Mother Love

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My door bangs open shortly after the supper dishes are washed, while I’m still putting them away. I hear my daughter-in-law’s brisk voice greet my husband. It’s Aeryn, Cerric’s second wife. What my son sees in her, I’ll never know, but she *has* produced my only grandchild, a boy, very nearly one cycle old.

To my surprise, she turns up in my kitchen.

“Hello, Dorca,” she says.

“You didn’t bring the baby?” I ask.

She keeps her expression even and replies, “No, Cerric is giving him a bath. But that’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”

I assume she doesn’t mean bathing the baby. As inexperienced as she is at women’s work, she never asks *me* anything about taking care of little Rhys. Well, I pride myself on being polite. I point her towards the table, and put the kettle on to make some ofori tea.

She was a soldier long ago, before she came here, so she tells us, and I believe it when she is nervous. She is sitting stiffly, precisely at the table, her hands clasped together in front of her, waiting for me to finish and join her.

She never thinks to help.

I pour the tea, set a steaming mug in front of each of us. She barely gives hers a glance.

“How can I help?” I ask.

She takes a deep breath, and begins carefully. “Cerric says that it is traditional to have a leitner cake for a child’s first birthday celebration.”

“Yes,” I tell her, and wait for her to continue. I begin to have an idea why she is here.

“I’ve never baked a cake,” she tells me, as if that would come as a surprise to me. She’s never cooked anything more elaborate than a stew or fried getler meat when Cerric has insisted on her inviting us to dinner. The most elaborate dessert I’ve ever seen her do is a cobbler.

“I have a good recipe,” I offer.

She smiles nervously, ducks her head and looks at the table, before she looks back at me and says, “I was hoping you might bake it for him,” she says.

To tell the truth, I’d like to do it. I love to cook, and my leitner cake always wins praise. And that baby is my pride and joy. But there is tradition… “Well, Aeryn, I’m sure Cerric told you it’s the mother who’s supposed to bake the cake for the First Cycle celebration.”

Yes, he did, I can tell by the faint blush on her pale cheeks. All the cycles working outside in the fields haven’t darkened her complexion. I suspect a part of me is jealous.

She looks at me earnestly and says, “Yes, well, he did, but I was hoping….” She clears her throat. “Cerric says that another female relative can make the cake, and you’re Rhys’ grandmother….”

I shake my head regretfully. “Only when the mother isn’t available. I’m afraid this is your job,” I tell her.

She looks crestfallen, which surprises me, but I suppose that she doesn’t want to do the work. She’s never been much for women’s work, though I will admit, she works as hard as anyone in the fields, maybe harder.

“But I’ll ruin it,” she says, taking me completely by surprise. She goes on, “I want it to be right for Rhys’ Celebration.”

This is certainly the first time she’s shown any interest in our celebrations. Even her own wedding – well, there’s no point in my thinking about *that*! She knows how I feel. But she loves that baby, even if she doesn’t love my son. I relent, halfway. “I’ll come and help you,” I offer. “The night before his birthday.”

Her first reaction is dismay, I can see it in her eyes, but that is covered quickly by what I have to say I think is a genuine flood of relief. “Thank you,” she breathes. She starts to leave and then asks abruptly, “Do I need anything special for the cake?”

I shake my head. “I’ll bring all the ingredients, I have everything you need here.” I know her larder won’t contain most of the necessary foodstuffs. She’ll have the utensils, though. Laran was a good cook, with a well-supplied kitchen, and Cerric had no reason to get rid of anything. “You’ll have the bowls and pans, I expect,” I tell her.

“All right,” she says. “I’ll see you in two days then.”

“I’ll come after supper,” I call after her, as she turns and heads out the front door. No sense subjecting myself to her cooking when I don’t have to.

* * * * * * * * *

Aeryn opens the kitchen door and steps back, as if she’s surprised to see me standing here on the steps. I shove the basket of ingredients I’m carrying at her, and she takes it automatically. “Are these the ingredients?” she asks politely as I push past her into the house.

“Yes,” I tell her, “Everything you need for the cake.”

I can still smell the plovik stew she made for dinner, even though she’s cleaned up the dishes and the windows are open. I was right to eat at home.

Cerric has heard our voices, and comes in with the baby. “Hi, Ma,” he says, kissing me on the forehead. He looks over at his wife, who is unpacking the basket, laying the ingredients out in precise order on the table without a word.

I take my grandson from him and have a cuddle. “I’ve brought my recipe,” I tell Aeryn as I rock the birthday boy back and forth. Such a good-natured baby, and he looks so much like Cerric. He doesn’t have her sharp lines at all.

“Thank you,” she says dutifully. She’s emptied the basket now, and found the recipe on the bottom. “I’ll just read it then,” she adds. “Cerric raves about your leitner cake.”

“Laran made a lovely leitner cake, too,” I tell her.

She ignores me, but Cerric frowns at the reference to his first wife. I know it bothers him that I don’t like this strange woman he’s chosen to marry, but I can’t turn my feelings off. I shrug at him apologetically, but don’t take it back. It’s hardly news to her that she can’t cook.

I play with the baby, tickling him and making him giggle. Rhys loves his grandma.

