P.S. Send More Cookies Page 4

  Shoshi opened the door for me. “Oh, hey, Grace, hi. Come on in.” When I did, I have to tell you it was a strange sensation to walk into the Rubinsteins’ front hall without being jumped on and licked.

  “Where’s King?” I asked.

  Shoshi answered as we walked back toward the family room. The TV was on and the Patriots were playing. “At the vet,” she said. “He’s really sick. They have to keep him overnight.”

  “Really sick, uh . . . how exactly?” I asked.

  “Dehydrated, the vet said—like all the diarrhea and vomit and everything dried him out too much. Plus we found some plastic in his poop, and it might have hurt his insides. Sorry for the TMI. When you have a dog, you kind of get used to it. Anyway, my mom says the bill is going to be so big we’ll be living on baked beans for a month.”

  Shoshi sat down on the couch. I sat down next to her. All the time I was thinking, Oh no, oh no, oh no!

  And I couldn’t be sure, but had Shoshi looked at me funny? Did she already know it was my fault her dog was sick? That I had messed up?

  “He’ll be fine, though, won’t he?” I held up the bag. “I brought him some dog biscuits. Lucy made them for him.”

  Shoshi wrinkled her forehead. “Lucy-from-camp Lucy? Why would she make King dog biscuits?”

  This was my moment! Cue the big speech! But before I could suck in a breath and begin, Shoshi’s mom came in. “What’s the score—oh, hi, Grace. So that was you at the door. What’s in the bag?”

  “Dog biscuits!” Shoshi answered for me. “Weird, huh?”

  “A get-well gift? That’s very kind of you, Grace,” Mrs. Rubinstein said.

  “There are people cookies too,” I said.

  “I’ll pick up milk at the store,” said Mrs. Rubinstein. “Do we need anything else, Shosh? I’m just leaving.”

  Shoshi shrugged. “Guacamole maybe? For the second half?”

  “Not in the budget,” said Mrs. Rubinstein. “Maybe we can afford the store brand of salsa. Back in a few, girls. Thanks for the cookies, Grace.”

  Mrs. Rubinstein left through the door to the garage. Now I knew I couldn’t hesitate or I would never have the courage to tell Shoshi at all. I heard the squeak of the electric garage door opener, and I started my speech: “Shoshi, I am sorry, but I messed up when I was walking King. . . .”

  When I was done, the TV was showing a commercial for car insurance. Other than the announcer, Shoshi’s family room was quiet, and every second I waited for her to say something made my stomach feel worse. I was afraid I might even vomit—and how embarrassing would that be? Then Shoshi looked at me and said, “You had better go home, Grace, before I say something really mean. Go—do you hear me? But leave the cookies for us.”

  My face was burning as I exited; the walk home seemed very long. All the time I was thinking one thing: Lucy was wrong. The truth was a big mistake.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Sunday, October 16, Emma

  My great-grandmother died on a Sunday. GG—that’s what we called her—was in the hospital because she caught a lung infection at the assisted-living place where she lived. We all thought she was getting better, but all of a sudden she got worse, and then overnight she was gone. Early that morning, my grandmother (GG’s daughter) called my mother (GG’s granddaughter) to tell her.

  My family—Mom, Dad, brother Benjamin, and me—were all in the kitchen when my mom answered her phone, and from her side of the conversation we could tell right away what had happened.

  For a moment after my mom hung up, she stared straight ahead, like she couldn’t see what was in front of her.

  My dad said, “Darling, she was ninety. People don’t live forever.”

  This made my mom frown, and my brother said, “You’re not being helpful, Dad. Can I have some cereal?”

  “Ben!” I scolded him. Wasn’t cereal disrespectful?

  “Wherever GG is, she wants me to have cereal,” Benjamin said. “She knows I am a growing boy.”

  My mom held her arms out. Benjamin gave her a hug. When he squirmed free, I got him some cereal. He was probably right that GG would have wanted me to. Meanwhile, Dad opened the bag of coffee, scooped a scoop of grounds, and spilled them all over the floor.

