The Gingerbread Man

“I don’t want to go there…” I whispered to nobody in the soft dim light of the Café, closing my eyes tight as if that could stop the memories from taking me back. I stopped, not five paces from the entrance, and knew I had to turn around and leave. I just wanted to run in for a coffee and danish on my way to work. The morning walk through the city was brisk and chilly, typical late November, yet steady streams of sunlight soaked into me. I’d felt happy and energized, until now. 

The smell of gingerbread, warm and brown and sweet, filled the air. There was no way to stop it now. A gingerbread man had me by the hand and was dragging me back to my grandmother’s kitchen. 

“I don’t want to go there…” I muttered again, turning around and making my way toward the door. But the gingerbread man tugged harder, he wouldn’t let me go. He sat me at a small table near the door, and all of a sudden I was eight years old again. I closed my eyes, and the gingerbread man sat with me, asking me to remember. Swirls of cinnamon wrapped around my hair and arms, nutmeg and clove danced like glitter all around me. My grandmother was laughing, and I was straightening my blue checked apron that she had just tied. Gram had a matching one she wore. The white lace trim was itchy. Bing Crosby crooned about a White Christmas on the kitchen radio, a fixture on her counter next to the bread box adorned with yellow, orange, and brown flowers. 

“Shall we make a whole army of gingerbread men?” she asked me. 

“Yes!” I replied, and jumped down from the chair I’d been standing on. Mom would have yelled “Get down before you fall!”, but Gram didn’t mind. Gram knew I’d be ok. 

I watched as she set the oven to preheat, then took out cookie sheets. She never followed recipes, just knew what temperature and what ingredients came together like magic. 

“Here’s the spoon to mix with. I’ll add everything slowly because it gets hard to stir. Then you can roll out the dough, and we’ll cut out our army!” she told me. 

I concentrated hard as I stirred the eggs that gooed slowly from their cracked shells, then the dark molasses that oozed from the measuring cup, then the sugar. There were puffs of white flour like clouds on the kitchen table. I paused and traced my name into a cloud, C-o-r-a, then I traced into another cloud G-r-a-m, with a heart around it. 

Gram smiled, and gently took the bowl from me. I watched as her strong hands began to knead the thickening dough. Her skin was thin like rice paper, soft and smooth. I could see her blue veins rising like mountains through them. 

“Can I try?”

“Of course, doll!” and she moved aside for me to step in. She always called me “doll”, or “dolly”, and it made me feel beautiful and special like a porcelain doll that was dearly loved and adored. 

The dough was sticky, and it took all my might to squish it. I watched as it creeped through my fingers, brown slithering snakes coiling as they rose. I squished again, and patted it down flat. I balled my hands into fists like I’d seen Gram do, and pressed down hard, lifting my feet from the floor as I leaned into it. 

“You’re a natural at baking. You know just what to do,” she gleamed. I proudly smiled back at her, wondering if it was the heat of the warming kitchen causing the glistening of sweat on her forehead. 

“Time to roll!” Gram said, handing me the rolling pin. 

I put my fingers gently into the bowl of silky soft flour, rubbing it against the smooth wood of the rolling pin. The marble handles were cold. The wood covered with flour felt a little course on my fingertips. 

I began rolling the dough into an oval. It was really hard to make it flat. My hands slipped a little on the handles of the rolling pin, and I tried to press it out from side to side. 

“Would you like me to help?” Gram asked. 

“Yeah, maybe a little,” I said, and handed her the rolling pin.

Gram rolled the dough, her face getting more red as tiny beads of sweat were forming. Her thin blonde hair, recently permed into curls against her head, was darkened and sticking to her temples. 

“Want me to do it, Gram?” I had asked. 

“That’s ok dolly, it’s all ready now to cut out the army of gingerbread men!” she replied, using her apron to pat her wet face. Her breathing seemed heavy from all the rolling. 

One by one, I pressed the shiny silver cookie cutter into the dough, releasing another soldier into the growing army of gingerbread men on the cookie sheets. 

