Hannah's Birthday Cake

Sensitive Content Warning: Contains descriptions of childhood sexual assault.

It started with some leftover jalapenos. Hannah wasn’t much of a cook in her early twenties, and most of her dinners came from the middle eastern twenty-four-hour bodega on the ground floor of her building in Bed-Stuy, Brooklyn. One frosty day in January 2031, Hannah noticed that they were having a sale on jalapeno peppers and impulsively bought three pounds’ worth. They were relegated to the back of her refrigerator for a week or so. The morning after she quit her job, Hannah woke up at 6 AM, her head pounding with various nightmares in which she could no longer pay her $2300 monthly rent and was forced to move back to Marine Park to live with her wife. Her regret was instant, like a gut punch. She felt like she had woken up with a giant tattoo of Taylor Swift on her cheek. How could I be so stupid? She wanted to punch a wall.

In a seemingly futile attempt to distract herself, Hannah opened the refrigerator to search for some kind of breakfast. The sad-looking, already-withering jalapenos caught her eye. Hannah reached for the back of the top shelf and pulled them out. She sniffed inside the bag. They smelled fresh, just barely. Hannah’s stomach clenched as she considered the gourmet vegan cookbook that was covered in dust on her bookshelf. There was a chapter on pickling in that book. Her heart pounded as she pulled it off the shelf. Hannah flipped quickly past the rounded lettering of the inscription and read the chapter on pickling from beginning to end. She purchased a spice set and a bottle of vinegar from the bodega, trying not to think about the dwindling sum in her bank account.

The next day, she added the pickled jalapenos to the top of her avocado toast, along with some pumpkin seeds and sun-dried tomatoes. The burst of flavor made her feel happy for a brief moment, like getting a like on an Instagram post.

Over the next few months, Hannah started pickling all the produce she could: red onions, pineapple, avocados, asparagus, watermelon rinds, cauliflower, baby cucumbers, papaya, multicolored radishes. She got a part-time job working from home as a copyeditor and moved to a smaller apartment.

Once her obsession with pickling began to die down a bit, as most hobbies eventually did, Hannah moved on to other sections of the cookbook. The book featured intricate recipes with ingredient lists that stretched as long as thirty items. The recipes were joyous and colorful, created with great care by someone who clearly loved to cook: Ube lamington with coconut filling and sesame brittle, seasoned trumpet mushrooms with deep-fried butternut squash balls and broccoli puree, cashew-based fondue with braided challah and pickled turnips. Hannah often stayed up into the wee hours of the morning trying to recreate these foods as she had tasted them all those years ago, when they were still in the experimental phase. She invited her hot new neighbor, Adrian, over for dinner.

“Wow, Gordon Ramsay can’t hold a candle to you,” he said between bites of roasted pumpkin salad and bean burger. Hannah busied herself clearing the dirty dishes. Adrian’s face was half-covered in shadow as the fat pink candle on the table flickered. Subtle French music played suggestively from the speaker on the windowsill.

“I hope I didn’t make you feel uncomfortable,” said Adrian. “I haven’t done this in a while.”

“No, not at all.” Hannah removed her heels and sank into the faux leather couch. Her semi-sheer pantyhose chafed her thighs. She had already decided that she was bored with Adrian. He didn’t know which region of the world Belarus was located in, and he talked way too much about his fantasy football podcast. He had managed to bring his recent chance encounter with Zendaya into the conversation three times. He had even said he did not like black-and-white movies, as if that was a genre of film! He had nailed his own coffin shut with the reference to Gordan Ramsay, whom Hannah personally despised. What was I thinking? She willed him to go away. Instead, he joined her on the couch.

Things had been both easier and harder when she was dating women. Easier, because it was hard to find a lesbian who was not at least a little informed about world politics or who didn’t appreciate some film noir. Harder, because... Well, many reasons.

