I Can Remember

“Dinner is ready!”, his mother’s disembodied, reedy voice called from the boxy kitchen, followed by an incomprehensible string of muffled cursing.

The television blared: “A loaf of bread, a container of milk, and a stick of butter. A loaf of bread, a container of milk, and a stick of bu…” The Sesame Street cartoon faded to black as the screen went dark. Lucas dangled the smooth plastic television remote from his hand and let it fall with a soft thump on the old, blue plaid couch. He didn’t bother to stop the remote from sliding across the threadbare upholstery towards the impressive crater his grandfather had worn from watching too much daytime television. It teetered for a moment at the precipice then slid over the edge like a downhiller in the Winter Olympics.

Outside, flakes of sleet ricocheted off of the glass of the tiny apartment window, coating the sill in a hard sheathe of ice. Inside, the small room was just as cold, despite the heat from the oven that Lucas’ mother had opened and shut all that evening with endless batches of cookies. The clanging of baking sheets, cooling racks, and mixing bowls still rang from the next room, along with the wafting acrid smell of burning semi-sweet chocolate chips. She told him she was keeping the oven on to keep the place warm until the landlord could come look at their furnace. She said it was on the fritz again. Lucas didn’t know what a fritz was but he did know she always baked when she was stressed.

Lucas glided over to the compact dinette table, sliding in his socks on the yellow linoleum floor. He shivered as the backs of his bare legs kissed the cool seat of one of the three empty wooden chairs. The sink was full of unwashed dishes and the counters were hidden beneath a mix of flour, open bags, and wonky stacks of crusty and oily used measuring cups. A calendar stuck to the fridge with a sunflower-shaped magnet showed yesterday’s date and the word “funeral” crossed out in shaky black marker.

His mother placed a paper plate in front of him, piled high with similarly paper-flat cookies, all brown-darkened and rock hard around the edges. He raised an eyebrow.

“Still can’t get the butter and sugar ratio just right,” she said, shaking her head. Her blonde locks were usually curled but now they drooped limp and stringy around from her delicate face like weeping willow whips. Her eyes were red-rimmed again. “Nothing like the ones Gramps used to make, huh?”

He raised his eyebrow higher and their eyes finally locked for the first time that whole day. A slow dawn crossed his mother’s face and her jaw tightened. She looked away first.

“Oh, sorry sweetie, I forgot to buy more groceries at the store before.” Her breath caught in her throat with a croaking sound. “Before the blizzard swept in. It’s just milk and cookies tonight, but I’ll make it up to you.” She turned back to her oven. “How about I make a new batch and then we rent that movie you’ve been wanting to see? The one with the singing trolls, right? We can make a night of it!” She plucked two eggs from the fridge before he could reply and cracked them against the metal edge of the mixing bowl in the corner.

Lucas stared down at his plate, poking at the over-crisp circles with a listless fingertip. While her back was turned, he pushed the plate away and slipped quietly out of the chair and padded into his grandfather’s room.

He pulled the door shut softly behind him and pressed his back against it. The room still smelled like the synthetic fruit-flavored hard candies Gramps used to carry around loose in his pocket and would offer to Lucas with a wink everyday when he came home from school. His corduroy-patterned cardigan hung from the knob of the dresser as if he had just taken it off and his leather penny loafers sat prim and shiny by the edge of the bed. Books towered precariously on the small writing desk. It was quiet and still.

Lucas wandered over to the desk and sat down in the spindle back chair. He reached for the closest tower of books which promptly tipped over one after the other. A piece of folded paper flew out of one of the covers and into his lap. He pushed the books aside and unfolded the paper. He held it up to the dim lamp. Scrawled in spidery handwriting across the top of the first page, it read: “For Lucas".

He could hear his grandfather’s gruff but playful voice in those words. Lucas read on, his eyes widening.

“Hello, Lucas. I thought you might be the first person to go through this old man’s pockets when I’m gone.” The ghost of a smile tugged at Lucas’ cheeks.

“You were always such a curious boy. Why, I can remember when you took your first steps just because you were so determined to see what all the fuss walking on two legs was about. You marched straight up to me and looked me straight in the eyes like I was standing in your way.”

Lucas blinked and leaned into the lamp light, the desk edge dug a pit into his stomach.

Lucas read the note until the room disappeared around him. By the time he reached the last line, he couldn't hold back the tears anymore and they spilled out onto the desk, first as a light drizzle then as a deluge in the illuminated spotlight of the desk lamp. He sat there shaking until the room came hurtling back at the jarring sound of his mother’s strawberry-shaped baking timer going off and his butt had lost all sensation from sitting in the uncomfortable desk chair. He wiped his nose with one of his sleeves and tried to blot a tear-mark from the note before carefully folding it up into a square and sticking it in his pocket.

When he emerged from Gramps’ room, his eyes puffy and red, the snowstorm outside had subsided to rare fluffy flakes in the dusk. He breathed in gulps of the stuffy apartment air and moved to the couch. He grabbed the remote and turned on the TV with a click. It jumped to life and Lucas sat down, sinking deep into the hole left in the seat cushions, as the weatherman announced the new snow depth totals.

His mother swept in with her new tray of cookies, striking a waiterly pose as she laid two plates dramatically down on the coffee table. The cookies all seemed suspiciously normal and uniform. Lucas raised both his eyebrows. His mother smiled and pulled out an empty box of Chips Ahoy from behind her back.

Lucas laughed until they turned into hiccuping tears and his mother wrapped him in a hug as they sank deeper into the plaid couch.

“I miss him too,” she whispered. “But we can remember him together.”

She pulled a blanket over them and held him close. Lucas’ eyelids drooped to the drone of the soft voices and the rhythmic sounds of his mother’s gentle breathing. The folded note lay warm in his pocket as he drifted off to sleep.