It's just a scone

I didn't know my life would change entirely and that that change would involve baked goods. My family has owned this bakery for many generations. Grandparents, great-grandparents, and so on type bakery lineage. I know when my parents are too old to handle the daily duties of the bakery, it'll fall to me and my family. I have worked in this bakery basically my whole life. I learned how to knead dough almost before I was able to read. I can bake almost everything we offer with my eyes closed. My hands and clothing are constantly covered in flour, and my hair has picked up the warm smell of baked cinnamon.

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On the day my life changed, I was working in the back baking our orange scones that we would be donating to the hospital's inpatient wards. We brought our baked goods to the sickest of people just to try to bring a smile to their faces during their treatment. The air smelled bright and citrusy. The dough was slightly spongy in my hands. My parents came in with tight smiles on their faces. I wiped my hands on my apron as I waited for them to speak. My hands itch, but there isn’t much I can do about it at this point.

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“My dear, you know your father, and I have been running this bakery for a long time now,” my mother trailed off as if searching for the end of her sentence in the dough I had been making.

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“This feels like bad news. Should I sit down for this or-” I started to question

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“NO!!” Both of my parents answered in unison.

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Taking over for my mother, my dad began to speak. “ It isn’t anything bad, but it will be a lot of information for you to take in. We’re just trying to make sure we find the best way to give you this news without infantilizing you. We love and respect you and want to ensure that it shows when we tell you what we need to tell you, but honestly, I'm thinking it would be better to just show you instead.”

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I can feel my eyebrows scrunch together. While my parents have always been on the more whimsical side, this time they seem apprehensive and serious. I step over to the sink and wash the drying flour off my hands. “Ok,” I state as I'm drying my hands off on the mushroom hand towels, “take me to your leader.”

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They usher me through the busy bakery lobby that is loud with conversation and the clinking of silverware on plates. I’m almost surprised they don’t buckle me in themselves with how they’re behaving today. We barely even had time to ensure the staff would be ok handling the shop during our busy hours or to grab a case of the orange scones I had already made.

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I sit in the backseat watching the town pass by in a blur. Stealing glances at my parents who have grim looks on their faces. My leg begins to bounce, and butterflies start to dance in my stomach. We have never had issues communicating before, regardless of the topic, so the fact that they’re struggling so much with this is worrisome. A light sweat began to form across my forehead as we pulled into the parking garage at the hospital. My dad parked the car with a slight lurch. Turning in his seat, he reached for the box of scones, still warm from the oven. My hands began itching again after I helped him retrieve the box and wipe them on my jeans.

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“We know you’ll have a lot of questions, and we will answer them all when we get back to the bakery. Just please bear with us until then,” my mother said as she held her hands over the scones. A purple light began to emit from her hands, and the car began to smell of the citrusy scones and bergamot. A small gasp slipped past my lips.

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“What…” I began to say before immediately being shushed by my parents. We exited the car, and a soft breeze began to rustle my hair. Heading into the building and up the elevator, we entered the ICU first. My parents and I are well known in these areas of the hospital, especially with how often we bring in our baked goods. We make polite chatter with the nurses on staff and the patients that are awake enough to want a treat. We promise to come back and bring treats to those who are on strict orders not to eat before a procedure.

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I watched as they passed out treats in the dialysis units and oncology wards. They shared smiles and words of encouragement and affection. Each person who took a bite of scone hummed in appreciation. While watching everyone enjoy their treat, I asked one of the nurses for lotion to help ease the itching of my hands.

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“The sweets your family brings in are the highlight of my whole week,” stated one of the patients in the oncology ward. “My doctors shared good news with me recently. They said that my numbers are looking much better and that I might be done with treatments soon, which means I’ll hopefully be able to visit you in your shop soon instead of only being able to get a sweet treat here during my treatments. I swear it’s like magic”

I laugh as I give her a congratulatory hug, telling her that it’s just a scone, but that is by far the best praise we’ve ever received, and I wish her nothing but good things as we begin to file out of the hospital.

