The Tradition

When Ginger learned her father had left for a mistress in Maui, it was eleven days short of her thirteenth birthday. Her mother was neither surprised nor devastated by the news; in fact, she was annoyed by the hassle of pretending to be heartbroken. Ginger happily helped with the theatrics that would save them both the boredom of crocodile tears: rouge to the nose, smudged mascara, and piles of wrinkled tissues, crumpled for show, as neither considered wasting tears over the man’s absence.

The drama of her father's departure travelled quickly. So quickly, that Ginger nearly learned the news from a third grader, who (unprompted) informed Ginger that he too, "didn’t have a dad”. The cafeteria buzz had droned on, and unphased by the boy’s strange declaration, Ginger’s attention had returned to her bologna-tomato sandwich.

“Sorry,” she said, peeling crust into a plastic bag.

“Me too,” he said awkwardly, quickly patting her shoulder before running off.

“Ginger, what the hell was that?”

“Do you even know that kid?”

Ginger shrugged, unconcerned, and only mildly annoyed that he’d pet her like a dog. She bit into the crustless sandwich, tomato seeds pouring out its sides.

When she got home that day, her mother urgently ushered her in from the bus, swiftly closing the door behind them to peep through its window. Ginger watched her curiously, awaiting explanation. Normally, her mother would have welcomed her from their garden beds, zucchini bread, cookies, or cinnamon rolls plated and hung from the porch in a mesh bag, to keep bugs at bay. (A tactic meant to entice Ginger into the garden, rather than straight to the television).

Ginger side-eyed the kitchen, sniffing for baked goods.

“Ginge, I gotta tell you something,” her mother said finally, leading her to the sofa. They sat, her mother’s hands folded to lap.

“Is Nanna dead?”

“What? No. Your dad-- he’s in Hawaii.”

“Hawaii?”

“Maui. With Miss Goldbloom.”

“Miss Goldbloom?”

Her mother nodded.

“I thought he was seeing that--” Ginger snapped her fingers, tapping her index to the air. “--oh, what’s her name? Karlee? Kaylee?”

“Karlene.”

“Yeah, what happened to her?”

“She went platinum. You know how much your father hates blondes.”

Ginger nodded, unsure how to respond to this.

“He left last night,” her mother continued slowly, pulling a small piece of cardstock from her vest. “I found the note after you left for school. Honey, I'm so sorry. It looks like... he's not coming back.”

Ginger furrowed her brows, taking the paper.

“He left you... in a postcard?”

“I know. Classy.” She patted her daughter’s knee and kept it there for a moment. They sat in silence, and although it wasn’t awkward, neither knew what to say, where to go, or what to do. Ginger was wondering how to turn the television on without seeming cruel, when the doorbell saved them from this attempt.

“Oh Jesus-- probably another casserole.”

“Casserole?”

Her mother nodded, gesturing for Ginger to stay put while she tended to the door. She opened it just enough for Ginger to see their neighbor, Mrs. Chestnut, her frizzy white hair exploding from the scarf she’d tied to tame it. Her mother left one leg behind the door, accepting the foiled pan, and casually closing the air between door and frame with her absent leg, each nudge paired with a solemn “thank you so much, you’re too kind”. When it was finally shut, she huffed into the kitchen.

The crinkle of aluminum lured Ginger to follow, to which she gasped. The counters and table were overflowing with pie dishes, casserole pans, bagged foods, and grocery store flowers still in their plastic. Someone had even sent an edible arrangement, bright cantaloupe flowers skewered in pattern with chocolate strawberries.

“I don’t mean to sound ungrateful,” her mother said, peeling the foil, “but we’re out of room in the fridge.” She sighed. “More tuna.”

“Who sent this one?” Ginger asked, biting into the strawberry she’d shamelessly removed.

“Pfft,” her mother joined her, opting for cantaloupe. “Your Aunt.”

“Aunt Margot’s in town?”

“Nope. She had it sent to the house. Called half an hour later to ‘check that it got here safely’”. Her mother rolled her eyes. “The woman just wanted to hear me cry”.

“Did you?”

“Cry? Nope. Do you blame me?”

“Nope”.

Her mother put the cantaloupe down, holding her daughter's shoulders, her eyes worried. Ginger stifled a nervous smile, unused to such seriousness from the woman who'd once done a puppet show to teach Ginger about the birds and the bees.

“Ginger, you’re allowed to be sad. Don’t let me stop you from being sad.”

Ginger chewed thoughtfully, enjoying the crackle of chocolate between her teeth.

“If I’m being totally honest,” she said carefully, swallowing. “I sort of think this could be... a good thing.”

Her mother's lips spread into a smile, the lines around her eyes softening. She pulled Ginger to her chest, arms wrapped around her shoulders, hands cupping the back of her head.

“You know what’s stupid?” her mother asked.

“What?”

“People sent over all this shit-- pardon my language-- as if he died or something. Like, thanks for the fourth tuna casserole I guess, but it’s not like I can’t cook for us. It’s not like he ever cooked, anyway.” She unfolded her daughter from the hug, leaning against the counter. “And the flowers, God, the flowers. Are they here to cheer me up, or do they think I’m supposed to be mourning the loss of that asshole?”

“But like, at least we’re getting free stuff?”

Her mother laughed.

“God, at what cost? Everyone kept letting themselves in. All day, ‘ding-dong, here’s a pie, how’re you handling things, don’t mind me butting in even though we haven’t talked in almost two years’. Your father’s ex secretary showed up, for Christ’s sake.”

“The one he…?”

“Mhm.”

“Wow.” Ginger brushed her chocolate fingertips to her jeans.

“Oh.” Her mother frowned. “I’m sorry, this is a lot. But you’re absolutely right, you know. This is good for us. And--" She handed her daughter a plate. "--we have dinner for the next century.”

