Vivaldi and Chocolate Cake

Nothing mends a broken heart better than a piece of Gran’s homemade chocolate cake. When I was seven years old, our cat, Leonard, ran away from home. Dad found him in the road. A car got him. Leonard always did like to take risks. We buried him in our backyard under the old oak tree, and I would visit him there every day. After we buried him, Gran whipped up her famous chocolate cake and let me lick the bowl. She said, “Gracie, you can’t live your life worrying about death because that’s no life at all.” I don’t think Leonard was worrying about death when he crossed that busy street. Gran gave me a great big hug and told me I could eat as much cake as I wanted. Dad wasn’t too happy, considering I wasn’t hungry for dinner.

My mom died when I was just a baby, and ever since then, it was Gran, Dad, and me against the world, or on most days, Gran and me against Dad.

Dad tried his best to cheer me up after Leonard died. He surprised me with another cat, Lester. Lester wasn’t as adventurous as Leonard since he had to stay indoors, but he was a friendly cat, and I loved him just the same. When I got Lester, I visited Leonard less and less, until I eventually stopped going altogether. Life goes on, as Gran would say.

I don’t know if it was the cake or the advice that brought me back to life after Leonard died, or maybe it was a combination of the two. But any time my heart was aching, Gran made her chocolate cake, and the pain went away. Gran and her cake got me through my first breakup, failing my driver’s test the first and second time, and moving away from home.

When I graduated high school, I decided to move to New York City to pursue my dream of becoming a professional musician. The city is only a couple of hours away from Catskill, where I grew up, but it wasn’t just the distance that got Dad all upset. He thought I was chasing an impossible dream, but Gran talked some sense into him.

Gran was the reason I became a musician. When I was twelve years old, she took me to the city to see the New York Philharmonic in Central Park. We sat in the grass and listened in silence. At the end of the concert, I looked over at Gran and noticed she was crying. It was the first time I had ever seen her cry. I asked her why she was sad, and she said, “You don’t have to be sad to cry.”

I wanted to move people the way Gran had been moved, so I decided to learn the violin, which was her favorite. Gran paid for my lessons, and I played every night. Dad would cringe when I practiced, but Gran was always willing to lend an ear. As I’d attempt to play Vivaldi, she’d say, “This must be what heaven sounds like.”

Gran was the one who encouraged me to apply to Juilliard School. She said, “If you’re going to be a professional violinist, you ought to learn from the best.” I told her it was too expensive, but then she handed me a stack of scholarship applications and told me to get to work. Thanks to Gran, I got in.

I would come home from school every other weekend to visit Gran and Dad. Gran would insist I stay at school and make friends, but all I wanted to do was play Vivaldi in front of my favorite audience.

Gran got sick during my last year of school. It was the beginning of my last semester when I visited her for the last time. She had made her chocolate cake as a surprise for me, but I knew it wasn’t a good surprise. She told me she had been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer and her doctors said she didn’t have much time. Then she said, “Don’t you worry, I’ll make it to your graduation, even if it kills me.”

When Gran put her mind to something, nothing could stop her, not even cancer. Gran cried when she saw me in my cap and gown. It reminded me of the time she cried at Central Park. I knew she wasn’t sad. She was proud. She squeezed me tight, and as our cheeks pressed together, I couldn’t tell which tears were hers and which tears were mine.

Gran died in the hospital two weeks later. I went back home for the funeral. I shook strangers’ hands as they told me how much Gran loved me. I felt sorry for them. They had no idea what Gran’s love felt like.

Our house was a mess, and so was my dad. We were drowning in a sea of flowers, casseroles, and loneliness. Gran was the glue that held us together. Without her, we were just like loose pieces of paper - a collection of stories unbound.

I stayed for the summer; then I went back to the city to search for a job. I was renting an apartment with two friends from college. I played gigs at weddings on the side as I auditioned for a seat in one of the city’s orchestras. I couldn’t afford my share of the rent on gigs alone, so I decided to take up teaching private lessons.

I started booking more clients and going to fewer auditions. I felt happy with my work, but at the same time, a part of me felt like I had given up on my dream, on the thing that made me special. I had moved to the city to become a musician, but I could be a teacher anywhere. I could even teach back home if I wanted to. Dad would love that idea.

Once a week, Dad would call me. His calls were consistently brief. He liked to check in on me and tried his best not to sound disappointed.

