Top Tier

It didn't even matter that the sprinkles were freezer burnt.

It had been very important to me on the day of our wedding that our cake had sprinkles. Flecks of brilliant colour, sparkling amid light puffs of airy, white frosting. Confetti to emphasize the celebration that was bursting out from my heart.

He wanted chocolate. I wanted perfect, white cake. I compromised.

We had the bakery make the top tier half chocolate, half vanilla, two perfect semicircles joined in the middle. The chocolate half was filled with gooey chocolate mousse, and my half was filled with my favourite filling: vanilla pudding. It reminded me of a soft cream puff, and I'm not going to lie, having a little bit of chocolate around the edges was not going to turn me off.

I, at least, had the say in the icing. Perfect, smooth white buttercream, textured with a textured sheet, elegant white dollops all around the edges. And then, of course, round multicolored sprinkles, looking like they were coming out of the top of the cake and down one side like a waterfall. Beautiful. A perfect cake topper on top, and…that’s pretty much all we needed for the wedding, right?

We each cut a wedge that was half chocolate, half vanilla for our “photo feeding” at the reception. John and I each lifted our pieces to each other’s mouths, and then at the last second, John looped his arm around mine and fed the cake to himself. So, I followed suit, and ate my own piece, our arms linked in a hold in the middle. Both of us, of course, thought to reserve a bite to shove all over each other’s face. It was glorious.

So was married life. Our house was beautiful. Kitchen with lots of counter where John and I could cook all of our interesting cuisine together. I love cooking traditional Caribbean food, and John was Italian, so let's just say Christmas at our place was going to be impressive.

Our bedroom was beautiful. Plush carpets, lots of windows. Our night times were beautiful. Being with him every day felt like a new dream was coming true each time I woke up. Our life was magical.

Until three months after the wedding.

I was finally getting to some of the boxes that contains my winter clothes, deciding whether to put them in storage downstairs or stick them in totes in the back corner of the closet.

I opted for a tote. There was one handy that had had all of John's office supplies, books etcetera. He was a pilot, so he was always learning, improving his skills. He wanted to captain one of the big boys one day, he always said.

I pulled out a blue sweater back out from the top of the tote, one that I hadn't had occasion to see in eight months. Huh. Does this still fit me? I held it up to the light. It was a pretty cable knit, fitted sleeves, loose hanging body that only came to the top of my pant line. I pulled it over my head on top of my yellow sundress and check myself out in the mirror. I turned to see it from behind. Yeah. Still fits.

The doorbell rang. I checked the time. 10:15 am. I wasn't expecting anybody. Maybe John ordered a package? I skipped down the stairs, briefly catching my reflection in the hallway mirror as I approached the door. Winter sweater, cute yellow sundress peeking out from beneath. I smiled, my black curls grateful for the little bounce down the stairs. I opened the door, a smile still on my face. The smile dropped from the corners of my mouth faster than a hot tamale. Two officers, a tall female and a stocky male stood at the door, their police car parked on the road at the end of my driveway.

“Hello?” I said stupidly.

They said nothing for what seemed like an eternity. Then they broke the news.

My world turned upside down. John had been killed. Drunk driver. John was gone, before we even started our life together. They didn’t catch the guy. One minute I was unpacking winter clothes and thinking you at Christmas, the next minute he wouldn't even see the fall. John.

It was summer, so I was off until September. I didn't go back in September, October, November, or December. In January I was a complete mess. Most of the time, I felt like I couldn't breathe. I stopped feeling anything, except feeling like I was walking through a hallway of knives that were jabbing and poking me every waking moment. Sometimes I could see them, and sometimes I could see nothing but darkness. Maybe I was losing my mind. I let myself.

"You're going to have to sell the house." My mom, June, was right. Fortunately, my sister, Rachel, was a mortgage broker, and she booked me up with a realtor, so I didn't have to lift a finger. I didn't pack a single box, either. I had just unpacked. And I had unpacked because we were supposed to...

I tried. I threw kitchen utensils into a cardboard box that Rachel had folded for me. "Dfrmpfh!" they went, in the bottom of the box. I threw the folded dish towels on top. Underneath was a set of placemats that John's aunt had made us when we first moved in together. "John and Amy in The Making," they said. Blue and yellow straw weaving with white woven letters. I put my hand in the drawer and started to cry. I don't know how long I stood there before Rachel shoulder-steered me back to my room. The kitchen was packed up that night.

After the first four months, my best friend Kels insisted that I get out of the house on a regular basis. "C'mon, Goose," she said at 10:00 am on the first morning she made her move. "Time for your daily walk."

My daily what?

I swear her whole plan was to get me up progressively earlier. We've been doing 7:00 am for almost two months now.

