Cherry Pie

I admire my pie sitting on the window with pride. I’m probably the only person who still cools her baking by the window, but it was how my mother taught me when I was a little girl and if I had a daughter of my own, it would have been how I taught her. I sigh, saddened at the thought. It had been decades since I gave up the idea ever starting a family of my own, but the absence still stung like a fresh wound. When I was little, I wore my mother’s wedding veil and pranced around with a white bed sheet pinned around me. I treated my dolls as though they were real infants, even carrying a broken baby monitor with me everywhere I went. I was destined to be the perfect wife and mother. Or so I thought. Today, at 67 years old, I baked a pie for no one but myself. 

I’m washing the dishes in the sink when I spot the girl next door. My neighbours had just moved in a few years ago. Kate and Jacob were a young couple and their daughter, Dawn, had just turned a year old. They needed a home that they could grow into and I could tell by the way they looked at each other that there would be more children. As predicted, Cathy is currently pregnant with her second.

I look away quickly when Dawn catches me watching her. Then I laugh at myself for feeling busted by a four year old. When I look up again she’s tugging on her mothers shirt, trying to drag her back into the house.

After an hour has passed, I’m sure the pie is ready to be cut. As I reach to close the window, I see Dawn peering down at me from her bedroom on their second floor. Her window is also open, and on the sill sits a plate holding a plastic slice of pie from one of those children’s play sets. She smiles and waves to me, so I do the same. Closing the window now feels the equivalent to shutting the door in her face, so I leave it open.

I don’t taste much as I eat a slice. I didn’t particularly crave pie, but it was something that my mother taught me long ago and a tradition I continued long after I moved out. My mother met my father in her teenage years, when he moved into her neighbourhood. My grandmother invited them over for dinner and that was where, according to my father, he tasted the best cherry pie he’d had in his entire life. It didn’t take long for my mother to fall for my father and, as the saying goes, the best way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. So my grandmother taught my mother to bake, beginning with cherry pie. My father never got sick of that pie and there was hardly a day I could remember that it wasn’t offered for dessert. At an early age, I began helping my mom in the kitchen and by nine years old, I could bake any pastry on my own. My favourite was cherry pie. 

Now, every week, I made sure I had a pie for dessert. I told myself that it was a tradition too old to be broken. But deep down, a part of me always hoped that the sweet aroma from my kitchen window would attract a handsome man in the neighbourhood. Like mother, like daughter, I hoped.

When I place my plate in the sink, I notice that Dawn’s windowsill is empty and her bedroom light is off. I see the family illuminated by the television light in their living room. Jacob’s arm is around Kate’s shoulders on the sofa and Dawn sits snugly between them. I leave the kitchen to watch some television on my own, like every other evening. But tonight, the bitter taste of jealousy, far stronger than the sweet tasting berries, lingers on my tongue. 

Thinking about Dawn’s behaviour that day kept me up most of the night, but I still rise in the early morning. I make my bed, plump the cushions, and wipe down the already clean counters of the kitchen before brewing a strong cup of coffee and dropping a slice of homemade bread into the toaster. Spreading jam on toast, I hear Kate outside with Dawn. It’s not even 8 o’clock.

“C’mon Dawn, it’s time for breakfast.”

“But, mommyyyyyyy,” Dawn wails, obviously not hungry. 

“We can come back out and play afterwards, let’s go kiddo.”

Dawn is watching me again. When I catch her eye, she waves enthusiastically. I feel a warmth in my chest and in response, hold up my piece of toast and let her see me take a big bite. Before I’ve swallowed, she’s obeying her mother and heading inside for her own breakfast. 

I can’t help but smile to myself. Kids, I think. I finish my breakfast standing at the counter waiting for Dawn to return to the yard. 

