Page 24

“I heard what happened with Wolf yesterday,” my mom says. Her voice is soft and I stiffen in her arms.

“I don’t want him around. He’s a bad influence.” This is what’s really bothering me. The fact that I was starting to let Wolf back into my life and then to find out he’s just been released from prison. I thought I knew him, I was even wondering how to go about telling him he had a son, and now this?

“Someone wanted to cause trouble. That’s why they gave you his police record. Don’t you owe it to him to ask him about it?” The question surprises me, because back when Wolf and I dated my mom didn’t approve of him either. Unless that was all my dad’s influence.

I shake my head. “I don’t owe him anything. He was sent away for drug possession. I don’t want a drug dealer around Artie.”

My mom’s silent for a bit and I wonder if she’s going to say anything else. Instead, she sighs and her arms tighten around me a little more. “I appreciate you cleaning up around here and everything you’re doing for me. It all went to pieces so gradually I got used to it. Now you’re helping to fix it up. But this is my house. I should be taking care of what’s in it, and that means you too, now. I don’t want to leave you alone. I want to help you.”

“I don’t know what you can do to help.” Against my will, I start to relax into her arms, leaning back against her. She’s more solid than I expected for someone so frail. Has she gained weight since I’ve been back and insisting on regular mealtimes with proper food? Now I think about that, I’m sure that’s the case. I remember how she would peck at small portions before, when Dad was around. He must have bullied her about her weight. She usually eats a full plate every meal now. The other night at the diner, she had eaten her own food and then helped Artie with the rest of his fries.

She’s more substantial as the days go by, while I’m fading.

“You can let me listen to what’s bothering you and listen, in turn, to my suggestions.”

I nod slowly. “Well, I just aired some grievances so… what have you got?”

Mom plucks the broom from me and leans it against the wall. “Bake,” she says simply.

Bake.

“That’s what you did before,” she says. “Isn’t it? To give yourself something to do that has many enjoyable steps. I know it won’t be the same because you don’t have the bakery, but maybe it’s something to think about.”

A spark ignites inside me, creating a glow of something I had thought I might never feel again. It was the urge that more artistic people might call inspiration.

“You know, I started doing it in my own kitchen and I had to pawn what I baked off on my neighbors because I couldn’t eat all of it. Then they started coming to me with requests, offering to pay. Maybe I could do the same thing here.” My brain stutters to a halt for a moment because I haven’t actually decided I’m staying in Helena. Is there any real point to building up a presence here? I’d been starting to think it was a possibility. Give Artie a chance to get to know his father, but now…

I try and push the thought away. I still can’t believe that he’s a drug dealer. Back when we first dated I don’t think I even saw him smoke a cigarette. But you never know what secrets people are hiding.

Baking. That’s something I can do right now, and it always was my dream.

Even if I don’t end up sticking around, if I don’t earn any potential new customers, I can make some people happy with free baked goodies.

“I don’t know if you have the things I’d need,” I say. “How old is that baking powder in the pantry?”

“I’ll get you some money. Go and get what supplies you need.” Mom turns to go get her purse.

I trail after her, my protests falling on deaf ears. She takes a bundle of cash from her wallet and presses it into my hands and closes my fingers around it. “Please. To make yourself happy.”

I look at the money and my heart quivers. I throw my arms around her and hug her tight, and she leans her head against mine with a sigh. I can feel her heart beating against mine, strong and steady.

If she can improve, why can’t I?

Baking definitely seems like the only possible way to improve my mood, or at least to distract myself properly.

“Maybe I should talk with you more often.” I turn my head to give my mom a kiss on the cheek. “Do you mind watching Artie?”

“Of course, not, dear.” Mom makes a shooing motion. “Get out of here.”

I get dressed quickly and head outside, into the balmy day. I don’t even have a plan for what I’ll be baking. I should make something that Mom likes, as a way to thank her, something a little more complex than brownies from a box mix.

Crunch.

It’s a sound I’ve never heard before outside of movies, a shoe tromping down on icy ground. I stare down at my foot, at the glittering of what seems to be frost on the driveway.

Slowly, I look up and see what I had been too preoccupied to notice until I was right on top of it.

The front driver’s side window on my car has a triangle-shaped hole punched into it, which is what scattered the pieces of safety glass I initially mistook for ice. The window behind that has a smaller hole. The paint bears deep gouges from a key, and multiple dents.