She could sense that poor Adrian was trying to deduce the cause of her frosty disposition. He really seemed like a good guy. It was too bad this wouldn’t work out. Another thing to discuss with Dr. Grossman.

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

Hannah entered the high-rise building in lower Manhattan for her third therapy session. Juliette had been kind enough to let Hannah remain on her insurance plan indefinitely. Juliette worked for the state and had out-of-network benefits. Hannah knew that Jules still loved her. But Hannah was not the last woman in the world, and she was dimly aware that Juliette would eventually request a divorce. Jules would meet some lovely new woman, a journalist or a Broadway performer or a pediatrician, and her life would restart like a tulip blooming in the spring.

The elevator dinged at the fourth floor, and Hannah was buzzed into Dr. Grossman’s office. Dr. Grossman was wearing a red polka-dotted dress that reminded Hannah of Mini Mouse.

“How are we doing today, Hannah?” Dr. Grossman smiled. She always spoke like that: Do we feel alright on the new medication? Did we practice the skills from last week? Are we sleeping better at night?

“Fine,” said Hannah. “My love life is still nonexistent. Where is Pipa?” Dr. Grossman usually had a teacup chihuaha that sat quietly on the newspaper-colored couch. It threw Hannah off that Pipa wasn’t there.

“She was a little excitable this morning, so I left her at home,” said Dr. Grossman. “Let’s get back to you. Did you decided to invite your neighbor for dinner like we talked about last week?”

“Yes, and it was a disaster. I wanted to screw him just so he would finally get out of my apartment. Did you ever notice that most people in the world are just dull and unlikeable?”

Dr. Grossman laughed. “I’ve been there. But I’m starting to wonder if the problem was your date, or your depression.”

“No, it was definitely him this time. He has a fantasy football podcast, for crying out loud!”

“Oof. Okay.” Dr. Grossman paused. Hannah knew what Dr. Grossman would say next, and heart dropped to her toes.

Dr. Grossman cleared her throat. “Should we do the simulation today?”

“No. Yes. Yes, that’s my final answer.” Hannah wiped her hands on her jeans and followed Dr. Grossman to the simulation room. She felt like she had as a child in the indoor fun park. There had been one attraction in the fun park called the “Trust Fall,” where the kids climbed up a giant fire truck structure while attached to a belay and then jumped off the edge. It always seemed so easy when Hannah saw the other kids flying through the air, their light bodies swaying near the ceiling. But Hannah never made it more than a few rungs before her hands started to sweat and she pictured slipping and breaking her face on the ladder.

Hannah laid on her back on the blue couch and swallowed the dark pill handed to her by Dr. Grossman. Her lids swung closed like heavy moths wings.

Hannah stands at the kitchen island, a bowl of green apples in front of her. She is tempted to call out to Dr. Grossman to exit, but she clenches her fists and wills her heart to slow. Just a few more rungs on the ladder. She will not let this defeat her like the “Trust Fall” had. She hears Dr. Grossman’s voice calling out to her as if from a grainy radio.

“Walk around the house,” says Dr. Grossman. “There are no other people in there, I promise.”

Hannah gets on her hands and knees and crawls to the spiral staircase. She looks down, and her heartbeat accelerates. She sees a shadow pass across the floor of the basement game room. She can’t go there. It’s too early. She is okay with being a chicken. Anything is better than this.

“It’s just Pipa,” says Dr. Grossman. “She’s waiting for you. Do you want to bring her a treat?” Hannah notices that her own left hand holds a crinkly bag of Milk-Bones. She steps softly on the carpeted staircase, focusing on the rough feeling of the wall on her palm. At the bottom of the staircase are the bookshelves full of classics. Hannah averts her eyes. I just have to feed Pipa. I just have to feed Pipa. A sudden impulse seizes her and she scrambles up the staircase, slamming the door behind her.

“Let me out! I can’t do this!” She screams.

Hannah sat up on the couch, her heart thudding.

“I’m sorry!” She said to Dr. Grossman. “I don’t understand why I keep doing this. It’s just a house.”

