Chapter 8: Crown Cakes

On Friday the magistrate refused to hand Brad anything without a full hearing.

The hearing was set for June 9.

"So I keep her," I said.

"You keep her," my lawyer said. "Until June. Don't give them another video."

I didn't give them another video.

I baked.

The family kitchen on seven had a fridge with everyone's names on masking tape, two microwaves, and an oven nobody used because it ran hot.

It ran hot like my old shop oven.

I knew exactly what to do with it.

On Sunday afternoon my mother brought me flour, sugar, butter, food coloring, a box of pink cardstock, and the cake turntable from my garage.

"Are you allowed to do this?" she asked.

"The dietitian said everything has to be fully baked and nothing comes from a deli case."

"That's not a yes."

"It's not a no."

I made twelve small cakes, one for every kid on the unit.

Vanilla for the boy across the hall. Chocolate for the toddler. Strawberry for the girl at the end who only ate pink things.

While they cooled I cut paper crowns.

Twelve crowns. Twelve names in silver marker.

At seven-fifteen Matt came on shift, leaned in the kitchen doorway and looked at the counter.

"What is happening in my kitchen?"

"Crown cakes."

"Who authorized crown cakes?"

"The dietitian, sort of."

"The dietitian goes home at four. After four I'm the dietitian."

"Are you going to ban them?"

He looked at the twelve little cakes for a long time.

"I'm going to need to inspect one," he said. "Very closely. For safety."

Clara couldn't come to the kitchen. Her counts were still too low.

So we brought the kitchen to Clara.

Keep reading free with an account. Start My Daughter Is Dying, and My Husband Is Saving His Lover's Son from Chapter 1, then sign up free to read the rest of this chapter.