My daughter-in-law looks up from where she’s been frowning over the recipe. “Cerric,” she says, “can you get Rhys ready for bed? It’s getting late.”

Two can play at that game. “Oh, Aeryn,” I smile, “I can do that for you while you get ready to start on the cake. The oven needs to preheat.”

To my surprise, she doesn’t argue with me at all. She stands up and nods briskly, and says, “Fine. Cerric can show you where his nightclothes are.”

She comes over and kisses her son. “Good night, Baby,” she tells him. “Gran will put you to bed tonight.” When he reaches his short arms for her, she smiles, and leans in for a sloppy wet kiss.

To my surprise, she doesn’t wipe it off. I glance over at Cerric, and he smiles. I know that look on my son’s face. Triumph. He knows his wife has just won some points with me. Not many, but some.

He shepherds me into the baby’s room and we get this beautiful child ready for bed. Rhys has already had a bath, so I change his diaper and his clothes, clean his teeth, wipe his face…. I lay him down on his back and tuck a soft blanket around him. Cerric hands him a stuffed toy, and he clutches it happily.

Cerric and I stand and watch him for a few microts. I notice once again how much he looks like his father, and I tell Cerric so.

Cerric beams, he loves this child too. He’s always wanted children. It was hard on him when Laran died childless. It took him a long time to get over it. I still don’t understand what he sees in that severe woman in the kitchen.

As if he hears my thoughts, Cerric tells me, “Rhys has Aeryn’s eyes. Windows to his soul.”

I have no idea what he’s talking about.

“Well,” I tell him with a snort of laughter, turning away from Rhys’ door, “I’d better go see what she’s doing in your kitchen.”

“Her kitchen, Ma,” he says.

“Whatever,” I tell him, and walk back to do what I came to do.

When I arrive in the kitchen, I find that Aeryn has fired up the oven and set it preheating. She has the ingredients arranged in groups, as the recipe calls for them. She’s gotten out a mixing bowl, and the right size, too. The recipe wasn’t that specific. She must have estimated the size from the amount of the ingredients. I’d be more impressed if she’d also found the right pans, and a heavy spoon for mixing the batter. Still, she’s trying.

She’s so busy concentrating, she hasn’t noticed me, and I tread loudly on the floor to attract her attention.

She looks up at the sound, brow still furrowed in concentration, and she asks, “Are these the right pans, Dorca? Or these?”

“Neither,” I tell her. “For a First Cycle cake, use those round ones, there.” I point to the ones I gave Laran many years ago.

“Oh,” Aeryn says, and without another word, she swaps out the pans.

I can tell by her awkwardness that she’s never covered a pan with fat before. “Use your fingers to spread it,” I tell her. “It will wash off.”

She actually smiles. “I’ve had much worse on my hands working on Prowlers,” she tells me. “After I was thrown out of the Peacekeepers, I had to be my own tech.”

I don’t know what she means by that. But her face is much less severe when she smiles.

When the pans are prepared, she takes the recipe, and the measures, and carefully puts the ground myra, the sweet grogan crystals, leavening and some spices into the bowl and stirs it to mix them up. She’s doing fine, and I let her be.

She adds the fat, the plovik milk, more flavorings. Now she hesitates. She’s used to stirring stews, but beating a batter properly, that’s something new. She mixes it awkwardly, tries to mash out the lumps. She looks at me for help.

“The secret’s in the beating,” I tell her, just so she knows. “Try this,” and I come over and demonstrate the simple, brisk whipping of the spoon in the bowl. She should have no trouble with the strength it takes, but the coordination will come harder.

She takes the spoon from me and surprises me – she picks it up quickly. Before she knows it, the batter is smooth and light. There’s only the eggs left.

She cracks them efficiently. Seeing my surprise, she says, “We didn’t ever do any baking in the Peacekeepers,” she says, “but we did learn how to live off the land.” I look at her dubiously, and she adds, “And on Moya, Chiana tried to teach me to cook other things.”

“She didn’t have much success, did she?” I say automatically.

Aeryn only smiles. “Not a lot,” she acknowledges, beating the eggs into the mixture in the bowl.

I’m not near enough to be sure she hasn’t under beaten the batter – or over beaten it – but it will be good enough. This *is* her cake, for her child’s birthday celebration. I really hadn’t thought she’d do this well. You learn something new every day.

She efficiently divides the batter between the two pans, and carries them to the oven. I open the oven door for her, and she puts them in. “Center them a little better,” I tell her. “Cakes are fussy about even heating. This is a good oven,” I remark, remembering the trouble Cerric went to to get it for Laran.

She nods, and does her best to get them centered.

While the cake bakes, she cleans up the mixing bowls and utensils, and I make a pot of ofori tea. I have to dig for it in the back of the cabinet, but I find it.

When she’s done, we sit at the table in the kitchen. Cerric seems to be leaving us alone together purposely. She wraps her hands around the mug of tea, holding it, and glances at the stove across the room from time to time.

I finally realize something, after all the cycles I’ve known her. “You don’t like ofori tea, do you?” I ask her.

“No,” she tells me. “I prefer manet leaves.”