“If it was just a house, we wouldn’t be here.” Dr. Grossman stood up and opened the door for Hannah. They returned to the main office. Hannah talked to Dr. Grossman about her date, her copyediting job, her worries that Jules would finally kick her off the insurance plan. She gave Dr. Grossman a small slice of the fig-rhubarb pie she had recently baked. She still hadn’t told Dr. Grossman the truth about the cookbook.

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

Hannah’s mother had passed way when Hannah was twelve years old. Around the same time, Hannah’s father had hired a nanny to look after Hannah.

“I’m too old for a nanny!” Hannah had complained. “I babysit the Fisher boys all the time.”

But when she met the nanny, Hannah stopped complaining. Nikki was cool and classy. She wore 80’s style metal aviator glasses with confidence. She was a vegan and cooked complicated soups from scratch. She wrote poetry and was working on a Master’s degree in English. Nikki gave Hannah the secret to winning the middle school’s creative writing contest:

“A lot of kids are too vague in their poetry,” Nikki said. “They say things like, ‘Love is a heart. Love is warm and fuzzy.’ No, that’s not relatable to the adults that are judging the contest. What’s relatable is, ‘Love is two sisters holding hands and running through a field of dandelions. Love is the smell of blueberry pancakes in the morning.’”

Hannah’s juvenile mind was blown. She produced a poem called “Cleaning the Kitchen” that wowed her English teacher at the time and also got her sent to the school counselor for a suicide risk assessment:

“I always feel like my sell-by date is past.

I keep paper straws on top of the refrigerator

To help save the planet.

But maybe it would be better for the planet

If I was never born.

When I yell at the garbage disposal,

I expect someone to answer me,

Maybe some cute little bacteria monster

Who lives under the drain.

My life is so, so ordinary.

I’m just cleaning the kitchen,

Because my dad told me to.”

“Good job,” said Nikki when she read it, returning the paper to Hannah with an approving nod. Nikki was sparing with complements, so this one made Hannah feel like dancing on the countertop.

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

Hannah knew that the nanny was there to love Hannah so that her father wouldn’t need to change his unaffectionate M.O. When Hannah got home from school on her thirteenth birthday, the kitchen smelled of warm spices and date syrup.

“I made you a birthday cake,” Nikki said. The table was set with colorful candles and an expensive set of dishes that was usually reserved for Hannah’s father’s business associates when they came over for dinner.

“Um, thanks,” said Hannah. She stared at round beige cake that was sitting a pool of syrup. It was covered with fluffy cream and chopped mango. Candied pecans and dried fruit were arranged artfully around the cake. “That’s a strange-looking cake.” Hannah’s favorite was strawberry cheesecake, and this was some weird mature-looking cake that she normally wouldn’t look at twice. But Nikki had made it.

Hannah took a bite. The complexity of the flavors surged to her brain like a first kiss.

“Wow,” was all she managed. She wanted to say something more articulate, more mature, but she was suddenly nervous. Nikki sat down on the bar stool next to Hannah’s at the marble counter. She put her arm around Hannah.

“Happy birthday,” she whispered. She kissed Hannah on the cheek.

Hannah had fantasized about this happening many times, but now she felt sick. She wanted to vomit into the garbage can. But even in her pre-teen brain, she sensed that she needed to tread carefully.

“Mm,” she said. “This cake is delicious. Thank you, Nikki. You’re the best.”

Nikki’s hand still lingered on Hannah’s shoulder, growing heavier like a pile of sand.

“I have to go to the bathroom,” said Hannah. She walked quickly to the basement door. There was a bowl of green apples on kitchen island, and one of the apples still had a barcode sticker on it. For some reason, it was this detail Hannah focused on as she passed. That sticker shouldn’t be there. It really shouldn’t be there. Someone needs to remove it. Perhaps this was her brain’s attempt at restoring some normalcy to the now foreign-seeming house. She scurried down the stairs and entered the guest bathroom near the bookcase. After a couple of dry-heaves into the toilet Hannah caught her breath and stared in the mirror. Her hazel eyes seems startled, like a hunted animal’s. Hannah disapproved of hunting. She had gone vegan since meeting Nikki. She had thought Nikki disapproved of hunting, too.

