I thought my sister wanted Mom\u2019s recipe box because I\u2019d asked for it first, and I didn\u2019t notice what she was really asking for until it was almost packed.<\/p>\n
Mom had been gone three weeks when June and I started sorting the kitchen. We were doing it at her house, with a box from the grocery store between us and a roll of tape that kept sticking to my sleeve. Neither of us was crying much by then. We were tired, and there were only so many times you can decide whether a chipped mug is worth keeping.<\/p>\n
I\u2019m older by four years. I\u2019m also the one who took over when Mom started getting sick. I set out her pills, called the pharmacy, and told June when there was something she needed to come see. I thought I was being helpful. I didn\u2019t ask if June wanted to help in the kitchen. I just did it faster myself.<\/span><\/p>\n The recipe box was on the counter. I picked it up and said, \u201cI want this, if that\u2019s okay.\u201d<\/p>\n June looked at it, then at the old kitchen timer beside the stove.<\/p>\n \u201cI want the timer,\u201d she said.<\/span><\/p>\n I thought she was annoyed that I\u2019d picked first. \u201cYou can have both.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cNo. I want the timer.\u201d<\/p>\n It wasn\u2019t an expensive timer. Cream-colored plastic, one cracked corner, a red dial that didn\u2019t always land exactly on the number. Mom used to keep it in the drawer with the dish towels. June had used it a lot when we were kids, or so I thought.<\/p>\n I handed it to her. She turned the dial with her thumb, once, then set it down. I didn\u2019t know what else to say, so I started sorting the recipe cards.<\/p>\n That was how I found the handwriting.<\/p>\n The first few days after Mom died were full of little jobs. The funeral home needed a form. The church ladies wanted the casserole dishes back. I kept making lists because lists were easier than calling June to ask how she was. When she did come over, we talked about the furnace and the sale of the house, and whether the old curtains could go to the church rummage sale.<\/p>\n We didn\u2019t talk much about Mom.<\/p>\n June was quieter than I expected. She didn\u2019t make a scene when I took the good mixing bowl, and she didn\u2019t argue when I said I\u2019d keep Mom\u2019s handwritten recipe for apple cake. I took that as proof she was fine with how things were going.<\/p>\n I should say I liked being the competent one. I liked knowing where the bills were and what needed doing. When June asked a question, I\u2019d answer before she finished asking it. I\u2019ve told myself for years that this was just how our family worked.<\/p>\n Mom had a way of correcting people while they were still doing something. If June put in a level cup of flour, Mom would say, \u201cThat looks a little heavy.\u201d If June stirred too hard, Mom would say, \u201cYou\u2019re going to toughen it.\u201d If June reached for the salt, Mom would tell her to wait.<\/p>\n I got corrected too, of course. But I was the one Mom sent to fetch things. I knew which cabinet held the measuring spoons. I learned how to keep her from getting irritated.<\/p>\n June laughed it off back then. \u201cI\u2019m not allowed near the stove,\u201d she\u2019d say.<\/p>\n \u201cYou\u2019re allowed,\u201d Mom would answer. \u201cYou just have to listen.\u201d<\/p>\n I remember that line because I heard it so many times. I didn\u2019t remember how June\u2019s face looked when Mom said it.<\/p>\n When we were sorting the kitchen, June touched the timer again. \u201cMom gave me this when I was twelve,\u201d she said.<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cDid she?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cShe let me make the lemon bars by myself.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n I looked up from the box. \u201cI thought you made those with her.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cNo. She went to the store. She said, \u2018You know what you\u2019re doing.\u2019\u201d<\/p>\n June\u2019s voice was ordinary, almost casual. I put the card I was holding into the box and told her that was nice. I didn\u2019t ask why she\u2019d remembered it so clearly. I guess I didn\u2019t want to find out that a thing I barely noticed had mattered more than all the things I remembered.<\/p>\n The timer clicked under her thumb. It made a small dry sound, like the end of a pen.<\/p>\n \u201cDo you remember how she corrected every recipe?\u201d June asked.<\/p>\n \u201cMom corrected everything.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cShe didn\u2019t correct that one.\u201d<\/p>\n I gave a little laugh, the kind people do when they want a conversation to stay easy. \u201cWell, I guess she trusted you.\u201d<\/p>\n June looked at me. \u201cFor one afternoon.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n I didn\u2019t answer. I was busy, or pretending to be. I wrapped the mixing bowl in newspaper, even though it wasn\u2019t going anywhere.<\/p>\n We went through more cards. Mom\u2019s handwriting was neat and upright, with the measurements written in the same blue pen she kept by the phone. June\u2019s was rounder, and she crossed her sevens. I knew that because she used to leave notes on the fridge when she was in high school. I just hadn\u2019t thought about it in years.