First Bite

Norman aka Moose

Despite the fact that everyone around was constantly trying to poison him, Norman quite liked the serene hillside assisted living facility where he’s been residing these past four years. Every morning he would wake up, his eyes snapping open, staring into the minute hand shooting straight down at half past two. He would get up, shuffle across the cold tiles to his teapot, and pour himself a cold cup of tea. He would read for a while, sleep for a bit, wake up again, and then go to his porch, where he would wrap himself in his fleece blanket that said “Room 203,” and rock back and forth until the ducks’ laughter broke the morning silence.

Yes, the ducks laughed at him, Norman thought. His room faced one of the two man-made ponds in this facility. From there he could see the ducks and the gaggle of geese that arrive every spring, hissing and leaving their shit everywhere. Norman hissed at the geese, but he liked the ducks, even if they were laughing at him. Sometimes he would see two of them swimming close, as if sharing some ancient pun, their necks green with envy, and he swears he could see one tilt his head back and simply cackle with uncontrollable delight, feathers quivering like it was about to roll over into the water.

“Good one, Winston” Norman would say, then smile and sip his tea.

They called him Moose at the facility, because the first Halloween he was here the nurses made him dress up as Bullwinkle. Even though he spent the entire time standing in the corner with his arms folded and catching his antlers on the lights, the residents still loved it. From then on, the nickname stuck.

Norman got along with most of the nurses, but his favorite one was Nurse Becky. She had a round face with freckles and light brown hair that was always pulled into a ponytail. Even when he first came here he knew she was going to be his favorite. For one, she looked exactly like his granddaughter. They even have the same name! She was kind to him, and always patient with him even when he lost his temper or didn't remember where things were, which was often now. Sometimes he would stand at one part in the yard and all of a sudden not remember where he was or how he got there. He would start yelling and grabbing at the first person he saw. When that happened, she would come running. They would say to her, “Becky, it’s Moose again.” She was more thoughtful than the other nurses when she took him gently by the arm and led him back to his room, her scent lingering on his wrist. She maintained eye contact the entire time so he wouldn't feel overwhelmed, her eyes always smiling, as if murmuring “It’s okay, you’re gonna be okay” as he followed her down the hallway.

Becky’s birthday was November 18th, and Norman had grand plans. He had repeated this date in his head over and over for months, writing it down every night in his journal so that he wouldn't forget. He was so afraid to forget. The very first time he started forgetting — ironically he remembers — he had sent a box of cupcakes to his granddaughter for her birthday, only to receive a letter from Home Depot stating they do not sell baked goods. Meanwhile, his son called him to ask what is the meaning of a fifteen year old receiving a power drill with an angrily worded note and a warranty claim. The family laughed about it, it was funny then. It wasn’t so funny when he left the house and wandered onto the street and they had to call the police. It took two full days to track him down.

His plan was to bake Becky a cake for her birthday. Norm was a master baker when he was young, for forty years he had owned his own bakery nestled into a little red brick storefront on 7th street. And so for forty years, he would wake up at 2:30 AM and get to the bakery at 3:15. Turning on the lights, he would scan the pristine kitchen, roll up his sleeves, and get to work.

Angela aka Becky

Angela put her face down on the table, the glass felt cool against her cheek. On the deck outside she could see a small lizard slurping in the sun. Tommy was beginning to stir on the couch from his nap, his soft brown hair no doubt a bit damp from the humidity.

If she sat still enough and did not turn around, she could spend all afternoon starting at the sun-soaked deck with its lizards and squirrels and its garland of willowy branches shading the potted flowers. She didn’t have to face the shattered glass plates on the kitchen floor, the heavy clip on the fridge holding a wad of unpaid bills, or the heavy-snoring monster of a man she called a husband still asleep in his drunken stupor in the next room, with his shoes trampling on the newly washed sheets.

Angela touched her cheek and felt it burning. She didn’t want to look in the mirror. She could feel the welt rising from her flesh and across her forehead like an iron brand of ownership. You’re mine. She could hear him say. Don’t you dare take Tommy. I will kill you.

The night before, a storm outside tore leaves off the trees, skinning them right off as rain bashed against the windows. Her husband came home drunk and wet and forced himself on her. When she cried, he slapped her, hard, across her left cheek. Tommy woke up and sat in the corner of the kitchen holding his teddy bear, and that was where she found him in the morning, curled up into a ball. She tried to pick him up, and smelled the sour stench of piss, and realized he had wet himself. He awoke, hazy eyed and wrapped his arms around her. Did the storm scare you, baby? She stroked his light brown curls. No, it was daddy. And as she hugged him tighter she knew what she had to do.

She took two days off work to wait for the swelling on her face to go down, so that she could cover it with makeup. And then she made a plan. From her job, she knew she had access to some strong sedatives. Her plan was to make him his favorite meal, with a side of some powerful narcotics, just enough so he would go into a long slumber. Then, she would do what she does best — she would make herself disappear.

Once she made up her mind, the rest was easier than she thought it would be. She arranged for herself and Tommy to stay with her mother in Vancouver. Her three brothers lived there too, and one of them recently started working in law enforcement. She would be safe there. She started closing accounts and withdrawing money, and even bought a used car off of Craigslist that she parked fourteen blocks away. She didn’t give herself time to think — she needed her mind to outpace her fear. And as the date approached — November 18th, she found herself queasy with nerves. A couple of times she caught her hand shaking uncontrollably while changing the sheets for her patients. As she walked from room to room she could hear the ticking of the clock echoing between the walls, ringing hollow in her ribs. And she had to sit down, and breathe, and wait for that terrible, exhausting wave of loneliness to go away.