When Hannah exited the bathroom, she leaped back and yelped. Nikki was sitting on the futon.

“Don’t worry, I won’t bite,” said Nikki. “I just wanted to apologize if I made you feel weird earlier.”

Hannah exhaled. “That’s alright,” she said. She was fine. Everything was fine. Nikki had not meant any harm.

“Come sit.” Nikki patted the space on the futon next to her. Hannah sat on the edge of the seat and looked at Nikki’s face, noticing that Nikki’s eyes were faintly pink.

“Are you okay?” asked Hannah.

“I’m fine. My boyfriend broke up with me, that’s all,” said Nikki. “I’ve been really lonely.”

“I’m sorry,” said Hannah. She was not sure what else to say. This was an adult concern. She did not feel equipped to address it, considering her limited dating experience. She had held a girl’s hand once in the cafeteria at school. She had kissed one boy dryly on the lips at her classmate’s Bat Mitzvah.

“You’re an old soul, Hannah,” said Nikki. She wiped her nose with a tissue.

“Thanks.” Hannah stood up, and so did Nikki.

“Give me a hug,” said Nikki. She put her arm around Hannah. Hannah noticed that Nikki wasn’t wearing a bra. Hannah felt a cold hand move up under her shirt, grabbing her breast. She squeezed her eyes shut and wondered if she could outrun Nikki to the front door. Even if she could, who would hear her?

The next day, Hannah woke up early and approached her dad as he was getting ready for work.

“Dad, I need to tell you something.” Her voice sounded hollow and childish.

“Yes, Hannah?” Her father poured his green smoothie into a glass and glanced at her as he headed to the front door.

“Nikki is a little strange,” said Hannah.

“Okay? And?”

“Um...”

“Sweetie, you’re going to have to speed this along. I have a business meeting to get to.” Hannah’s father opened the door. The Lamborghini in the driveway beeped.

“Never mind,” said Hannah.

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

Nikki was Hannah’s nanny for one more year after that, until Hannah’s father decided that Hannah was too old for a nanny. Hannah still felt hands touching her at night, as had so often happened when Nikki was around.

Hannah finished high school and college. She dated five people and then married Juliette when she was twenty, at a courthouse in Brooklyn. The rented an apartment together in Bushwick, on the third floor of a walk-up owed by a Hasidic Jew whom they never saw nor heard from unless there was a maintenance issue or it was time for lease renewal. They were content.

One lazy weekend afternoon, Hannah received a parcel in the mail. It was wrapped in brown paper and had no return address.

“Babe, did you order this?” she asked Juliette, who was in the shower.

“I didn’t order anything!” Juliette called.

Hannah tore open the paper, revealing a glossy white cover with bright photos of juices, pickled vegetables, and elegant meals. Hannah’s stomach twisted. She opened the front cover and found a handwritten message:

“To Hannah,” it said. “I have no doubt you’ve turned out to be a strong and intelligent adult. Look at the last recipe. Best wishes, Nikki.”

Against her better judgement, Hannah flipped to the last recipe in the book. “Hannah’s birth cake.” It was the recipe for that Indian-inspired spice cake with coconut and mango that Nikki had made almost ten years ago. Hannah turned the pages and found several more recipes that were familiar to her from childhood. The borscht. The wheatberry salad.

Juliette came out of the bathroom, toweling off her hair. “Is everything alright, monkey?

“All good,” said Hannah.

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

It was time for Hannah’s fourth session with Dr. Grossman. Hannah tried to pep-talk herself as she rode the subway.

I can do it. No big deal. It’s just a house. All good.