<\/p>\n Then I found a card for lemon bars in June\u2019s handwriting.<\/span><\/p>\n The recipe was written on the back of a church bulletin. A little flour was stuck in the fold, and one corner had a brown mark from something spilled. June leaned over when she saw it.<\/p>\n \u201cThat\u2019s mine,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n \u201cI can tell.\u201d<\/p>\n She pressed a finger against the edge. \u201cMom kept it?\u201d<\/p>\n I shrugged. \u201cLooks like it.\u201d<\/p>\n I was about to put it back in the box when June said, \u201cRead the bottom.\u201d<\/p>\n I thought she meant the last line of the recipe. I turned it over and saw Mom\u2019s handwriting below the ingredients, cramped near the edge. I could tell she\u2019d written it later because the ink was darker than the rest.<\/p>\n I stopped moving.<\/p>\n \u201cRead it,\u201d June said.<\/p>\n There was something in her voice then. Not anger, exactly. More like she\u2019d been waiting and didn\u2019t want to wait anymore.<\/p>\n I read the first few words silently. Then I read them out loud.<\/p>\n \u201cJune made these alone. I didn\u2019t correct her.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n June pulled the timer closer to herself.<\/p>\n I kept reading. \u201cThey came out better than mine. I should have told her.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n Nobody said anything for a second. I could hear the tape roll slipping off the edge of the box.<\/p>\n The note wasn\u2019t long. At the bottom, Mom had added, \u201cLet her trust her own hands.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n I read it twice, though there wasn\u2019t any other way to read it.<\/p>\n June sat down. \u201cShe wrote that?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI think so.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cDid she ever tell you?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cNo.\u201d<\/p>\n June rubbed the cracked corner of the timer with her thumb. \u201cI thought maybe she didn\u2019t even remember.\u201d<\/p>\n I wanted to say Mom had loved her. I wanted to say Mom had been hard on both of us, that she didn\u2019t mean anything by it, that June was reading too much into a note written years ago. I\u2019ve said versions of all those things before.<\/p>\n Instead, I said, \u201cI\u2019m sorry.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n June didn\u2019t look up. \u201cFor what?\u201d<\/p>\n That was fair. I had a list of answers and none of them felt big enough. For not seeing it. For thinking she was being difficult when she asked to do things her own way. For taking over while telling myself I was helping.<\/p>\n \u201cI don\u2019t know,\u201d I said. \u201cFor acting like I knew what mattered to you.\u201d<\/p>\n She folded the card along the old crease. \u201cYou always knew what Mom wanted.\u201d<\/p>\n I started to say that wasn\u2019t true. Then I stopped. I had known when Mom wanted the pills, or the tea, or someone to sit nearby while she watched the news. I hadn\u2019t known what June wanted. I\u2019d mistaken being useful for paying attention.<\/span><\/p>\n I tried to hand her the recipe card.<\/p>\n She didn\u2019t take it right away.<\/p>\n \u201cDo you want the box?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n \u201cI wanted the timer.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cI know.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019m taking the card too.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cOkay.\u201d<\/p>\n She took it, then slipped it into the box. I could have told her the card belonged with the recipes, which was what I\u2019d been doing all afternoon. I didn\u2019t.<\/p>\n We finished packing the kitchen without saying much. June took the timer and the box of recipe cards. I kept the mixing bowl, Mom\u2019s apple cake card, and a stack of old dish towels. It seemed like a fair split, though I know fairness wasn\u2019t the point.<\/p>\n At the door, June paused with the timer tucked under her arm.<\/p>\n \u201cMom really wrote that?\u201d she asked.<\/p>\n \u201cI saw her handwriting.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cThat\u2019s not what I asked.\u201d<\/p>\n I couldn\u2019t give her more than I had. \u201cI don\u2019t know when she wrote it.\u201d<\/p>\n June nodded. She didn\u2019t say whether that was enough.<\/p>\n When I got home, I found one of Mom\u2019s recipe cards in my coat pocket. Apple cake, blue ink, the bottom corner bent from being carried around. I\u2019d put it there without thinking. I could\u2019ve called June and told her I\u2019d found it. Instead, I left it on the kitchen counter.<\/p>\n I keep thinking about that note. Not because it fixed anything. It didn\u2019t. I can\u2019t tell whether Mom wrote it as an apology, or as a reminder to herself, or because she meant to say it out loud and never did.<\/p>\n I still have the apple cake card. June has the timer, and the lemon bar recipe is in the box with her. I haven\u2019t asked if she\u2019s baked them.<\/span><\/p>\n <\/p>\n