* * *

Several days passed before Ginger felt even the slightest sadness towards her father’s leaving. She was drawing the invitations for her birthday, doodling presents and streamers in glitter gel, when she had an awful realization, and swore. Loudly. She used the worst word she knew, and her mother rushed up the stairs, into Ginger's room.

“What?! What’s wrong?!”

“Dad’s cake!”

Her mother turned pale.

“Oh-- shit.”

She quickly ran from the room.

Their family had maintained only one tradition throughout Ginger’s nearly thirteen years of life: and that, was Ginger’s father’s chocolate cake. It was true that the man was a menace 363 days of the year, choosing only Christmas day and Ginger’s birthday to be tolerable. But while Christmas brought his love of spiked eggnog, and an inability to sneak away to his mistresses, Ginger’s birthday brought the most decadent chocolate cake known to man.

It was the one promise her father had never broken. For twelve years, on the day before her birthday, Ginger would hold her breath; praying her father wouldn’t forget his one responsibility. One year she’d made the mistake of reminding him, and he’d screamed, flipping his bowl of potato chips to the ground, insisting he was far too busy with work deadlines. All the while, his eyes glued to the television.

She’d then asked if her mother could make the cake instead.

"I’d give your mother my right kidney before I gave her that recipe. Now shut it, or the party's off.”

Yet the next morning, he had begrudgingly pulled mixing bowls from the cupboard, along with a bottle of tequila his wife had purposely hidden and forgotten to move. They quietly watched him whisk and measure, bent secretively over the recipe cards he would soon re-hide in the time his masterpiece baked. Drunk and impatient, he iced the cake fresh out of the oven, his wife and daughter pretending not to notice the cocoa glaze oozing over its sides, onto the bright floral serving platter.

But even so, like always, it was divine. At the party, he sliced into his drunken creation, thick fudge crumble, light whipped mousse, and tart raspberry compote revealed in neat layers. Wide-eyed guests accepted their slices graciously; it was a cake everyone craved throughout the year, but Ginger's father refused to pass on the recipe or bake it for any other occasion. Ginger assumed, to keep her guests begging. Secretly, she believed her father's cake ensured the attendance of half her guestlist.

In her earlier years, she was convinced the cake was proof her father had good in him. But as she matured and outgrew her naivety, she saw the tradition for what it truly was: a caress to her father's ego. He adored the attention, sucking up compliments like a straw to a milkshake, happy to make a show of loudly handing Ginger the first slice, and even happier to accept empty plates, practically puffing his chest at the “thank you’s” and “oo's" and "aw's”. To guests, he was the sweet father who made his little girl a cake, the helpful husband cleaning up after the party. But Ginger and her mother were used to the show, and ate as much cake as they could stomach as a reward for his arrogance.

Now, Ginger realized that the bastard had moved to Maui, and would fail to fulfill the one thing he had ever been good for.

“I don’t care, Tom. If you have a single decent bone in your body, you’ll tell me where it is!” her mother yelled, entering the room, phone to ear. She silently mouthed something to Ginger, who couldn’t read lips to save her life.

“The poor thing’s devastated! She’s been crying for days, won’t leave her room, hasn’t eaten a thing--” her mother scrunched her nose, shaking her head to Ginger. “--Come on Tom, give your daughter the goddamn recipe. It can be her birthday and Christmas gift.” She held the phone away from her ear, the yelling blared through its speaker.

“She’s still your daughter, you piece of--” Her mother stopped, watching Ginger’s shoulders tense.

“Tom. If you don’t tell me where you hid the damn thing,” she threatened, calm, her jaw clenched. “I will call your mother up, tell her you’re in Maui, and we'll track your ass down, together. You want that?”

Ginger grinned, leaning forward in her bed; the phone was quiet, and she quietly tiptoed to her mother’s side, listening. After moments of silence (the longest she’d ever seen her father not retaliate with screaming), she finally heard the muffle of speech in her mother’s ear.

“Okay, okay, but don’t even think about hanging up ‘til I’ve checked!” her mother responded sternly, nodding to Ginger with a grin. She took her daughter by the wrist, leading her to the guest washroom. Lifting the lid to the toilet tank, she revealed a tightly taped plastic bag, several papers visible inside. She quickly tore through the plastic, ignoring its seal.

“Hah!”

She lifted the phone to her ear.

“Thanks asshole!” She cackled over his yells. “Have a shit life!” She hung up, clutching her chest.

“Block his number, block his number!” Ginger cried, joining in her mother’s laughter. Once she had, they folded into a hug, swaying, giddy.

Her mother pocketed the phone, looping her arm through Ginger’s.

“Up for a grocery trip?” she asked, the papers lifted triumphantly to air. Ginger grinned.

“You know, we might have to make a practice cake before the party.”

“So we’ll get two of everything!” Her mother paused to laugh, pinching her daughter’s chin, blinking away the oncoming tears pooled in her waterline. “Hell, we can eat a slice for breakfast every day leading up to it, if we want to!” Her voice wavered, and Ginger leaned her head to her mother's shoulder. They held still for a moment.

“We can add pecans in December for Christmas,” Ginger said finally, playfully elbowing her side. Her mother’s tears fell into her smile lines, quickly wiped away with a sleeve.

“Candy hearts for February," she added, sniffling.

“Chocolate bunnies, in little coconut nests.”

“Cookie crumb dirt, and gummy worms.”

They planned, listing the frostings and candies and holidays they’d share in the upcoming months, the excitement of fudge drawing them out the door, arms hooked like jewlery clasps. In that moment-- the first truly carefree moment they'd shared in a long time-- they unknowingly created their new tradition: eating birthday cake, for the hell of it.