Written by Natalie Nee
“Tell me what you think, Eloise,” Grand-maman crooned. She cracked open the oven, an unusual sky blue color and top of the line model back when she and Papi built this villa many decades ago. The heat spilling out caressed my face like the sunlight flooding their countryside just out the open window, peppered with olives and grapes.
Her eyes bubbled with swirling notes of warm molasses and honey, eager for my response. They were frosted with the beginnings of what Mamma called cataracts. They reminded me of the halos surrounding Mary in the church Grand-maman dragged me to every Sunday. She opened the door wider and I inspected the stiff white mountains of sugar and egg whites. Their peaks were a golden brown, as if they were sun-kissed themselves.
“Oui, they look perfect,” I said in response.
Grand-maman nodded her approval and allowed me to remove them from the oven, a graduation from last summer. Once cooled, Grand-maman gestured for me to try them first. My hand hovered above the plate, careful to choose the perfect one, which meant—at least for me—the one with the most silver sugar balls that Grand-maman used for topping. The hint of vanilla was already making my mouth water. A drop of drool escaped my lips and we laughed until we cried.
“Bon appétit,” she said, dabbing the last tear of mirth from her eye with a nearby muslin towel after wiping the trace of drool, her hand tanned from the months of helping Papi in the fields.
I crunched into the top first. The cooked sugar and egg dissolved in my mouth, dancing across my tongue like the whimsical sugar plum fairies in the play we saw every December. A piece fell into my lap. I quickly stuffed it into my mouth before Grand-maman could see, but she was closing her eyes, humming her approval. After many years and attempts, I had successfully baked the perfect meringue.
Now, Grand-maman speaks of her life in France as if she were still there. I’ve heard the stories so many times, I can almost recite them word for word. But Mamma and I let her continue, for we enjoy watching her light up, especially when she talks about Papi like he’s still with us. Those days are generally better than the ones when she remembers that he’s passed. Selfishly, I look forward to those days because those are the ones she remembers me, too. Like the cataracts that had once cloaked her eyes, dementia has viciously spun its web around her mind.
Grand-maman used to take to the window, hoping to see her fields, her countryside. The view has been replaced with rows of cars and asphalt. Flags of the same colors whip in the wind, yet flying for a different nationality. Now, she closes the windows I open and pulls the blinds tight. She seeks solitude more and more, refusing to speak. Mamma doesn’t know if she would rather be alone or simply can’t remember what to say.
I cleaned dishes from the dinner that she refused, again, disheartened that the woman I remember was here but not truly with us. Then, the pantry caught my eye. My heart ticked faster like the passing cypress trees lining the driveway to Grand-maman’s villa. An idea bubbled inside. I stretched for the confectioner’s sugar and the memory sifted through. I grabbed the eggs, cracking and separating the yolk from the white like she taught me all those summers ago. Mamma joined me in the kitchen as the beaters spun and danced around the bowl, drumming against the glass. Together we prepared the baking sheet for our last hope of a recipe we both knew by heart.
We walked the plate of meringues into Grand-maman’s darkened room that smelled of dust. Mamma opened the curtains and Grand-maman squinted, shielding her eyes. Mamma helped prop her frail frame up in the bed made of yellow linen. Her molasses eyes, now empty and cold, meant one thing: today was another bad day. I held up the plate and she wearily grabbed one of the white fluffy desserts, her gnarled fingers hunched over with years and arthritis. Mamma and I did the same. Grand-maman drooled and I grabbed a napkin to wipe her creased mouth. Nobody laughed this time.
Grand-maman crunched into hers first, closing her eyes like I remembered her doing all those years ago. When she opened them, she hummed her approval. Her smile warmed me as much as a summer’s day in the French countryside, taking us all back. Recognition bloomed in her now-lit eyes, a look that was just as magical as the sugar pirouetting backstage of our smiles.
.
Natalie Nee is a novelist, former ghostwriter, and latte enthusiast. Natalie’s short story, “Saudade”, was selected as one of Across the Margin’s Best Of stories published in 2023 and was recently featured on their podcast, ATM Storytellers. Her work has appeared in Roi Fainéant Press, Half and One, 50 word stories, Punk Noir Press, and HerStry Literary Magazine. Natalie’s debut novel will be going on submission this year. To read more, check out her website: www.natalienee.com. She’s cooler on Twitter (@novelnatalie).