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My parents shot down every opportunity I took to ask them questions while we were at the hospital and continued to not want to answer me for the duration of the ride back to the shop. After returning to the bakery, we walked into my parents' office in the back. The overhead light flickered a few times before fully coming to life.

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“Please have a seat, and we’ll explain,” said my mother.

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I slowly settled myself onto the soft plush couch they had in their office. It had been well furnished by them over the course of them owning the bakery. It felt warm and cozy in here, like its entire purpose was meant to exude safety and comfort. The chairs and couch were comfortable, and the walls were decorated with pictures of us from over the years. My mom began rummaging in the drawers before setting a worn photo album on the table in front of me.

I flipped through the album and saw faces I recognized. Many of the people in the album I had personally watched go through various kinds of treatments before getting well enough to be able to leave the hospital.

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“What is all of this?” I whispered as I flipped page after page of photos.

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“As you know, we inherited the bakery from your grandparents. What you don’t know is that we all have a special kind of magic that helps to heal people. It, along with this bakery, has been passed on through the generations. We can’t cure everyone, but we do what we can with what we have,” states my mother, her hands slightly trembling.

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As she speaks, my fingers begin to tingle and itch, and I wring them together thoughtlessly.

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“These are pictures taken of everyone we’ve been able to help on their last day of treatments. We can’t tell everyone that we’re the reason their numbers are improving because who would believe it first of all and secondly, who would want that kind of attention?” my dad inquired over my shoulder.

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Scrubbing my palms on my jeans, my mother delicately takes my hands in hers. “Your powers are going to awaken soon. You have every right to do with them as you see fit; we just ask that you keep it a secret from anyone you think might be tempted to share it. The healing gift can sometimes skip a generation or two, but we have noticed you’ve had increasingly itchy palms lately and that’s generally the first sign,” she whispered.

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I look down at our linked hands, my hands quivering and my breath hitching in my chest. It feels as if I can’t get enough air. My heart rate increases, and my eyes dart back and forth. A soft purple light bathes the walls surrounding us and dances across my hands. The smell of bergamot and something earthy I didn’t notice before fills the room.

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“You don’t have to make any decisions on what you want to do now. If you would like, you can take over for us and continue the work we’ve been doing in the hospital,” assures my dad when my breathing has calmed down.

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They drive me home, dropping me off outside my home, and I am in a daze. Nothing feels real anymore. Have my parents always had these abilities? Am I going to have to take over the bakery sooner rather than later? Will my magic be the same as my mother's? I look at my hands and turn them over. The itching has increased drastically. Focusing my attention on the sensation in my hands, I start to feel a warm trickle into my fingertips. A soft silver glow begins to emit from my palms.

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Letting out a victory yell to rival a warrior princess, I dart around the room and brandish my hands at various inanimate objects. I quickly grab my phone from its charging station and call my parents. Still elated and seeming to have no volume control, I yell into the ear of my mother that my hands are glowing silver and the itching has finally stopped. They inform me what silver instead of purple means, and I go very quiet.

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As it turns out, silver is a rare kind of magic. Not only can it heal the body, but it can heal the mind as well. I hang up the call with promises of talking to them the next day. Throwing myself across my bed, I begin to start formulating a plan.

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Several weeks later, I am making the rounds through the hospital again. This time the strawberry scones we brought have been infused with my magic. We go to the usual spots, and while in the dialysis unit, a woman begins to panic and cry. The techs can’t seem to comfort her, and she is progressively getting more and more worked up. Crouching down in front of her, I hand her a scone. With tearful eyes, she whimpers a soft thank you. I place a gloved hand on her knee, and a gentle warmth radiates into her as she slowly begins to calm down.

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“You are in very good hands, my dear. They will take very good care of you. And don’t worry, it’s just a scone,” I say to her with a wink.