“Pancakes”

     “One, two, three—flip!”

     I turn the spatula over in my hand. Run my fingers over the smooth, shiny blue plastic. Feel the grooves, the little chips, the wear and tear over the years. The edges of the smiley face are worn smooth, the features softened. I hold the long handle in my fist, remembering my tiny baby hands clutching it tight. Bigger, calloused hands over mine.

     “See, that wasn’t so bad.”

     The house is dark. The kitchen is quiet.

     Pancakes sizzle on the pan.

     “Want to try another, sweet pea?”

     I wonder if I still remember how to make pancakes.

     I walk over to the wall. I know by instinct that the light switch is there, nestled in the tiny space between the cabinet and the doorway. I flip it on. The domed ceiling light buzzes into brightness, a familiar yellow glow in this strange stillness.

     The microwave says it’s eight p.m. Zoe’s at dance class, Mom’s working late again. There’s no one here except me.

     And my memories.

     It’s only until I hear the roar of the engine that I realize that what I’m doing is kind of stupid. But the Stop and Shop is still open, and they won’t be home for an hour, and I’m still floating on that feeling of childhood nostalgia, so I don’t hesitate again when I back out of the driveway and turn right onto the road. A fine mist of rain falls onto the windshield, blurring the view ahead. Street lamps cast pale yellow halos onto the pavement. The only sign of people are the silhouettes that wander near the center of town. I turn into the entrance and pull into an empty spot in front of the glowing supermarket.

     I don’t really stay for long. Flour, baking powder, a milk carton. He always liked almond best. Said it made the pancakes sweeter. A box of vanilla flavor. He never liked using the cheap stuff, the fake stuff, but the real stuff—vanilla extract, dark amber liquid in fancy glass bottles—was expensive. Mom said we’d never use it anyways.

     I carry my now sort-of-full basket to the self-checkout aisle. Slide all the barcodes across the machine. Slip a ten-dollar bill inside the slot, and place everything inside my backpack. He used to remind me to be gentle with these things. Every grain of flour, every drop of milk, is worth something. Treat them with care. I walk out with my backpack on my shoulders, the rain, now a drizzle. It’s like something out of a movie. The sky is black and featureless, and the only sources of light are the Stop & Shop and the street lamps. There’s a stillness that surrounds me, that surrounds this entire place. Like the tide curling in towards the sea, waiting to come rushing back.

     I drive home in the quiet. The only sound in the car is the radio, the volume turned down. They’re talking about thunderstorms sweeping the East Coast in between Taylor Swift and Coldplay, but I’m not listening. I’m still trying to hold onto any scrap of memory I have left.

     “Don’t overwhisk. You want the pancakes to be fluffy, and light.”

     “Careful with the flour. There you go.”

     “You want to put some jam on these, kiddo? Mom will like that.”

     I’m barely looking at the road anymore.

     “Alright now, just take a little peek. Lift up the edge of the pancake.”

     “I’ll hold the bowl, and you can ladle out the batter.”

     “Ta-da! We did it. You and me, kiddo, you and—”

     I hear a honk.

     I slam on the brakes—

     Hard.

     I’m thrown towards the dashboard, my collarbones colliding with the seatbelt. Someone behind me’s still hitting their car horn. I hear shouts, windows rolled down.

     The red light glows. Glares at me.

     How could you? it says. How could you.

     The memories fade away slowly, slip out of my reach. I want to chase after them, keep holding onto them. But some other part of me pulls me back.

     You can’t keep running away from the present. You can’t keep pretending you’re still there.

     I turn off the radio.

     The rest of the way home is silent. I’m shaking, my knees trembling. My knuckles are white as they grip the steering wheel. I’m scared.

     Halfway to death.

     My brain is telling me to take deep breaths, but my heart is racing. Faster than the fear coursing through my veins.

     Keep going straight.

     Turn right here.

     Up the dirt road.

     Farther, farther, farther…

     There.

     When I park back in the garage, I step out on shaky legs. My feet are barely holding up my weight, and I stumble against the side of the car.

     I gasp for air. Big breaths—in, out, in, out. I’m starving for oxygen. My mind is spinning.

     How could you? How could you? How could you.

     It feels like a sign. I shouldn’t keep doing this to myself. Falling back in slowly, drowning myself in the past, letting this tide of what-could-have-been wash over me as I sink deeper and deeper, until I can’t swim back up.

     But I’m not ready to let go.

     Not yet.

     I kick my shoes off, throw my coat onto the bench. Walk to the wall. Instinct.

     Flip the light switch back on.

     I know everything in this kitchen. It’s been the same since I was a kid, every spoon and every plate and every mug in the same cabinet it’s always been in. I reach for the big mixing bowl, the plastic measuring spoon, the 2-cup measure. Take out everything from my backpack and set it on the counter.

     The microwave reads, 8:30 p.m.

     I still have time. 

     Dry ingredients first. A cup of flour from the bag. I’m careful to get it all in the bowl, but a cloud of powder still puffs up when I pour it in. Two tablespoons of sugar from that container with the floppy lid. Mom always puts sugar in her coffee. That’s why she keeps it there. A tablespoon of baking powder. It looks like snow, powdery and soft. Half a teaspoon of salt. Don’t spill it. Salt is hard to clean up. Get one of the big forks from the silverware drawer. We never bought a whisk, we never needed to. Stir everything together.

     I uncap the milk. Pull out the plastic bit in the spout. Gently, gently. One cup of milk. Look at it from eye level so you know you poured enough. Get the vinegar from the cabinet. Mom always has some, likes to use it in salads so we can eat healthier. Pour it into the little plastic spoon. It comes out so fast, like water. A teaspoon of vanilla flavor. Smells like chemicals, but it’ll have to do. Whisk it together with the fork.