  “Do we have a broom?” he asked.

  “Yes, Dad. In the broom closet,” I said.

  “Imagine that,” Dad said, but instead of getting the broom, he went back to making coffee.

  “Benjamin, get the broom,” I said.

  “Why do I have—,” he started to say, but then he saw the look on my face and changed his mind. “Okay.”

  “Uh, Mom, do you want some cereal?” I asked.

  Mom didn’t answer. Ike, our ancient golden retriever, ambled over and sat in front of her and looked up into her face, trying to figure out what was going on.

  “Sweetheart?” my dad said to my mom once the coffee was burbling. “I am very sorry about GG.”

  “Mom?” I said.

  At last my mother looked up. “What?” she said.

  “Dad’s talking to you,” I said. “So am I.”

  “Grandma will be here soon,” she said. “There’s a lot to do. I’m just going to go upstairs and wash my face.”

  Ben finished sweeping up the coffee. I said thank you, then looked at my dad. “Mom’s acting a little weird,” I said. “Don’t you think? She ought to eat.”

  “She’s fine,” he said. “She has to be.”

  My family is Jewish, and Jews believe you’re supposed to bury someone as soon as possible after they die. This meant that day the grown-ups had a lot of stuff to do in a hurry. Ben and I tried alternately to stay out of the way or be available “to be good helpers.”

  Besides making phone calls and doing errands, the adults took turns going to the funeral home to sit in a special room with GG. This is another Jewish tradition. Until the burial, the body cannot be left alone.

  “How was it?” Ben asked my dad when he got back from his shift Sunday evening.

  “Peaceful,” my dad said.

  “Were you afraid of ghosts?” Ben said. “You know it’s almost Halloween, right?”

  “Afraid of your GG’s ghost?” my dad said. “Not at all. In fact, I dozed off.”

  “Is that allowed?” I asked.

  “No one told me it wasn’t,” my dad said. “Anyway, GG was such a good person I’m sure nothing I did would hurt her standing with God any. He’ll blame me, not her, for any faux pas.”

  “A ‘faux pas’ is a mistake,” I told Ben. He’s in fourth grade.

  “I knew that,” said Ben.

  “No, you didn’t,” I said.

  “I did too,” said Ben.

  “Kids?” said my dad.

  “Sorry,” we said.

  The next day, Monday, Ben and I stayed home from school, my mom took off work, and my dad came home early. To keep from getting behind, I did homework, which actually felt good because it felt normal.

  At lunchtime, I tried to convince my mom to eat a turkey sandwich, but she said she wasn’t hungry. She was pacing around the first floor of our house with earbuds in her ears so she could talk on the phone. I had caught her on a lap through the kitchen. I think she was on hold.

  “Okay, I’ll make myself a turkey sandwich.” I opened the refrigerator and got out turkey, mayonnaise, and cheese. On my mom’s next lap through the kitchen, I looked up. “Mom? I’m worried I don’t feel sad enough about GG.”

  “Feel sad—what?” She stopped and looked at me. I could tell she was also listening in case the person on the other end of the phone line picked up. “Oh, that’s okay, Emma. Don’t be worried,” she said. “You can be sad later. That’s my plan.”

  “I know—how about peanut butter?” I said. “You love peanut butter.”

  Mom raised one finger, meaning hang on a sec. The call was something to do with GG’s credit card bill. Then, reciting a bunch of numbers, she turned away from me and walked into the family room.

  My fa
mily includes several people who have died—three grandparents and one brother, Nathan. Before GG, though, they all passed away either before I was born or when I was too little to understand.

  From GG I learned that dying is really complicated.

  We left for the temple at three thirty. The service was at four. I couldn’t believe how many people came! Who were they, anyway? How had GG known them? She had always said that all her friends were dead.

  After the rabbi said the prayers, anyone who wanted to could come up to the front and say nice things.

