach,” I say, but she doesn’t hear me because of the whiny mixer. The lemony stuff is the prettiest soft yellow, and it smells like summer, but it’s thin, not thick and not thickening. “Rach!” I yell. She still doesn’t hear me. If we don’t bring Mom a lemon meringue pie, then her face won’t light up and she won’t say
Oh, my sweet chickens! You knew just what I wanted!

I’m stirring so fast now that the lemony stuff is splashing on the sides of the saucepan and making smoke. My hand is aching and my heart is racing and Rachel can’t hear me and I can’t stop stirring to walk over to her, because then I’ll ruin the pie. It might already be ruined. I don’t want to bring Mom a ruined pie. I can’t bring Mom a ruined pie.

“RACHEL!” I yell as loud as I can, just as she shuts off the mixer.

“What is it, Chirp?” she says, all cranky, but then she sees my face and rushes over. She puts her arm around me, and I start to cry.

“It’s no good,” I tell her.

“It’s okay, Chirpie,” she says. She takes the spoon from me. I push my face into her neck, and she smells just like the lemony stuff. “Look. You haven’t done anything wrong.” I hear her stirring. She says, “See, Chirpie. You did a really good job. It’s getting thick, just the way it’s supposed to.” I peek into the saucepan. She’s right. My sister keeps her arm tight around me while she takes the saucepan off the stove and pours the lemony stuff into the piecrust.

“Help me with this part, Chirp,” Rachel says. We spoon the meringue onto the lemony stuff. It’s white and frothy. We press our spoons into it and make perfect waves.

“Just like the ocean,” Rachel says.

“Mom loves the ocean,” I say.

“Yeah,” Rachel says, “she does.”

“She’ll love our pie, right?”

“Just like the ocean,” Rachel says. She takes the pie and slips it into the oven that we preheated to 350 degrees, just like we were supposed to. We need to keep an eye on it and take it out in approximately ten minutes or when it’s a light golden brown.

“The man in the Volkswagen bus!” Rachel says.

“Yay! That’s thirty-eight!” I say.

We’ve been playing peace since we left the house. What you do is make peace signs through the car windows and keep track of how many people peace you back. I don’t understand how anyone could not be for peace, but Dad says it’s more complicated than I understand and has to do with people’s political views on Nixon and Vietnam and patriotism.

“See that lady in the blue car?” I say. “She won’t look at me.”

“Let’s try the dancing trick,” Rach says.

She squishes next to me, facing my window.
“This is the dawning of the Age of Aquarius, Age of Aquarius.…”
We sing really loud and bop our peace signs around to the beat. The lady looks at us and waves.

“Peace! Peace! Peace!” we say, pointing to each other’s peace signs, but the lady just smiles at us and keeps waving.

We’re almost to the Sagamore Bridge. On the other side is Friendly’s, where Dad says we can stop to get
hot chocolate. Once we’re in Boston, we’ll have Thanksgiving lunch, since Mom is going to have her meal at the hospital without us. Kids aren’t allowed on the floors or in the dining room at McLean Hospital. That’s a policy. But there’s a coffee shop in the hospital where we can bring our lemon meringue pie and celebrate.

“Whipped cream, Dad?” I ask.

“What?” Dad says.

“Can we have whipped cream on our hot chocolate?”

“Yes, kiddo,” Dad says. “You guys are troopers. I know this isn’t the way we usually spend Thanksgiving.”

“Troopers?” Rachel says, just loud enough for me to hear. “Great. Dad thinks we’re in the army.” She’s shaking her head, like she can’t believe she actually has to live on the same planet as him.

Usually for Thanksgiving, Grandma and Grandpa come from Sayville, New York, and Dad makes a fire in the fireplace and drinks sherry in crystal glasses with them and catches up, since he’s their son, while Mom is in the kitchen with Rachel and me. Usually we sing along to the radio while we make stuffing from the Pepperidge Farm bag but add in extra ingredients, like fresh parsley and celery and mushrooms. We make mashed potatoes with
schmaltz
, which is Yiddish for “chicken fat,” and we brown onions in it and then whip the potatoes until they’re fluffy. We
make cranberry sauce from cranberries that grow right here on the Cape, and after you add sugar and water and turn the burner on high, the cranberries pop and then you know it’s done. Usually Grandma and Grandpa bring New York cheesecake from Zabar’s, and when we’re finished eating the turkey and stuffing and potatoes and cranberry sauce and peas and salad and listening to family stories, we go into the living room and talk about how great all the food was and eat dessert.

Usually, when dessert is over, Rachel and I put on a show. Usually we do a dance number and Mom makes a special guest appearance at the end that blows Grandma’s socks off, which is a good thing, because there’s tension between Mom and Grandma that has to do with Mom being a poor kid from the Bronx. I don’t really understand what the problem is, but I know that whenever Mom thinks Grandma and Grandpa have brought us too many presents, her mouth gets tight and she takes Dad into the kitchen, where they whisper-shout until Mom runs upstairs and Dad follows her and they stay in their bedroom for a long time with the door closed, and Grandma says things like “Your mother is quite sensitive, isn’t she?” which makes Rachel and me mad, but we can’t show it, because we’re supposed to be respectful to adults, especially old ones who love us.