“You never told me that,” I accuse her.

“Would it have made any difference?” she asks, a wry smile visible in her eyes.

I change the subject, and start her working on the leitner root cream to cover the finished cake. It’s better if the cream has time to chill.

She’s following the recipe without any help from me, and obviously feeling much more confident now. Things are going quite well. And I admit, I’m enjoying seeing her learn she can do this.

After she gets the cream to chilling, we go to check on the cake. The layers have risen more in the center than on the sides, giving a kind of soft mountain peak look to them. Well, that’s cosmetic, and I don’t comment on it. She sticks a testing straw in and pulls it out again. I give her my considered opinion that the layers are done, and she nods, accepting my experience. She sets them on top of the stove to cool.

Aeryn’s a lot more relaxed now, thinking the worst of this ordeal is over now, I suppose. While we wait, she talks a lot about Rhys, and the celebration planned for tomorrow. Her face glows, talking about her baby. My grandson. I can’t help wishing she felt that way about my son, but as she talks, I begin to see there is at least affection in her voice when she speaks of Cerric.

But when the layers are cooled enough to remove them from the pans, disaster strikes. I should have watched more closely when she was preparing the pans. She didn’t get them properly greased, and both layers stick to the bottom of their pans. I help her try to gently reach under the edges with a lifter, to scrape the bottom edges loose. But both of them are damaged by the time we get them out.

She looks at them in dismay. “Oh, Dorca,” she says, “I told you I would ruin it!”

“Well,” I tell her carefully, “they do look a bit….rough.” She looks even more distressed, and I hasten to add, “But it smells good, doesn’t it?”

She sniffs at the cake and admits that it does smell good enough to eat. I can see her decide to carry on, and she goes to get the leitner cream and the special plate made for First Cycle cakes. She puts one layer in the center of the plate, upside down as I direct her – and between the damage to the bottom, and the mountain peak on the top, the poor thing loses integrity and begins to crack.

Aeryn stares at it, not wanting to believe it. She looks at me, and I tell her, “It happens sometimes. You probably didn’t get the beating just right, or the oven temperature was off a little. It was the peak in the middle that did it.” Before she can get too upset, I tell her one of my secrets, learned over the years: “Just cover it over with the cream. The top layer will cover it. No one will ever know.”

She looks at me gratefully, and follows my directions, but the top layer, too, cracks. Three continents drifting on the cream….

“They’re frelling falling off,” she blurts, a soldier’s language on her lips. “Look at it!” she wails.

I look at her closely. To my surprise, this prickly woman who was once a soldier is near tears over a child’s birthday cake. I find myself saying gently, “Aeryn, it really doesn’t matter what it looks like. The important thing is, someone who loves the baby made it for him.”

I watch her breathe deeply and try to smile. “Really?” she asks.

“Really,” I tell her. “It will taste just the same.” And I suddenly remember Cerric’s First Cycle celebration. “Do you know what your husband did, at his Celebration?”

She widens her eyes in question, and looks at me.

“We sat him at the table with the cake in front of him.” I smile, thinking of the memory. “And he reached his little hands out and dug all ten fingers into the cake before any of us could stop him!”

I laugh, and my daughter-in-law laughs, too. It is the first time I’ve ever told her a story about my son, her husband.

“Did it look worse than this?” she asks.

“Oh, much worse,” I tell her, shaking my head.

“Maybe we should leave this within Rhys’ reach,” she says, smiling. “Oh, that piece is sliding off!” she says, grabbing the edge with her fingers.

We both see that all three pieces are sliding off, and we both think of the same solution. While Aeryn tries to keep the cake together, I dash over to the stove and get some of the clean straw used to test the cake for doneness. We use it to pierce the layers and stop the sliding. When we are done, we stand and look at the result.

The cake seems to be staying in one piece.

“Well,” I finally venture, “the straw is an interesting touch.”

“Yes,” Aeryn agrees, with a smile. She sticks a finger in her mouth, idly licking the leitner cream off. Her smile widens and she says, “It does taste pretty good, though.”

I pick up a piece of the cake that stuck to the pan, add a dollop of the cream, and take a taste. “I have to admit,” I tell her, “you’re right. You did a wonderful job, for your first cake.”

She looks at me in surprise. I have never complimented her before, not even on producing such a beautiful, healthy baby. “Thank you for helping me,” she says.

Cerric comes in then, having missed all the excitement. He blinks at the cake, with the pieces of straw sticking out, and Aeryn snaps, “Don’t you dare say a word!” For the first time, I see the smile in her eyes even as she barks out orders. A smile Cerric obviously sees too.

I begin to see a lot of things tonight.

I don’t think we will ever be close. She doesn’t let people in easily, and we’re far too different to like each other much. But I find there are things – perhaps many things – that I can admire in this woman. Though I will always wish that Cerric had chosen a wife who truly loves him, still, she does her best to share his life, and there is comfort in this house. When I come back tomorrow for Rhys’ First Cycle celebration, I will come to celebrate not just with my son, not just for my beautiful grandson, but with my son’s wife Aeryn.


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aeryncrichton

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Author's Afterword, Mother Love

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