Janice Johnson - Finding Her Dad

Her face lit in that way she had. “Me, too. I must have gotten it from you. Mom didn’t care about desserts at all. Mostly we had store-bought cookies. Like Oreos and Fig Newtons. But it was fun when we made, like, Christmas cookies, so I started baking when Mom would let me. I don’t like regular cooking that much. Mom said I was her pastry chef.”

Sierra cut the cheesecake, which she said was layered with tiramisu. Jon took the first bite figuring it would be good—this was a kid bright enough, after all, to manufacture a nuclear bomb if she put her mind to it—but he hadn’t anticipated pure nirvana. He actually closed his eyes to savor the pure, melting flavor on his tongue. After he swallowed, he said with complete honesty, “I think that tastes better than anything I’ve ever put in my mouth.”

Sierra grinned in delight. “It is good, isn’t it?”

“Heavenly,” Lucy murmured around her first bite.

Jon’s body stirred again at the sight of her face. He’d have sworn color had risen in her cheeks, and her eyes had closed as his had. Her mouth was moist, and as he watched the pink tip of her tongue flicked out to sweep over her lips. Damn, he thought. Would she look like that when he touched her? When he suckled her breast?

He wrenched his gaze from her and took another bite, good enough to be distracting. After a minute he said to Sierra, “Tell me about your mom. What did she do for a living?”

“She was a bank manager. She’d just gotten promoted to having her own branch not that long ago. She was good with math and computers, like me.”

She was silent for a moment, seemingly having forgotten her own serving of cheesecake. She’d withdrawn somewhere inside, and he could tell she was no longer really seeing him or Lucy. He hoped asking her to talk about her mother hadn’t been a mistake.

“I think sometimes Mom felt bad that I’d had to go to day care and after-school care and all that. I mean, that she couldn’t ever be stay-at-home. You know?” Her eyes briefly focused on him, and he nodded. “But the thing is, she wouldn’t have been any good at that. She wasn’t into stuff like sewing or crafts or really even cooking. She hated mowing the lawn and we didn’t have flowers like Lucy does.”

Jon was conscious that Lucy, too, had stopped eating and was watching her foster daughter. He wondered if, like him, she’d tensed at the unconscious comparison between her and Sierra’s mother. He wondered, too, where Sierra was going with it.

“I guess, like, when I was really little I wished Mom was more like some of my friends’ mothers. You know? But later I was glad she wasn’t. Because she didn’t just have to work. She liked her job. That made me want to do something I’m as happy doing. Some girls I know want to have babies, or get married, or take some classes at the community college. But you can tell they think jobs are just something you do to make money. Mom was different. She talked to me about anything.” She shrugged finally, and looked at the two adults. “I love Lucy’s garden, and the cats, but now I know that everyone has different things that make them happy.”

To Lucy she said, “I see how you like to touch. I mean, you run your fingers over the cats, or smooth my hair, or stroke that antique bookcase you bought, or the petals of a flower. Mom lived more in her head. She wasn’t so…” Her face reflected her struggle to find the right word.

“Tactile?” Lucy suggested gently. “There have been studies, you know, about different ways of learning. Some people learn best by touching, some by reading, some by hearing information.”

Sierra nodded vigorously. “Yeah. Tactile.” Jon could tell she was sampling the word. “Mom and I weren’t that huggy, but I knew she loved me.”

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