One week he called me with bad news. Old Lester wasn’t doing too well. He was blind, deaf, and weak. He slept in hiding places throughout the day and howled throughout the night. Dad said the vet was coming to the house on Saturday to put him to rest. I told him I would come home for the weekend to say goodbye.

The house looked like a hoarder’s den. There were boxes scattered everywhere filled with Gran’s old stuff he couldn’t bring himself to give away. No wonder Old Lester was hiding so much. There were plenty of places for a cat to get lost.

The vet came and made Old Lester comfortable on his favorite blanket. Dad and I watched, hand in hand, as the life in Lester’s eyes faded away. Dad squeezed my hand, and I saw one single tear drip down his cheek.

We buried him under the old oak tree next to Leonard. I imagined them being friends and talking of cat things: field mice, cans of tuna fish, and laying in the sun.

After Lester’s funeral, I had a strong desire for a piece of Gran’s chocolate cake. I dug through boxes and drawers, looking for the recipe somewhere amidst the dust and newspaper clippings. The recipe was nowhere to be found, and I had no idea how to make a chocolate cake from scratch. Even if I did, I didn’t want some ordinary piece of chocolate cake. I wanted Gran’s cake, and I wanted her to hug me and tell me exactly what I needed to hear. I started to cry.

Dad heard me crying and tried his best to comfort me. He offered for us to make a cake together, but he didn’t understand. It was my special thing with Gran. Only her cake could make me feel better, and she wasn’t around anymore to make it.

I went home Sunday night, despite Dad’s attempts to get me to stay. I had considered staying for longer. Dad was lonely and could certainly use the help around the house, but I had lessons scheduled with my students. At least that was what I told him. The city was my escape from that house and all the memories that I was not quite ready to confront.

On Monday, I went to a lesson at my client’s apartment in Brooklyn. I taught private lessons to a 12-year-old girl named Naomi every Monday and Wednesday after school. Naomi was very talented but a little shy. It was her birthday over the weekend, and she offered me a piece of leftover cake from her party. I wasn’t hungry, but out of politeness, I took a slice. When I took a bite, I couldn’t believe what I had just tasted.

It was Gran’s cake! The chocolate flavor, the gooey frosting, and the melt-in-your-mouth texture were identical to the cake I had been longing to eat.

“Where did you get this cake?” I asked.

“My mom and I made it together,” Naomi said.

“That’s not possible,” I said to myself.

“Do you not like it?” Naomi asked worriedly.

“No, I love it!” I assured her. “Could you show me the recipe?”

“I’ll see if I can find it!” She went into the recycling bin and pulled out a cardboard box, and handed it to me. The box said “Betty Crocker’s Super Moist Triple Chocolate Cake Mix.”

I was so confused. How could Naomi’s Betty Crocker birthday cake be the exact same cake as my Grandmother’s? Then it hit me like a cake pan to the head. Gran’s cake was the Betty Crocker cake.

“Is something wrong?” asked Naomi.

“Do you ever think something is really special but then realize it’s completely ordinary?” I asked rhetorically.

Naomi paused. I was beginning to think I was scaring the poor girl. Then she said something shockingly wise that I’ll never forget.

She said, “Things can’t be special. They can only feel special.”

I thanked Naomi for the cake, got in my car, and headed home. But instead of going back to my apartment, I got on the highway and started heading up north to my first home. I called Dad to tell him I was coming. He sounded concerned but tried to hide it.

On the way, I thought a lot about what Naomi said. She was right. It wasn’t the cake that was special. It was Gran. She put her love inside it. She made it for me when I felt sad because all she wanted was for me to be happy.

I had convinced myself that I had to be special, and for me, that looked like playing violin for the New York Philharmonic. I felt like I had to prove it to myself and to Gran. The truth is Gran wouldn’t care if I didn’t have a seat in the city orchestra. She wouldn’t care if I was busking at the subway station. She would be so proud that I was teaching violin to aspiring, young musicians, as long as it made me happy.

So what if I’m “just a teacher?” So what if the cake came from a box? Sometimes it’s the simplest things that can feel really special.

I pulled into Dad’s driveway and found him sitting under the old oak tree with Lester and Leonard.

“What made you decide to come back?” he asked, relieved and happy to see me.

“I thought I would stay here for a little while,” I said.

“Good,” he said with a smile, “You can help me clean this place up.”

We went inside and headed straight to the kitchen. The sink was piled high with bowls, whisks, and spoons. Milk and butter were out on the counter. I opened the refrigerator to put them away and found a chocolate cake decorated with the words “Welcome Home.”