Baby Cake

The woman at the counter nervously fidgets with the silver clasp that seals the envelope. It’s June, and a slow time at the bakery. Kyra walks toward the woman, shaking her hands to remove the dough pasted between her fingers. The excess falls to the ground, implanting in the tiny crevices of the rubber mat below.

“How can I help you?”

“Good morning,” says the woman. Her neck bones jut slightly, making the dainty gold chain around her neck pop. She is well-maintained, well-manicured.

“Smells so good in here,” says the woman, inhaling deeply to flatter the baker.

“I was here baking before the sun came up.”

“Early riser. This will be me soon enough,” she says, placing a hand on the top of her swollen middle section.

Kyra stopped; her eyes were fixed on the woman’s stomach.

“Are you okay?” asks the woman.

“Yes, of course,” says Kyra, quickly collecting herself. “So how can I help you?”

The woman smiles. “I need a cake.”

“Sure thing.” Kyra reaches toward the plastic brochure holder on the counter for an order form. She scours the mess near the register for a pen.

“What’s the occasion?” She pats the front of her apron and thumbs through her hair behind her ear, distracted.

“Gosh, there has to be a pen here somewhere.” Her dismay clouds her ability to think clearly.

“I have one,” says the woman. She removes a sleek black pen from her purse and hands it to Kyra.

“Thanks.” Kyra pushes her thumb into the end cap and scribbles on the top of the order form to assess its usefulness. She leans into the counter, to examine the woman closer. The woman’s crisp features remind her of someone she knew well. Kyra is mesmerized by her dark hair resting perfectly below her shoulders, the ends of her cut with the faint curls above her breasts. Kyra thinks of her graying roots, and how each time she looks in the mirror she promises herself to color them. And they are always there the next day, blinding her. The woman’s dainty arm makes her stand taller to flatten out the extra fold of skin under her bra strap from indulging countless sweets at the bakery. Her tongue rubs the inside of her cheek where an indentation on her cheek is cratered and deep from a cyst that was removed years ago. The tip of her tongue moves from her cheek to her front teeth, weakened and tinged from coffee and Lipton tea - her vices that start and end each day.

“I need a gender reveal cake.”

“Oh. Well, I didn’t know baby cakes were still a thing. Don’t people shoot colored smoke bombs or release millions of balloons from oversized boxes these days?”

“Yes, there is so much you can do for a gender reveal. But I have always wanted a cake. Can you make me one?”

“Yes, I can do it. You just want the inside to be pink or blue?”

“Yes, exactly. With some words on the top.”

“Okay. How about boy or girl? I can make the frosting half pink and half blue.”

“I love it. Do you think you can have it ready by Saturday afternoon?”

“Two days?” Kyra asks, conveying great inconvenience. “I suppose.”

She went back to the order form and put an “X” next to all of the boxes for the woman to complete.

Kyra hovers as the woman prints her name in bubbly penmanship Amalia B____. She begins to fill out all the information required for the order.

“All this fuss over the sex while so many wish for a healthy baby. Or a baby at all!”

Amalia looks up from the order form.

“Is there a slip of paper or a photo inside with the sex?” asks Kyra, pointing to the envelope.

“It’s a photo,” says Amalia. “It took everything I had to not look inside on the way here. I came straight from the doctor.”

“Good for you,” says Kyra.

“Are you sure you can do this?” Amalia asks.

Kyra hesitates for a moment. “Yes, it won’t be a problem.” She smiles widely to drive home reassurance.

“Okay, I will see you Saturday afternoon then?” Amalia asks. “Should I call with a reminder?”

“No reminder needed. It will be ready.”

“Well, then, thank you,” says Amalia, still seemingly hesitant.

“Nothing to worry about. You can trust me with your secret. And your cake.”

The bell on the door chimes as Amalia walks outside. Kyra wraps her hands around the envelope and carefully moved it to a safer place in the back.

“We’ll keep you safe back here for now.”

