I cut in. “You already planned this?”
I held out for about three seconds.
“Maybe.”
I sighed. “We don’t have enough pie tins.”
She grinned. “Mrs. Vera said we can borrow hers.”
“You already asked Mrs. Vera?”
“Maybe.”
I pointed at her. “You are exhausting.”
Saturday morning looked like a flour bomb had gone off.
She hugged me. “Please.”
I held out for about three seconds.
Then I said, “Fine. But when this kitchen becomes a disaster, I want it noted that I had concerns.”
She kissed my cheek. “You’re the best.”
“No,” I said. “Just weak.”
Saturday morning looked like a flour bomb had gone off.
At one point she got quiet.
Apples everywhere. Cinnamon in the air. Dough on the counter, dough on the floor, dough somehow on the cookie jar. Lila had flour in her hair and on her nose.
I said, “How is it on your forehead?”
She wiped her cheek. “Is it?”
“That is not your forehead.”
By 26, I said, “Next time, write a card.”
I stopped peeling apples.
Lila laughed. “You’re doing great.”
At one point she got quiet, rolling crust with that look she gets when she is feeling something too big to say right away.
I asked, “What’s going on in that head?”
She kept working. “Do you ever worry people feel invisible?”
I stopped peeling apples. “What do you mean?”
She shrugged. “Everybody says kids need attention, and they do. But old people do too. Sometimes I think people stop looking at them like they’re still themselves.”
The whole car smelled like butter and cinnamon.
I looked at her for a second.
Then I said, “Yeah. I think that happens.”
She nodded. “I don’t want that to happen around me.”
When we finally loaded the pies into Mrs. Vera’s hatchback, the whole car smelled like butter and cinnamon.
At the nursing home, the woman at the front desk blinked and said, “Good Lord.”
Lila smiled. “We brought dessert.”
Then the smell hit.
“All of this?”
Lila nodded. “If that’s okay.”
“Honey,” she said, “okay is not the word.”
They took us into the common room. Some residents were playing cards. Some were watching television without really watching it.
Then the smell hit.
Heads turned.
I watched her kneel, ask names, and listen.
One man in a navy cardigan stood up and said, “Is that apple?”