Cake

There are two rules in this house: the first rule is that Mama will always love my dead sister more than me. I know this because Mama always says that when she was born, she came into the world curled like a rose petal, eyes closed, skin shiny as candle wax. The second rule is that I am not allowed to touch the long cardboard box that lives in the back of the freezer. Mama says inside the box is a slice of her wedding cake that is too fragile for me to touch. She says if I ever open the box, everything will turn to dust.

Whenever I open the freezer wanting a scoop of ice cream, there’s always her breath, hot against the back of my neck, and then her hand, pushing aside a bag of moldy peas or a package of fish sticks and then handing me the tub. Sometimes it’s like Mama’s got eyes that can see right through me. When I’m tying my shoes or brushing my hair, she watches me with a frown, and it’s like she’s cataloging all my faults, tucking them away in a box to look at later.

She likes to tell me the fates of girls who disobeyed. My favorite is the story of Pandora, who opened a box and let all the hate of the world come spilling out. If not for her, Mama always says, there would be no snakes or spiders or wasps.

Sometimes it feels like in this house, only two people are allowed: Mama and my sister. Mama makes it so there’s no room for anyone else. Mama acts like I’m Pandora and my dead sister is precious, a good girl, something I will never be. 

It’s my tenth birthday and Mama’s out shopping for a present for me. She’s never made me a cake, not even from a mix, which doesn’t seem fair because all I’ve ever wanted is to have a cake of my own, a cluster of candles to blow out. 

I stand in front of the freezer. I see a box in the back. Maybe this time, Mama bought me a cake. I want to see if it is a wedge of cake as beautiful as the ones I’ve seen in magazines: if it has white frosting and a pale pink rose or is swirled with caramel and chocolate on top. I’ve decided I’m going to dip my finger in and have a tiny taste. It’ll be a secret I’ll be able to keep inside me; one Mama can’t touch. There’s the gleam of the chrome handle, then a whoosh of cold air. I pet the top of the box. 

I lift the lid. But there’s no cake in this box. There’s a baby girl, cocooned in a blanket, skin patterned with crystalized icing, eyelids tinged lavender like she’s just sleeping and if I’m not careful I’ll wake her up.

Candace Hartsuyker has an M.F.A in Creative Writing from McNeese State University and reads for PANK. She has been published in Heavy Feather Review, Maudlin House and elsewhere.