Suddenly, an idea pops into my head and I search for a pad of paper. I wish I had colourful markers, but all I have is the blue, red, and black that came with my dry-erase calendar. On it, in stick figure form, I draw a little girl with a slice of pie in her hand and a big smile on her face. For good measure, I write her name on top of the page. I tape the paper to the window, so the next time Dawn is outside she will see it. 

“Mommy, daddy! Look, look, look!” 

I hear Dawn’s excited shrieks from the living room and I’m certain she’s seen my drawing. I want to go and peek at her facial expression, but I don’t want to ruin the moment. So I stay put and only reenter the kitchen when I’m ready for dinner. 

I hope Dawn is playing in the yard as I remove the paper from the window. My level of disappointment surprises me when I see that she’s not. But I do see something else. In her bedroom window is a stick figure drawing, similar to mine, but made with more creativity. A woman with grey hair that matches my own and a red apron like the one I always wear to bake, is holding what I imagine is a whole pie, steam rising to the top of the page. With an arrow pointing to the woman, in uneven letters, she has written, “DOrTHy”. I imagine Cathy sitting at the table with Dawn telling her to “sound it out”. I see Dawn’s crinkled forehead as she exaggerates each letter of my name, missing the nearly silent second ‘o’. A single tear slides down the side of my face as I mourn the experiences I never got have with the family that never existed. 

I wipe it away quickly and find another blank sheet of paper and my three dry-erase markers. This time, I draw two stick figures. A big one with a red dress and a little one with a blue dress sitting around a table with a pie in the centre. I label each girl, “Dorothy” and “Dawn”. I tape that paper to the window and wait. 

Less than an hour later, I peek around my paper and see that Dawn has responded. I laugh out loud. She has drawn two faces, one with short grey hair and one with long blonde hair, and both with red splotches around their mouths. She has labelled them again. ‘DOrOTHy’ and ‘DAwN’. I feel a sense of pride that she got my name right this time. I taught her. 

I’m trying to come up with the next sequence in the story when the phone rings. 

“Hello?” I answer, not recognizing the number.

“Miss Dorothy? Mommy found your number and said I could talk to you! Hi Miss Dorothy!”

“Dawn, is that you?” I say, even though I recognized her voice immediately.

“Yeah! It’s me! Miss Dorothy, I like your pictures. One day, I want to bake pies just like you!”

“Do you now?” I chuckle.

“Yes. I want to grow up to be just like you!”

“Oh,” I say, not sure how to properly respond. You can hardly say, “Oh dear, no. You do not want to grow up to be lonely single woman with no family who will die disappointed that she never got her one real wish in this world” to a four year old. Luckily, Dawn quickly fills the silence,

“Yes and I want to bake cherry pies. They’re my favourite. Daddy gets them from the store sometimes. Miss Dorothy they’re really good. Can you make cherry pies?”

I can hardly believe what’s happening and I get an idea.

“As a matter of fact, Miss Dawn, I can. And they’re much more delicious than the ones at the store. Did you know that cherry is my favourite kind too?”

I hear her gasp on the other end of the line, as if I’d just told her something truly groundbreaking.

“Hey, Miss Dawn,” I say, “would you mind putting your mother on the phone?”

Without warning she screams, “MOMMYYYY,” and I nearly drop the phone as I yank it away from my ear.

“Miss Dorothy, it’s true?” Dawns voice asks incredulously, when Cathy puts her back on the phone.

“Of course! I’d be honoured to teach you how to bake the most delicious cherry pie. Anytime you’d like. You’re welcome in my kitchen.”

“Wow,”

“Your mommy and I already agreed that we can start the lesson tomorrow, how does that sound?”

“YEAH! YEAH! YEAH! BYE MISS DOROTHY!” 

She’s so excited that she hangs up before I even open my mouth to say goodbye. I hum to myself as I go down to the basement and pull my very first apron out of the closet in the spare room. It’s stained with various juices and oils and it might be too long for Dawn right now, but it will do just fine. After all these years, I knew there was a reason I kept it.