A Beauty and The Beast

Chapter 4: I Miss Him Too

"Jane," I roll over in bed after hearing a knock on my door, my mom calling my name before walking in.

"Hmmm," I mumble still in my half asleep daze.

"I found this just now when I was going through our storage," around my feet my bed gives and I can feel my mother sitting beside me. "I thought you should have it," Mom says quietly, and curiously I roll over and open my eyes to see her holding out a small leather journal.

"This is beautiful," I sit it up and gently take the small book from my mothers offering hands. I run my fingers over the old worn leather, turning it over in my hands, "but what is it?" I ask.

"It's your great grandmothers journal," My mother smiles, a twinkle in her eyes. "I still remember her writing in it almost every day when I was a little girl She had a couple more, but I don't know where they are... I mean they've got to be in the garage somewhere, I'm just not sure which box." She explains.

"Oh... Well thank you," I smile, gingerly tracing the carvings in the spine with my finger tips, "I'll keep it safe," I touch my moms hand and she smiles.

"I know you will, sweetie," she gets up and heads for my door, "there might be a couple graphic stories about her and Great Grandpa William in there, so proceed with caution," my mom laughs and shuts my door behind her. I open the front cover and on the worn page are the words 'Property of Evelisia Cordelia Goodwin' written carefully in neat cursive, below them is a small  dried pink flower.

I turn to the next page, the right corner dated January 1, 1934.

Dear Diary,

It is a new year, but it seems nothing here at home has changed. Nathaniel and Gabriel still fight like boars but I suppose that's just what brothers do, that's what Mother says at least. The weather is still too cold and the towns crops still aren't doing well. Father is still gone and I am still sad, I grow weary of the towns contrite gazes. I nary hear anybody speak in his name anymore, it is as though they are fearsome they will get sick too. Mother says that is ignorance and we should not worry about what other people conceive in their minds. I am sure she is right, but that does not make me feel much better. I still miss him much and I know she does too. It is as if the boys do not miss him at all, but I know it is just because they are young. Someday when they are older they will understand what it is like to live without a father, especially since they are boys. I feel sympathy for my young brothers, they do not get to remember him with mature minds, they will not remember his voice or his antics like I may. They will only know of him what other recollect for them, they will only get to hold diluted memories of the man who help them first, the man who made them.

Sincerely,

Eve

I feel my hands tremble beneath the worn leather and I gently shut the book, letting Great Grandma Evie's words sink in. They are so true it hurts, but I feel a small warmth inside, because for the first time somebody explained just how I felt. For the first time somebody understood, and I wished more than anything that I could talk with her about it, because she seems to be the only one who gets it.

***********************

"Mom?" I call from the kitchen thinking she is in the study. I realize I was wrong when I hear her holler back at me from upstairs.

"One second!" She replies and after a few moments I hear steps coming down the staircase. "Yes, my dear?" She peeks around the corner and into the kitchen where she sees me with baking good out and her eyes light up, "Ohh! What are you making?" She scurries my way and looks over my shoulder for a recipe book, confused when she doesn't see one.

"I found a recipe in Grandma's journal for a something called 'Brown Toasted Buttermilk Pie' which is something I've never even heard of and there's like three pages of her raving about how good it was and I just couldn't resist," I explain opening up the small book and pointing to the page with the recipe. The words are written in neat and tiny cursive letters and mom looks over the page the look she gets when she's thinking. She sticks her tongue out just a little and furrows her eyebrows, since I pointed it out when I was ten I have since been told many times that I do it too.

"Woah, this is really complicated, but it sounds really good. I can't believe my Grandma never made this for me, Grandma Evie must have been a little selfish and not wanted to pass her genius work on," mom smiles and pats my shoulder, "let's do it."

I grin and carefully slip the book into our recipe holding rack that keeps the book folded open so you don't have to touch it with floury hands. It was Great Grandma Evie's too.

The ladies in our family have a little something for cooking of any sort. Every woman in our family seems to be blessed with some weird gift that just allows them to be great at anything you make in the kitchen. Thank god I inherited it, because since I was little I've been obsessed with cooking, that must run in our DNA too. We tend to be good at making something new without using a recipe, measuring without using tools, and fixing something that one of the men in the family usually managed to mess up. My dad used to call it our delicious voodoo, it scared him but was apparently too good to pass up.

"Where's the xanthan gum?" Mom asks, pulling me out of my my little flashback of dad.

"The bottom cupboard on the right," I reply without thinking about it, but then I look over to see my mom already down in the cupboard.

"Oh," I laugh softly and kneel down next to her to look, taking one glance and pulling it from right where I told her it was, "here," I hand it to her gently.

"Goodness gracious me, what would I do without you child?" Mom laughs and softly touches my hair.

"You'd probably be reading some Nicholas Sparks book and crying over a bowl of raw cookie dough," I suggest with a grin and mom flicks the back of my head.

"Ha, ha, ha," Mom fake laughs sarcastically and goes back to tossing dry ingredients into a small bowl.

"It's true though," I tease and turn on the mixer. I peek into the bowl and gently scrape my spatula down the side of the bowl and is stirs to mix it all in. I turn off the blender and left the bowl down, taking it back to my mom whose beating together some sugar and buttermilk.

"Taste this for me, will you?" She holds up a small silver spoon and I let her put it to my mouth.

"Very good," I nod and go back to my bowl.

"Your dad used to do that for me..." Mom says quietly and I don't think she means for me to hear, but I do anyways.

"I know," I touch her hand and she looks up from the bowl to me. Her eyes are watery and I don't know what else to do but hug her, so I set down the spatula I'm holding and wrap my arms around her. 

"I miss him" She whispers and squeezes me tight.

"I know. I miss him too..." I reply softly, my voice cracking a little.

We hug for a few moments before she pulls away and hold my shoulders, looking me in the eyes. Hers are green too, but unlike my boring swampy ones hers are bright and sparkle like emeralds.

"It's okay he's still with us," she wipes one small tear from her cheek and smiles wide, "and he would want us to bake this darn pie," she says with a thick southern accent that we somehow just don't have much of. I laugh loudly and wipe the few stray tears away from my eyes.

"Yeah, he'd probably be sitting on the couch watching his Sunday football, complaining about how hungry he is with a sandwich in his hand," I  smile thinking about it.

"You're right about that one," Mom agrees with a chuckle, "Honey," she imitates, "Where'd I put my darn back pillow. I swear it's the government, coming in and taking my doggone lumbar support!" She gives a spot on impression of him. The dull ache in my heart is nowhere near gone, but for a little while at least it has subsided.