  My grandmother, my mother, and my aunt spoke first, and then it was my turn. I was wearing a blue dress we bought last year. It was a little bit shorter than it used to be, and a little snugger, too. My mother and I both hate to shop. My grandmother is different. She has fashion sense. I could feel her eyes on me as I stood in front of everybody, and I could read her brain waves, too. She wished she had taken me shopping for something nice to wear to the service.

  “My GG taught me Yiddish,” I said, trying not to think about my too-snug dress. “It was the language she spoke growing up in Europe. She would squeeze my cheeks and say ‘schoene punim.’ That means ‘cute face.’ She used to ‘kvell’ over my brother, which means say how great he was, and ‘kvetch’ about her bad memory, which means complain.

  “My GG was almost always cheerful,” I concluded. “Even though her family had to escape the Nazis in Europe and come to the United States when she was a little girl, she stayed optimistic and kind.”

  My grandmother might have been unhappy about my dress, but she still squeezed my hand and whispered, “Very nice, Emma,” when I sat down next to her.

  Benjamin got up after me and said that GG had been proud of him for playing hockey even though she had never been to one of his games because for her there would have been too much noise and hubbub. “Someday when I have great-grandchildren,” he said, “I will treat them just like GG treated Emma and me.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Emma

  The following Monday, the eighth day after GG died, Hannah’s lemon cookies came in the mail.

  I know it was the eighth day because our family had just finished sitting shivah. “Shivah” means “seven” in Hebrew, and sitting shivah means you spend seven days being sad at home and saying prayers to honor the dead person’s memory.

  Other traditions go with it too, like you cover up your mirrors because compared to death and eternity, your looks are not supposed to be important. Also, instead of flowers, your friends bring you food. We Jews don’t believe that flowers go well with funerals. Our idea is it’s bad enough that a person had to die, so why should flowers have to die too?

  My family did not follow the shivah rules exactly. For example, after the first Monday, we didn’t stay home from work and school. My dad is a doctor, and my mom is a lawyer. Their patients and clients need them.

  Ben, of course, was totally in favor of skipping school, but my parents wouldn’t let him. “What if we get in trouble with the rabbi?” Ben argued. “What if we get in trouble with God?”

  “The rabbi believes in learning, and so does God, and so did your great-grandmother,” my mother said. “You are going to school.”

  We did do some things right. We said the Kaddish prayers—those are the ones especially for the dead—and in the evenings family and friends came over. Everyone brought delicious food. My mother still wasn’t eating.

  The package from Hannah was waiting on our front porch that Monday when I got home from school. I picked it up, let myself in, dropped my backpack on the floor, and called, “Hello?” I knew Ben was at hockey practice, and my parents were at work, but Ike was in his usual spot, stretched out on the floor in the kitchen. Ike used to run to the door barking and dancing when I got home, but now the best he can do is raise his head and thump his tail.

  “Everyone gets old, huh, Ike?” I bent down and scratched him behind his ears. “You’re still a good dog—yes, you are.”

  A package the size of a shoe box from Hannah could only mean one thing, and I was hungry. It took about five seconds for me to scissor the cardboard open. Amazingly, I did not scissor myself.

  In the box—tucked like treasure under layers of plastic and wax paper—were a whole lot of perfectly formed, frosted lemon cookies.

  Yum!

  Did I mention I was hungry?

  In health class this year, we learned about EQ, which is like IQ only for emotions. If you have a high EQ, you do the right thing even when you don’t really want to. I knew that the right thing to do that instant was eat something healthy and save the cookies to share with my family after dinner.

  Ha!

  But I did compromise. I poured a glass of milk, put two cookies on a plate, and sat down at the kitchen table. Maybe if I read Hannah’s letter at the same time, I would eat slower.

  Oct. 19

  Dear Emma,

  I am on a lemon cookie spree!

  This happens to me sometimes.

  I find a recipe I like, and I make it over and over. Grace said these cookies were very popular at her house, and that is a direct quote. You know how formal Grace is sometimes. She cracks me up.

  I hope everything is wonderful for you and your family.

  To tell you the truth, though, this semester has been tough for your old counselor—me.

  Emphasis on the OLD!!!

