I slowly got out of bed and followed the humming as I tip-toed from my room to the spare room. With each step the humming got louder and when I pushed open the door, I was shocked to see that the suitcase was glowing. Somehow this eerie glow combined with the thrumming in my brain made me feel peaceful and certain of myself. I knelt down by the suitcase and asked, “Is it time to go?”
A wave of light seemed to shimmer through the suitcase, which I took as a yes. I closed my eyes and reached out toward the bag. When my fingers closed around the handle I felt a shudder and then a feeling of weightlessness as though I was floating in water. At first I couldn’t see a thing and then I noticed a light coming toward me getting brighter and brighter until I blinked and found myself sitting on a bench in a park.
I took a moment to look around and there wasn’t much to help me gain my bearings. It was mostly grass, trees, and a lamp post. I thought of the Pevensies as I took hold of the suitcase and began walking out of the park area.
The park bordered a small neighborhood with a sidewalk, and even though I had no idea where I was headed, I just followed my instincts and walked. As I did, I began to happen upon some people. They were mostly polite, the men in tailored coats and ties, tipping their hats at me, and the women smiling stiffly and hurrying by. Judging by their tea length skirts, pearl necklaces, and felted hats covering their perfectly coiffed hair, I guessed I was somewhere in the 1950’s.
I was still wandering aimlessly when I heard a voice call out, “What on earth are you doing, child?”
I followed the sound of the voice and my eyes came to rest on a little old lady gripping the cast iron railing on the porch of a small brick cape cod with white shutters. I instinctively turned around to see who the woman might be speaking to, but she called out again as if reading my mind, “Yes, YOU. Get over here right now.”
I timidly began to walk toward her, and she met me in her yard and spirited me into her home before I had a chance to protest.
“Look at you!” She scolded. “What are you thinking walking around like that? It’s not decent!”
I looked down at myself and realized that in following my heart I hadn’t considered my clothing: I was still wearing the camisole and yoga pants that I’d worn to bed, and there was nothing on my feet except slippers. My face flushed pink as I struggled to find a way out of this pickle. It’s not as though I could tell her the truth!
Before I could respond, the woman reacted to my pained expression, and for the first time glanced down at the suitcase. Then in a gentler tone she asked, “Left in a hurry, did you?”
I nodded timidly.
The woman sighed and shook her head, clicking her tongue on the roof of her mouth. “Well, come in. We’ll get you fixed up.”
A while later, I was dressed in an old-fashioned floral dress that I guessed did not match the day’s standards of fashion, but seemed to satisfy the modesty requirements of my hostess. I’d discovered that her name was Ida, and despite first impressions, she was a sweet old bird that would rival the warmth of any grandmother.
“I wasn’t expecting company,” Ida said. “So, I guess I’ll have to put you to work.” She paused, and asked, “Do you like cookies?”
“Who doesn’t?” I replied.
Ida smiled and shook her head at me in amusement. I couldn’t help but smile back.
The kitchen was small. It had wooden flat paneled cabinets all around with an ornamental piece over the sink connecting the two sides. Ida ordered me to grab a mixing bowl as she pointed at one of the cabinets and I noticed how nicely my thumb fit into the chrome knob as I pulled the door open. I gasped as I saw a stack of pink bowls and recognized it, “Pyrex!”
“Mmm?” Ida replied. “Oh, yes. My girls like to spoil me.”
I observed Ida’s comfort in the kitchen. She was perfectly at ease following a recipe from her little brown recipe box, measuring ingredients and ordering me around at the same time.
Her hands never stopped moving as she told me all about her daughters, who were about my age. She’d raised them as a single mother after her husband, Harold, had died when the children were still quite young. She didn’t spell it out, but indicated that she didn’t see the value in allowing another man to lay his hands on her, so she did it alone.
That’s when it occurred to me why she had taken me in so readily. She didn’t know my story, but she didn’t need to. She just helped the best way she knew how: the way she needed to be helped once upon a time.
While the cookies were in the oven, Ida and I cleaned up all the dishes we had used, even wiping down the chrome canisters, so that the kitchen was practically sparkling by the time we sat down at the dining room table to enjoy our cookies.
The cookies were still warm when we took the first bites of our hard earned bounty. My eyes closed and I felt the shadows of a memory stir within me. These cookies made me feel like I was a tiny child, and I was safe and so, so loved.
Ida must have observed the look on my face because she said, “It’s amazing how it can take you back.”
My eyes shot open. I had not intended to be so transparent, but Ida gently put her hand over my forearm and said, “We all need a little sweetness in this life. Don’t we?”
Despite my protestations, Ida insisted that I sleep over because she wasn’t allowing any guest of hers to leave without a proper pair of shoes on her feet. I reluctantly agreed, wondering if my parents were worried about me or how my animals would fare without anyone there to care for them.
In the morning, Ida had a full breakfast waiting for me and, unsurprisingly, a pair of shoes to match my gifted dress. As we said our goodbyes, she pinched my cheek and said, “I don’t want you wandering around in your skivvies anymore. You hear me?”
“I won’t.” I promised.
Ida stood on the porch in her hand embroidered apron and watched me as I disappeared down the street.
Back in the park I caught sight of the lamppost. I smiled at the suitcase and said, “To the Spare Oom,” laughing inwardly at my literary joke. Moments later I was back in my spare room. The suitcase suddenly felt much heavier than it had on the walk to the park and it practically
I muttered, “Not again.”
I carefully opened the suitcase and discovered souvenirs of Ida’s kitchen. Despite the temptation to keep these tokens for myself, I simply closed the suitcase and said, “Take it back.” There was a deep rumbling inside the suitcase and then quiet. I lifted the much lighter suitcase but something slipped out of it and fluttered to the floor.
There, at my feet, was a recipe card filled out in ornate cursive writing. At the top it said, “From the Kitchen of Ida.” It was the recipe for the cookies Ida and I made together.
“We all need a little sweetness in this life.” I said aloud, repeating Ida’s wise words. “Don’t we?”