“What are Grandma and Grandpa doing for Thanksgiving?” I ask Dad.

“They’ll have dinner with friends. They’ve offered to come anytime just to help out while Mom’s away, but I told them that we’re holding down the fort beautifully, the three of us. It sounds like they’ll probably come visit for Hanukkah, though.”

“Uh-oh,” I say. “I bet they’ll bring too many presents.”

“If Mom is even home by then,” Rachel mumbles, quietly enough that Dad can’t hear her from the front seat.

“Will Mom be home by Hanukkah?” I ask Dad.

“I certainly expect so,” Dad says.

“See,” I say to Rachel.

“See what?” Rachel says, still quietly.
“I expect so
isn’t
yes.”

“Well, it’s almost
yes
.”

“
Almost yes
is like
almost pregnant
. It doesn’t mean anything.”

“Yes, it does.”

“No, it doesn’t.”

“Uh-huh.”

“No way.”

“It
does
.”

“Fine. Live in your fantasy world.”

“Are you girls bickering back there?” Dad asks.

“Almost yes,” Rachel says.

“What?” Dad says.

“Nothing, Dad. Don’t sweat it,” Rachel says. She turns away from me and keeps on peacing.

The lady at Friendly’s is very friendly. Her name is Patty, and she has a little plastic turkey pinned to her collar right near her name tag and pink lipstick and makeup that’s supposed to hide her wrinkles but doesn’t and a fancy blond hairdo with curls and twists.

“Well, you’re quite a cutie,” she says to me. “And what a pretty young lady,” she says to Rachel. “Off on a Thanksgiving adventure?”

Rachel nods.

“And your mom must be waiting in the car?” She looks at Dad. “Giving her a moment of peace, huh?” She winks. “I know how it is. I have four of my own.”

“Three hot chocolates with whipped cream to go, please,” Dad says.

“No,” Rachel says, “I don’t want any whipped cream.” She rolls her eyes as if Dad should have known, even though she likes whipped cream.

“No whipped cream for you, honey?” Dad asks.

“That’s what I said,” Rachel says. “No whipped cream.
Nooo whiiiipped creeeeam
.” She says it really loud and slow like Dad has bad hearing.

“Rachel,” Dad says, “enough.”

“So where are you off to?” Patty says.

“We’re going to Boston,” Dad says.

“Ohhh?” Patty says, like he said
We’re hunting elephants in Africa
. “Now, what’s in Bos—”

“We’re actually in a bit of a hurry,” Dad says before Patty can ask any more questions that he doesn’t want to answer.

“Oh, of course you are,” Patty says in a dried-out voice, and then she gives our hot chocolates the puniest squirts of whipped cream from the can. “Happy trails,” she says to Dad, and pretty much grabs his money and shoves his change at him.

On the way out the door, I turn around and peace her. She doesn’t peace back.

“We should have told her Mom is an astronaut and on her way into orbit,” Rachel says.

“Freeze-dried turkey,” Dad says.

“And pumpkin pie capsules with vanilla ice cream powder,” I say.

Rachel smiles.

“Right, Chirp,” Dad says, rumpling my hair. “All the vanilla ice cream powder she can eat.”

The closer we get to Boston, the worse the traffic is.
Bumpa ta bumpa
, Mom would say, like a genuine Bronx girl, if she were here. Mostly Mom talks regular, but sometimes her accent sneaks in, like
Chirp, honey, can you pass me my cwaw-fee?
I always ask Mom if she’s doing that on purpose, and she always says
Doing what on purpose?
so I figure she’s not.

“It’s going to be a long haul, girls,” Dad says, flicking on the classical radio station. Rachel and I are
tired of playing peace. We’re tired of looking out the window. We’re tired of singing all the songs from
Hair
and saying
bleep
for the sex and drug words. I let Rachel use Eggie, my white stuffed duck, as a pillow, and she leans against the car door. She lets me lie down and put my head in her lap. Dad turns off the radio. Rachel starts to sit up so she can argue with him, but he starts singing “All the Pretty Little Horses,” which is a lullaby he used to sing to us when we were babies, and she settles back down. Then he sings
“Oyfn Pripetshok,”
which is a Yiddish lullaby his mother used to sing to him. Then he sings my favorite, “Annabel Lee,” about a man whose true love is killed by the wind and locked up in a grave in the ocean because the angels in heaven are jealous of their love. By the time Dad sings

his voice is so sweet-sad and I’m so drifty-tired that I close my eyes and hear the highway like the sea and feel warm waves of sleep rocking me away.

I open my eyes. Through the car window, I see a little slice of orange roof.

“C’mon, Chirp, we’re here!” Rachel says. She hands me Eggie, and I sit up. Dad is walking through the door of Howard Johnson’s Motor Lodge. We race to catch up with him.

The office is smoky. Dad’s standing at the counter, talking to a man with pimples on his face, who’s writing things down.