Peace & Cake

My eyes had opened for only a moment, and it seemed that nothing had changed. The sun was piercing through the holes in the barn’s boards, but there was no warmth to welcome me into the day –I wasn’t even sure what day it was. Had I been sleeping for just a few hours, with the sun now rising after a long night? Or had the sun gone around and around in the sky, while I slept in the shelter of an old barn? I thought for a moment, but then a deep sigh brought pain back to my body, and I was all too aware of my broken arm and busted knee. I reached a hand out to the lantern in front of me and turned the dial to break the flame; and then my eyelids fell as quickly as my hand back down to the bed of hay.

I didn’t fall asleep this time, though. Instead, I fell into a dream –a dream that felt more real that reality.

I was lying on a bed of hay, in an old barn that felt like home. The flame of the lantern was gone, but I could still see dust dancing in the air all around me. I watched as they swayed across the room, being pushed around by an invisible current. And then their dance became more frantic, and more light flooded into the space, as the sound of a rusty old door swung open.

A shadow was painted on the barn boards in front of me, and it shrunk with every step on the hay covered floor. The footsteps were slow and sporadic, and then they stopped abruptly, just as I heard a defeated sigh, and a gasp of pure amazement. They boomed towards me again, and my dreaming eyes opened to see a figure enter my sight. It wore a large-brimmed hat that shadowed its face, and its sleeves were rolled up to the elbow. It crouched down next to me, and I felt a rough finger trace along my cheek bone and down to my jaw. The touch was soft, and with eyes wide opened, I could see a large hand retreat from my face. With my one good arm, I reached for his and rested a hand on his forearm. I gripped him as hard as I could, and then I felt my body begin to float away from the bed of hay.

My fingers brushed the open barn doors as he carried me through them, and my eyelids rose and fell as we rolled along the hills. I caught a glimpse of a little tree growing through an old cart, and when I closed my eyes, I saw it again –yet different. On the insides of my eye lids, I caught a flash of a little boy running through the fields; he stopped for a moment, turned his head and smiled as he reached out a hand. When I opened my eyes again, the boy was gone, and when I closed them, I saw what he held in his hand.

Every time I opened my eyes, my vision bounced as I looked over his shoulder to a long forgotten tree; and when I closed my eyes, the tree was gone, and the little boy beckoned me over to the cart. I finally surrendered to the boy in my mind, and I smiled as I watched him crawl under the old cart –it felt more like a memory than a dream, but how could I remember somewhere I’ve never been?

Light was shining through an open window when my eyes greeted the world again, and I heard the voice of a rooster not far off in the distance. I slowly pulled my back from the bed, and found that my left arm was in a sling; and when I moved the quilted blanket off my legs, I realized that my knee had been re-bandaged. In a bucket next to the bed were the clothes I had been wearing, and the pieces I had torn off to stop the bleeding. I swung one foot off the side of the bed, and used my good arm to move my throbbing knee. I took my time, and eventually felt the welcomed sensation of bare feet on a wooden floor.

I pushed myself off the bed, but fell back down when my knee couldn’t take the weight of my body. I took a deep breath to control the pain, and then released a sigh before turning my gaze around the room. A moment later, I noticed a wooden cane leaning against the wall, just within my reach. I had to use my good leg to bring it closer, and then the grip of the cane fell into my hand. It took a few attempts before I was able to stand, and the support of the cane brought me to the door.

I fumbled for the handle with the cane still in my hand, and was surprised by a loud creak as the door moved on its hinges. It was only in this moment that I realized I was in someone else’s home, and they could likely hear me coming. Frantically, I looked down the hallway, to my left and right, as if I were about to cross a busy street. There was an open door, at the top of a descending staircase, and I glanced around the hall again before I darted towards it. I found myself closing the open door, and turning to see my own reflection in a bathroom mirror.

There was a square bandage on my forehead, and I was relieved to see how small it was. The wounds always felt much bigger than they were, until I was able to look at them. My clothes from the night before had been discarded, and I found myself wearing a woman’s nightshirt. While still in bed, I thought it was a man’s shirt, as he would often offer me his after a beating like this. But in the light of the bathroom and with a mirror in front of me, I saw that I had been dressed by a woman. My hair had been pulled back into a band, and the blood had been washed from my skin.

