Free The Particular Sadness of Lemon Cake: A Novel by Aimee Bender Page A

hours of basic medical work-ups, a tall male doctor with half-moon spectacles came into the room where I was recovering. I rested in bed, silently. Embarrassed by the scene I'd made.
    My mother sat in a side chair, nervously cleaning out her purse. The room around us was painted in layers of beige--a dark beige trim, an ivory wall, and a tastefully framed watercolor of some straw in a vase.
    He sat down on the edge of my bed, and asked me a list of questions. How I felt. If I slept. What I ate.
    Your bedtime is eight-thirty? he asked, writing it down.
    Yes.
    And you wake up at?
    Seven.
    And do you wake up in the middle of the night?
    Sometimes.
    He scribbled something on the chart. Why?
    Just some days, I said. I wake up at two.
    Mom wrinkled her nose, as if something smelled funny.
    Just when she's up, I said, pointing.
    The doctor turned to Mom. Ah, he said, sympathetically. Insomnia?
    Oh no, Mom said. Just a little restlessness.
    Oh sure, the doctor said. Restlessness, I know that. You from here?
    Bay Area, Mom smiled.
    Bay Area! the doctor said. Such a nice place. I'm from Sacramento.
    Oh, really? Did--Mom said.
    Excuse me, I said.
    They both turned to me.
    Am I done? I said.
    The doctor opened his mouth to say more but then turned back to his chart. He asked me a few more questions about throwing up, just like the school nurse had, jotting it all down in his boxy doctor-handwriting. Then he left. Mom went out to talk to him. I lay against the pillow and aged many years in that hour on my own. After a while, he and Mom re-entered the room with another doctor and stood at the foot of my hospital bed. Used tissue and sticky candy and worn business cards filled the trash, the dregs of her handbag.
    They all stared at me from their heights of adulthood.
    Thank you for your help, I said, sitting up straight. I feel better.
    They'd served me a hospital bowl of noodle soup, which tasted of resentment, fine and full. I ate it all, making sure they could see. I ate each of the salt crackers, tucked in their ridge-edged plastic wrapping, factory-made in East Hanover, New Jersey.
    I'm very sorry, I said. Did I have a fever?
    You know you can't remove your mouth, the tall doctor said.
    I know, I said. It's part of my body.
    The other doc scratched her head. But--
    I don't know why I said that, I said. I was feeling sick.
    My mother, standing to the side, leaned in. Is she--she whispered to the taller doctor.
    Both doctors tilted their heads. She seems to be okay. Give her time, they said. Perhaps it's an isolated incident.
    I finished my soup. Changed back into my clothes while they gave my mother papers to sign. An old man in a wheelchair rolled past our doorway. Out in the hall, the fluorescently lit corridors lent a dull glow to the white linoleum floor, making it hard to tell the time of day, but I caught a glimpse of a far window, floor-to-ceiling, lit yellow with the blaze of a fading afternoon.
    As my mother finished the paperwork, the doctor handed me a cherry lollipop, popped out from a factory in Louisiana where, once flavored, the hot sugar cooled on a metal table of small circles and then got stamped onto a white cardboard rod. Not a single hint of a person in it. Thank you, I said. I ate it down to the stick.
    In the parking lot, I opened the car door carefully and settled into my seat.
    Thank you for taking me, I said.
    Of course, Mom said, backing out.
    Were the tests okay?
    They were okay, she said.
    She threaded her fingers through the steering wheel, driving as if she wanted to pull the wheel into her chest.
    The traffic was thick on 3rd Street. Some sort of walk-a-thon was happening. The stores, with dresses in windows, with blown-glass vases, packed with browsing people.
    I scared you, I said, in a small voice.
    She sighed. She reached over, and stroked my hair with her hand. You did scare me, she said.
    I'm sorry.
    Oh, Rose.
    I won't do it again, I said.
    She rolled down her window and stuck her elbow out, her