Just one more night. She thought. One more night and I’m gone.

Norman aka Moose

The kitchen at night is a dark, strange place. Norman was familiar with the kitchen because several time he had helped the staff cook, for events or special occasions. Small things, like measuring out flour and beating eggs. None of them knew how great he actually was, that he could feel the tempo of all the utensils in the kitchen and know exactly who’s falling behind, or that he could tell by smell alone where a loaf of bread was in its fermentation process. The whole place was an underground orchestra to him, and he the maestro behind the counter top with silent gestures and an invisible wand, the maestro that no one now could see.

Tonight though, he was solo. He traced the cool counter tops with his fingers as he made his way to the storage room. He opened the door.

He was transported back to his own bakery again. He could see outside the blue street lamp flickering and felt the night’s breath tickling the hairs behind his ears. In front of him were nine different kinds of flour. A large industrial oven greeted him with a warming glow. The silver bars of the cooling racks caught the kitchen’s yellow lights and cast gleaming stripes onto the wall. He looked down — he was in his apron and his hands were no longer withered and knotted. He was young and smiling and working very fast.

He whipped, kneaded, stirred, sculpted, and layered. His hands seemed to have been reawakened and he could feel every little pulse move through them as he touched the ingredients. The shape of the butter as its corners rounded to become sticky and soft, the lightly sweet airy dollops of cream, cocoa powder that rises like fairy dust, the dense, tart raspberry filling as it tangoed with dark, bittersweet chocolate.

Suddenly it was quiet. He felt the silence seep into the air around him. He turned around — the oven was on, warm and humming, and on the counter were sprinkles of flour, dark blots of raspberry, and smears of chocolate. Somehow he had baked a cake, and it is now rising sleepily in the warm embrace of the oven. He counted and thought that about twelve minutes were left before the cake would be done. He could hear footsteps echoing down the hall. He looked at the clock. It is nearly five am, November 18th, and Nurse Becky is making her last rounds.

Angela aka Becky

Angela saw the faint light ebbing from the kitchen. She figured it must be Moose. Sweet old Moose who called her Becky and she never bothered to correct him. What was he doing up so early in the kitchen?

Truth be told, she will miss her job. The residents were kind to her and brought her a kind of tranquility. In here she was in control. Moose was especially gentle with her, she knows she reminds him of his granddaughter. He was easy for her even when other nurses couldn’t deal with him. She would hold him by the wrist and guide him to where he needed to be, and read to him. And sometimes he would tell her stories of his past, how he used to work at a bakery. He would tell her the jokes of ducks, lame, children’s knock-knock jokes that she’s heard a million times before but somehow she would laugh because she always found them funny when he told them. When she put him to bed she would rub his hands in hers and touch his scruffy chin, and give him a kiss on the forehead if he had been especially good that day, which would delight him. Angela hoped that the real Becky would visit him once she’s gone.

The very first thing Angela saw when she walked into the kitchen was a giant chocolate cake — or what was supposed to be a cake. It wasn’t so much a cake as a blob of muddy chocolate tilting to one side. What looked like dark red filling oozed from the center of the cake. It looked pathetic, like a child’s very bad science project of a volcano.

Norman was standing in front of her, wringing his hands.

“Happy Birthday, Becky.” He said.

Norman aka Moose

Norman whooped a little cry of joy when he pulled the cake out of the oven. It was perfectly cylindrical, with ribbons of pink and white decorating the top. He could not remember the last time he made something this beautiful. It was perfect. He set the cake out on the counter to cool.

He saw her eyes widen when she walked in, and his heart skipped with joy. He wished her a happy birthday and asked her to sit. He told her how he had spent months planning to make her a cake, how he proudly wrote down her birthday again and again so he wouldn’t forget. He told her he didn’t even have all the ingredients he needed but never mind that he was able to make do. He told her she was special to him. He cut a slice and pushed it onto a paper plate and towards her. Won’t you try the first bite please?

Angela aka Becky

Angela sat very still as Norman’s words poured through her. It was her last day and she was going to leave right after her shift. The car was already packed and parked outside. Yet she stayed, and listened. Some of what he said was nonsensical, but she could make out the gist of what he was saying. He was saying thank you over and over and how she made him feel like family again. He scraped off a piece of the blob and pushed it toward her. Won’t you try the first bite please? He said.

So she did. Slowly she raised the plastic fork and lifted it towards her, preparing for — she’s not sure what. Finally, she took the first bite. And she tasted it, really tasted it.

She put the fork down and looked at Norman, and she had so many words for him but the sweetness of the cake bound her lips. Her eyes grew larger and started filling with tears. Norman looked at her, stunned. “What’s the matter? Does it not taste good?” “No, no, it‘s…it’s the best cake I’ve ever had,” she managed between sobs. But now she was weeping into her hands, her tears melting into the frosting still on her lips. The gleaming kitchen table reflected the pool of fluorescent light buzzing above her. Not knowing why, but Norman too felt his old eyes become damp. He walked over to her and wrapped his bony arms around her shoulders. He was surprised at how thin she was. He put his head on her shoulder and engulfed her in his embrace, her back wracked with sobs that reverberated through him. Norman could tell something was happening, has happened, but he knew not what.He buried his face in her hair. All he could do was hug her.

And that was how the nurse from the morning shift found them, arm in arm, molded into one, as the ducks laughed a wild, undying laugh outside the kitchen window.