Each of my steps down the stairs were carefully planned, but I still managed to lose my grip on the banister. I dropped the cane, and as it clattered down, smacking the wood and walls with each bounce, I heard voices and gasps of others in the house. My heart sank as I found my balance, and it sank again when I saw him turn the corner.

He stood at the bottom of the stairs for a moment, simply looking at me. And then he bounded towards me to help. He left the cane on the floor where it landed, and took its place under my good arm. He held me by the waist as I held him, and he helped me plant my feet firmly on the floor. With an audible silence between the two of us, I leaned on him as he walked me through the oddly familiar farmhouse, and then gently sat me down in a chair. I heard whispers in the other room, and then a child’s voice boom over them all, “Why do we have to be quiet?!” The voice was quickly shushed, and then I heard a patio door swing open and slam shut, leaving a buzzing silence where I sat in the kitchen.

There was a woman standing at the counter, wearing a nightshirt with the same colours and patterns that had been put on me. Her body was lean, yet round, and it was clear that she'd always be decades older. She hadn’t turned around and I could only see her back, but in that moment I decided that she was the one who dressed me –and that thought made me feel safer than I’d ever known.

He sat across the table from me, leaning forward with his elbows on the table’s face, and his chin resting in his hands. He looked at me with such intention, I thought he might be painting me in his mind. He didn’t say a word as he pulled a white mug up to his lips and sipped a drink that smelled like coffee. His eyes were fixed on mine as he swallowed, and then he glanced down at a fresh pot before pouring some in an empty mug. He pushed it across the table, within reach of my hands, and then a saucer with milk and sugar. I nodded at the milk, and watched as he poured it into the mug, creating a swirl of cold, white milk, and hot, black coffee. I kept my gaze fixed on him as I took a sip, and nodded with thanks.

I glanced around the room as the mug warmed my hands, and I found my eyes back on her. She was still standing at the kitchen counter, with a book open in front of her; it almost seemed to be a photo album, but she was reading from it. Each page had squares of paper with spiraled handwriting. She began taking jars from the cupboards and placed them on the counter in front of her book, and I realized she had been reading a recipe.

With her back still to me, and the book open on the counter, she moved from drawer to drawer and jar to jar, tossing ingredients into a faded white bowl. I watched her the whole time, and time itself started to fade away; I became fascinated with the fact that she hadn’t glanced at her recipe since that first scoop of flour. It was there for her, if she needed it, but I could tell it had been engrained in her –it was written on the insides of her eyelids, just as well as in her cookbook.

I lost track of anything else, while I watched her. From the corner of my eye, I saw him moving about the kitchen –coming in and out of the patio door as she asked him for more syrup. Finally she poured a thick, brown batter from the old, white bowl into a steel pan, and it disappeared into the oven. As quickly as it went it, she pulled it back out again, and I watched steam rise from the pan and escape out an open window. I observed the cake as it cooled, and she observed me, before pulling another bowl from the fridge, and slapped icing down on the surface of the cake.

Her movements were careful and smooth, and I became completely enthralled by the calculated flick of her wrist. The cake was clothed before I knew it, and she started slicing a knife through the middle, removing a single piece from the whole, placed perfectly on a plate in front of me. Still in silence, she pushed a fork towards me as well, and I grabbed at it quicker than even I expected. I watched the throngs pierced the fluffy cake, and smiled with pure joy as I brought it closer to my lips.

I was brought to tears when I could finally taste it, and words began to fall from my lips. “Mm… just like Mama used to make!”

I was shocked by my own words, but even more shocked when I saw the look they exchanged. She gasped instantly, and he reached out to steady her hand. They held each other’s gaze for a moment before turning to look back at me. “I’m sorry,” I began. “I don’t know why I said that. I’ve never met my mother.”

To be continued...

• Part 1 – The Old Barn
• Part 2 – Peace & Cake
• Part 3 – The Kitchen Table
• Part 4 – Paper & Twine
• Part 5 – The Polaroid Picture
• Part 6 – Bulls & Bullies
• Part 7 – The Raging Beast
• Part 8 – Water & Ice