     Pour the wet into the dry. He liked to do it in spirals, so it spread evenly. He always made them look pretty for me, curlicue rivers of milk in a hill of flour. Whisk it all together with a fork. Don’t over-mix. You want it to be fluffy.

     Let it rest for five minutes. Turn the stove on. It needs time to get the pan hot. Put everything away while it heats up. He always said a good chef has a clean counter.

     Remember to keep it neat, sweet pea. You want to have a nice, open space to do your work. 

     It’s 8:40 p.m. now. Zoe will be home in twenty minutes, maybe twenty-five. Mom’s picking her up.

     I run my hand under the faucet. Not too much water, not too little. Flick it over the pan—

     Like you’re throwing a Frisbee. That’s it. Good job, kiddo.

     The droplets sizzle away in seconds.

     If that happens, the pan is hot enough.

     I grab the ladle, and scoop out the batter. It’s a weird texture, spongy. The sound of it always made me laugh as a kid.

     Pretty funny, huh?

     It slides onto the pan with a sizzle. Another ladleful. Another. Three circles of pale batter bubble and hiss on the pan.

     Watch them carefully. If the pan’s too hot, they’ll burn.

     Thirty seconds. One minute.

     Check to see if they’re cooked yet. Lift up the end with the edge of the spatula.

     I carefully peek underneath the pancake.

     Browned.

     Now, slide the whole spatula underneath. Gentle now. You don’t want them to wrinkle.

     The plastic eases right in between the pan and the batter.

     Now, just scoop it up. Ready? Easy as one, two, three—

     No.
     A wave of emotion hits me, too much. Too fast. The breath’s been knocked straight out of my lungs. All the memories, all the feelings, rush back through me, a rip current that hits right where it hurts. All I want is to be five years old again, standing on the step stool next to him, making pancakes on Saturday mornings and laughing because everything is all so perfect.

     But I realize—

     It’s never going to be the same again.

     The pancakes are still sitting there, unflipped. I’m tempted to let them burn. Now I feel really stupid. As if I could just stand here, drive to the store with my shiny-new license and buy ingredients, and make pancakes, like it would solve all my stupid emotional baggage. As if doing this one little thing would make it all go back to normal, turn back time and stop it all from slipping by too soon.

     But as I stare at the pancakes, raw and bubbling and probably burned at this point, I swear I can hear his voice.

     Hey, kiddo.

     Focus on me. Focus on the pancakes. You don’t need to worry about all that other stuff right now, okay? Just focus on me and the pancakes. 

     They’re bubbling a lot, see? If you leave them too long, they’ll probably burn. 

     Burned pancakes are a little sad, a little less happy than the other pancakes. They feel left alone. Neglected. But when you can still save them. They just need a little love.

     Ready?

     One. 

     Two.

     Three.

     Flip.

     My eyes shut at the last second, like I’m scared of seeing the results. As if I know I messed up. I failed. I couldn’t save them.

     I slowly open one eye.

     And in front of me—

     Golden-brown.

     Beautiful.

     They’re a little burned at the edges, but that’s alright. Even he wasn’t perfect. If he turned up a burned pancake, he always said that accidents happen. Even if it was a little messy on the outside, it was just as good on the inside.

     I flip the other two pancakes. They’re perfect. Like sunkissed maple syrup, golden-y and amber-colored. It smells like heaven. No—home.

     Thirty seconds. Forty-five.

     I flip them again. Golden-brown and ready to be served. I get out a plate and a big piece of tin foil, just like he used to. Put—

     One half on the plate. Now—

     Slide the pancakes onto the tin foil. 

     Wrap the foil around them,

     Like a blanket.

     Easy-peasy, kiddo.

     Just right.

     The garage door roars open with a whoosh, accompanied by the rumble of Mom’s car. It putters to a stop as familiar footsteps echo on the concrete. I hear a key slide into the lock.

     “Honey?”

     Mom’s standing in the doorway. Zoe’s behind her, bag strapped across her shoulder.

     “I’m uh—” My voice falters. What will she think?

     “I’m making pancakes.”

     For a moment, I can’t read her expression. But then—

     She smiles.

     “Just like you and Dad used to.” Zoe’s trying to look over her shoulder. I know she can smell the pancakes. I remember her in Mom’s arms as a baby, watching us with big eyes. “That’s great, honey.”

     “Yeah.” I shrug.

     Zoe wriggles past Mom. She leaves her bag on the couch, runs right up to the counter. It’s been so long, but her expression is the exact same.

     Wide eyes, watching. Curious.

     “Can I help?” she asks, looking at me.

     I hesitate.

     I know she’s waiting for an answer. And I can tell. She’s afraid I’ll say no.

     I usually do.

     But this time… I can’t. I can’t keep pulling myself away. Even if Dad couldn’t be there for me, it doesn’t mean I can’t be there for Zoe.

     This time is different.

“Sure.” I pat the ladle, floating beside me in the mixing bowl. “There’s still a lot of batter that needs cooking.”

Zoe beams, runs around and hugs me from behind. 

     “You’re the best,” she whispers. 

     I sigh, leaning into the feeling of her arms around my stomach. “Here.” I hand her the spatula, the smiley face shining in the warm yellow glow of the ceiling light. I pour three new circles of pancake batter onto the pan. She watches them closely, the bubbles reflecting in her eyes. She curls her first around the blue plastic handle.

     Gently, I wrap my hands around hers.

     “Ready?

     “One, two, three—

     “Flip.”