Once the army was at attention, all in a line, they were ready to be baked. Gram put them in the oven and glanced at the clock. 

“Not long now, dolly. I’m just going to sit a little and rest my eyes. Keep an eye on them, ok?” she’d said, and sat in the kitchen chair. It was near the wall, and she rested her head back, closing her eyes. 

I looked through the glass of the oven, tinged brown with age and use despite Gram’s constant scrubbing. Slowly, the gingerbread men were starting to grow, to rise. The warmth of the oven caressed my face, the smell of cookies filled my nose, and Christmas music filled my ears. 

“These smell so good, Gram!” I said, excited to see what they tasted like. 

Gram didn’t answer. 

I turned around, and Gram didn’t look well. 

“Gram?” I yelled, trying to make her wake up. 

Slowly, she opened her eyes, and gave me a weak smile. 

“I’m not feeling that great right now, dolly. Call your mom, and ask her to come over. Tell her I might want the doctor to check on my heart. She’ll know what to do.”

“Ok, Gram, I’ll call her,” and I ran to the phone at the bottom of her steps. I dialed my number, poking my tiny finger into each numbered hole, spinning it in a circle and waiting as it spun back again before poking my finger into the next number. 

“Mom, Gram isn’t feeling right. She said to call and tell you the doctor needs to check her heart,” I said as fast as I could. 

“I’ll be right there,” my mom said before quickly hanging up. 

I ran back to Gram. 

“I think it’s about time to get those gingerbread men out of there. Get the oven mitts and take them out. Put them on the counter. They can cool there,” Gram said calmly. 

I did as she said, and then my mom and dad hurried through the door. 

“Mom, come with me. We’ll go to the hospital to get you checked,” my dad said. He helped Gram up. 

“Cora. You stay here with your mom and get those gingerbread men decorated. I can’t wait to see them when I get home,” Gram said with a smile, then put her hand to her heart. 

“I love you, sweetheart,” she said and gave me a hug. 

“I love you too, Gram. I’ll decorate ALL of them! Wait til you see!” I said. 

Dad and Gram left, and Mom and I finished up the cookies. 

“Think Gram will be back soon?” I hopefully asked my mom, looking out the window. It had collected condensation on the inside from the heat of the cookies baking, but was now disappearing. 

“Why don’t we have some cookies while we wait for her. These are Gram’s favorite to make. Let’s try some,” my mom coaxed. 

“Ok. Gram is going to love how I put the icing on them!” I said, still expecting Dad and Gram to walk through the door any minute.

I sat on my mom’s lap, eating gingerbread men and gazing out the window as the sky melted from blue to purple to black. 

Gram never came back. 

I felt something warm fall on my arm, and realized suddenly that I was crying, sitting alone in the Café. The smell of gingerbread continued to fill the air, and I saw a worker taking a tray from the oven, behind the counter. 

Now the gingerbread man began to pull me in another direction. I wouldn’t let myself think of Gram, of losing her, of anything that made me think of her. Maybe it was time to think of her again, he seemed to whisper gently. To talk to Dad about her, ask what she was like when he was a little boy.  Did she bake gingerbread men with him? I’d buried all my feelings, squished them down like the gingerbread dough. It was time to let the memories creep up through my fingers, feel them, look at them. 

I hadn’t had gingerbread cookies since that day when my Gram, my best friend, left me forever. I wondered if it still tasted the same as that day. 

The gingerbread man led me from the table. He urged me along, and seemed to say “It’s ok.” At the counter, I ordered a coffee and a gingerbread cookie, fresh from the oven with sweet white icing melting and dripping down its edges. It was warm in my hand, soft and a little cracked on top. 

I went back to the small table by the door. I sat down and took a small bite of the still warm gingerbread. It was cinnamon, and ginger, and sugar, and molasses, and Christmas music, and white flour clouds that said Gram. 

I took out my phone, and called Dad. 

“Hey Dad. Have a minute?”

“Sure, sweetheart, what’s up?” 

“Tell me about Gram.” 

And I took another bite.