She returns to the front and removes a blueberry tart from the display fridge. She devours it in three bites and sucks a gob of jam off her thumb as she glances at the address on the order form. She uses her clean hand to type it into her phone. The search reveals a newly purchased home. Its inviting features remind her of a house that she knew well. Kyra decorates Amalia’s house similar to the one she designed for herself, complete with cherry hardwood floors and trim so white you can smell the fresh paint. Tall ceilings that even a 14 foot Christmas tree couldn’t reach. A swivel chair is positioned next to the cozy fireplace for reading. Her favorite afghan is thrown sloppily, but also purposefully, over the arm. She lives there with her husband, Geoffrey, G-EO-FFREY, not Jeffrey. Geoffrey is tall with dark features, dark to balance Amalia’s angelic mien. The baby’s name will be serene and contemporary, an Ada or Aiden. “Baby A” would be hers until Saturday.

***

The next day, Kyra wears an oversized t-shirt with dark leggings. Her bare feet are nestled into a pair of flats causing a noticeable ballooning of her toe cleavage. Her abdomen which normally rests on her thighs, bulges with exaggeration as she walks around the bakery. She holds her lower back with one arm, apologizing to customers for moving so slowly, blaming her throbbing sciatica.

Baby A is always near her. She giggles and flicks soft fingerfuls of flour at the envelope. “And sifting the flour will make a lighter cake.” She speaks slowly to Baby A during the baking demonstrations. She keeps the envelope close as she greets and assists customers throughout the day. “It is important to be kind. Always be kind.” At lunch, she tapes a “will return shortly” sign up on the bakery door and takes Baby A for a walk around the park. She points to the flowering empress tree and its radiant florals. The sun cast in such a way that the purple hues display a touch of indigo. As though falling through an hourglass, the bounteous hours with Baby A were becoming fewer. She closes the bakery at and tightly buckles Baby A into the front seat of her car. At home, Baby A is next to her on the couch. She fiddles with the remote to quickly change the channel after a second horrendous story appears on the evening news. “You’re too young to hear about the awfulness of this world.” Kyra finds a children’s movie that was unfamiliar to her but seems appropriate. That evening before bed, she sits quietly in the kitchen with Baby A. She drowns her tea bag in the mug, her salty tears cloud the water. When it is time for bed, she pulls a blue patterned afghan off the back of the couch and envelops Baby A in its warmth.

                                                        ***

It is her hope to see him every time she closed her eyes, but before tonight it has been years. She is sitting on the right side of the bench; the peeling paint latches onto the fibers of her skirt. Long blades of grass tickle the ball of her ankle. She smiles with pride as the little boy runs carelessly along the edge of the pond, his palms out to his sides and open, as if he is ready to scoop up and hold the world in his hands. His blonde, almost platinum thick hair, is blowing and bouncing through the soft wind. As he runs, he hits the heads of the cattails and horsetail reed. The wind carries fluffy white plumes all around her. She reaches her hand out and collects them on her palm. The boy laughs and disappears. She can hear his laughter growing further and further, until it is only vibrating within her. She places her hands on her stomach where she knows she can feel him. This is a boy that will always remain within her. She knows him well.

Her eyes open and release two tears that paint a wet line on each cheek. She so desperately wants to close her eyes and go back. She looks at the clock. 4:35 AM. She gets up to make the most of her time with Baby A before Amalia comes in to pick up her cake.

                                                           ***

 The sun is minutes from rising when Kyra arrives at the bakery with Baby A huddled tightly under her arm. Once she is inside, she brews a pot of coffee and begins preparing the cake ingredients. Before she can go any further, she folds in the clasps of the envelope and pushes it through the tiny hole. She inserts her fingers and grasps the photo with her fore and middle fingers. She carefully removes the photo and examines it. Though it is black and white, it is clear enough to make out a perfect round head, the small opening of a tulip mouth, and an arm with a closed fist. A small colored arrow is superimposed over the photo, pointing to a smudge that is pointing to the private area of the fetus. All this commotion over the tiny arrow. She thinks about the boy from her dream, running through the brush along the pond, his hair bouncing with each step, his dimple inhaling and swallowing the air around him as he smiles.

The food coloring is on the shelf above her head, the blue and red are side by side. She reaches for the color of her Baby A, squeezes a few drops, and vigorously stirs the batter.