When I said I didn't pack a box, that was technically true. But it didn't mean I didn't pack anything. Once the house was sold, I had enough wherewithal to pack up some delicates in newspaper. Fold my clothes and heavy blankets into suitcases. Order a moving truck. The buyers, unfortunately, needed a long close due to some issues with the sale of their current place, which pushed our close date to right before what would have been John and my first year wedding anniversary.

We'd stacked all the boxes against the walls and labeled them for the appropriate rooms. The next day, the movers would come for all the furniture and boxes and move me into my new apartment. Mom had offered I live with her—she had a private basement suite—but I declined. I needed my own space, where I could be alone with John sometimes. After all, this was supposed to be the start of my life, not a step backwards. Mom was going to take some of the stuff that I couldn't fit back to her place for storage, and I was grateful.

My apartment had two bedrooms. The second bedroom would house all of John's stuff. Kels and Rachel said they would help me set up a little memorial area for him. I knew what they were thinking. It can't stay up forever, especially when I start inviting guys over. I tried not to think about it. At least they were sensitive enough not to voice it. John was—is—was my husband. He deserves his own space.

The only thing that wasn't unpacked was the fridge. In the morning, I'd toss my containers of ketchup and yogurt into a reusable grocery bag with my ice packs and stick them in my car. The movers told me I could just bungee cord the fridge closed and it'd be fine, but I really didn't want to get to the new place and find a broken pickle jar spraying juice all over the last of my milk.

My mom had been gracious enough to slowly cook through a bunch of the meat in my freezer. I loved our spicy cuisine, but sometimes, I just missed garlic pasta. There was a little Italian restaurant near my new place, and I was betting I was going to have a date night there with John weekly.

I was painfully aware that we were moving just before my anniversary. When the last of the boxes had been stacked and the take out had been consumed on paper plates, my mom pulled out of the freezer the box that held the top tier of our wedding cake.

"Would you like me to take this back to my place?" she asked.

I nodded.

Then, I imagined what John would do. "Let them eat cake, babe!"

My eyes pooled. Eating this cake was supposed to be a romantic moment between me and John. Fork in cake, fork in mouth. Tongue in cake, tongue in...

I shook my head again, vigorously. I couldn't eat it alone, even if John was going to be with me at my new place. Mom had her back to me, putting the box away, so she didn’t see at first. When she turned around, I was still shaking my head, my fists clenched.

"What is it?"

I looked up at her and from the expression on her face, I knew that I was giving her very, very sad eyes. I nodded ever so slightly. Her eyes asked me, "Are you sure?" and mine responded steadily in the affirmative.

She gingerly took the box out of the freezer again and then opened the lid. She took down the sides. I looked around at the people with me. Mom, Rachel, and Kels. Mom let the cake sit there a minute and I just admired it, my fists still clenched. Sprinkles, on top of a snowy bed of frosting. There were two small perfect wedges cut out from either side, leaving an hourglass-like shape behind and revealing chocolate-filled cake on one side and vanilla cream on the other. My eyes threatened to overflow, and I swallowed down the impulse.

"Do we have...anything round?" I said, forcing my voice out through a choked throat.

"Round?" asked my mother.

I nodded. "John gets the center."

She pursed her lips, then stuck her head in the fridge. She pulled out a mason jar of jam and undid the two-piece lid. She washed off the flat inside piece and dried it very carefully. Rachel counted out five plates and new plastic forks. Mom held the lid about a centimeter above the cake and looked at me. "Like this?" I nodded. She cut.

Kels pulled out her phone and scrolled through the pictures to find the perfect wedding photo of me and John. Him smiling over my shoulder as I laughed with my cheek on his, us embracing gently under the perfect bough of a willow tree. There was a bit of shimmer in the photo from sunlight and a couple of floating particles in the air. It looked like nature's confetti.

Kels balanced her phone vertical against a plastic water bottle, and Mom put the plate with the two-tone circle of cake in front of it with a fork. She sprinkled a few extra loose sprinkles on top. Then, she went to cut me a piece. "One of each?" I pinched my fingers about an inch apart to indicate a small piece. She served.

She followed suit with the others until we each had a small slice of sprinkled chocolate and a small slice of vanilla on off-white paper plates with plastic forks. I looked at John. He seemed to say, "That's exactly how I would have eaten it."

Everyone looked at me, waiting for my cue. I looked down at the two pieces of cake, laying side by side on my plate, and picked up my fork. I cut a piece of chocolate and pressed the icing-y bottom into a couple of sprinkles. I held it on my fork. I lifted it to the picture on Kels's phone.

"Here's to you, babe."

I brought it into my mouth.

"To John," said everyone else, as they followed suit with a bite of chocolate.

As I chewed, I smiled. The sprinkles crunched. Stale candy confetti aside, I think John finally did it. He converted me. I officially prefer chocolate cake to vanilla.