  Since the beginning of summer when Travis dumped me till right now today when Jack wants me back so he can just go and smash my heart again, I feel like I have aged about one century.

  You already know about Travis, right? I had the feeling you four campers sussed out that piece of heartbreak last summer even though I am sure I never said a word.

  What happened with Jack is after we broke up he wanted me back but I said no, and then I had to tell him to stop texting so often because we were broken up. (Hello? What is it about broken up that you don’t understand?) Then he wanted to know how often was too often? and I said once a week would be okay. So now he texts every Monday morning at either 7 a.m. (if he gets up when his alarm goes off) or noon (if he sleeps through it).

  Here is a typical text: I love you, Hannah. Whoever he is, I might be fatter but I am also funnier. I promise I will make you laugh every day and twice on Sunday. By the way, I have been working out.

  Gross, right? Besides, who wants to go through life laughing all the time? Some of us are serious people with serious things to do like study.

  And besides, there is no “whoever.” I mean, I am not a nun. I go out and talk to people who happen to be male, but that doesn’t count as a “whoever,” does it? A “whoever” would have to be one “whoever” that I liked better than Jack, and there is no “whoever” like that currently in my life. It’s true that sometimes I do see Travis around, and he looks all like a sad puppy, and I hear he broke up with that other girl he was seeing after me.

  My apologies, Emma, if this is TMI. But if you learn now what boys are like it will save you trouble later.

  Not that there’s any boy trouble for me anymore. Like I said, everything is totally fine. As my grandpa would have said: With flour power, what could be bad?

  Best always and take care and don’t worry too much because I know how you are.

  —Hannah

  P.S. Sorry to be so boring. Other than dumb boys, things are fine, and I am getting smarter in my classes about art and art history. Are you looking forward to horse sweat and summer sunshine yet?

  P.P.S. I always remember to wear sunscreen!

  That last P.S. made me smile. Hannah was teasing me. Around camp I am well-known for reminding my friends about sunscreen.

  To keep from eating more cookies, I closed up the box and put it in the refrigerator, and—while I was in there anyway—got out some baby carrots.

  Something about the letter was bugging me. I had to chew two carrots before I figured it out: Hannah was complaining about boys, and—at a time like this—boys seemed kind of (no offense
, Hannah) silly.

  I swallowed. I ate another carrot.

  On the other hand, there was this crazy long speech Olivia had delivered one day at camp last summer. It mentioned flower girls and proms and poets and princesses. In the end, the point—I think—was that humans need romance, or else humans will all go extinct.

  Looked at like that, boy trouble isn’t silly at all.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Emma

  There were plenty of lemon cookies left for dessert. After dinner, while my parents, Ben, and I were still at the table, I put some on a plate. My dad took two and my mom took one. Ben sniffed and shook his head.

  “They smell weird,” he said.

  I pulled the plate away. “More for me.”

  “Wait.” He reached for a cookie and inspected it. “I guess I’ll try one.”

  “Don’t do me any favors,” I said.

  “Who’s Hannah again?” my dad asked. “Why is she sending us cookies?”

  My dad’s brain is so full of important medical stuff that regular life gets crowded out. My mother is different. She can name all the girls in Flowerpot Cabin and all their parents, too. She probably even remembers what Hannah is studying in college. Now I expected her to set my dad straight. She usually likes showing off that way. But she didn’t. She had resumed that staring look from the morning she found out about GG.

  I explained about Hannah to my dad. Meanwhile my mother ate one bite of cookie.

  “I’ll finish your cookie for you,” Ben told her after she’d put it down.

  “Don’t let him, Mom! You need it,” I said.

  “I’m going to bed.” Mom stood up. “See you in the morning.”

  Ben ate the cookie. Then the two of us did dishes as usual and watched TV in the family room. After I went upstairs and got ready for bed, I came back down and found my dad in his office at the end of the hall.

  “Hello, sweetie,” he said when I walked in. “Did you come to say good night? How nice.”

  “Partly,” I said, “but I also have a question. Is Mom sick, do you think?”