Did You Pick in my Cake?

The following may be triggering for some. Please proceed with caution.

Dad was a good cook. He taught Mom how to cook because the people in her family can not cook. Trust me, if you get invited to a potluck with Mom’s family, don’t eat anything. Dad loved chocolate cake with chocolate fudge frosting and he made one often. Like I said before, sometimes Dad was nice and sometimes Dad was scary. We never knew when his mood would suddenly change or what would prompt that change from happy and playful to scary and violent.

One night when I was four years old, Dad made a beautiful two layer chocolate cake with chocolate fudge frosting. Like most little children will do, I picked in the cake (took several finger swipes of frosting). It was so yummy that I took several more swipes of frosting. My little sister, Danielle who was two years old, also picked in the cake – probably because of my bad example. We were happy and laughing – thoroughly enjoying licking the frosting off our fingers.

Dad came in the kitchen, took one look at the finger marked cake, and went into a rage. He bellowed at me, “Did you pick in my cake?” I was scared. Experience had taught me that right now, he was dangerous. I quickly shook my head, “No.”

Next he approached Danielle, “Did you pick in my cake?”

She of course was happy that she picked in the cake and cheerfully said, “Yes.” She didn’t know enough to be scared. Dad picked her up and hell entered our kitchen. I watched in shock. I don’t remember her cries of pain, but I do remember the sound of the blows hitting her body and seeing her body swing as she hung from his other hand as each blow landed. My soul felt each strike. I knew I had sinned and sinned badly. I knew that someday I would stand before God and he would condemn me to hell for lying and causing my little sister this beating. My hatred for self grew. My shame and guilt consumed me. No one stopped the beating of my little sister: not Mom, not my sisters, and not me. I didn’t speak out. I didn’t tell the truth, and I would have to live with the guilt.

I was surprised that Danielle didn’t die that night. I thought he would never stop hitting her, that she would die, and that I would be responsible for her murder – because I was a liar. But she didn’t die.

The nightmares started shortly afterwards and lasted for the next twenty five years. In the dream, Danielle and I would be walking through our neighborhood. On one lot would be a giant Clorox bottle instead of a house. The bottle had door and window openings cut into it. In our excitement we would enter the house and begin exploring, but then be overcome by Clorox fumes. I would try to get her out of the house but would be too overcome by the fumes to help her and we would both lose consciousness and die on the smooth white floor of the Clorox bottle. Over the years the dream changed. It got to where I would enter the bottle with her and immediately try to get her out, but in the dream I could get myself out, but I wasn’t strong enough to get her out too. Finally the dream changed to where she would enter the bottle on her own because I wouldn’t step foot inside. I would call from the window opening for her to come out, but she would ignore me because the house sized Clorox bottle was so appealing to a little girl. I would watch from the window as she succumbed to fumes and died on the floor.

When I was twenty-nine years old, my youngest daughter turned four. I don’t know why it didn’t hit me when my oldest daughter turned four, but it didn’t. Anyway, as I was snuggling this sweet little girl who was full of mischief and sparkles, I realized how small and innocent she was. I realized that she was little more than a baby. I thought, “You son of a bitch.” All these years I had taken responsibility for my sister’s beating as if I had been the one dropping the blows on her little body. I had reacted the way nearly any four-year-old would have reacted when faced with intense fear. I sought self preservation. I didn’t know he was going to nearly destroy a two year old child. He was the one responsible for beating my sister. He was the one who lost his temper and over reacted to children enjoying frosting. There never should have been anger or a beating.

My nightmares stopped. I never dreamed about Danielle dying in a giant Clorox bottle again. I knew that when I faced God he would probably take me on his lap and hug me. He wouldn’t condemn a child for the sins of an adult. I think God sent me my little sparkler girl because he knew she would teach me how much He loves us even when we are a little bit naughty.

At my house little fingerprints on cakes are never punished. I may say, “Let’s get you a spoon full of frosting instead.” When I say this, the little child at my house looks at me with all the joy my sister and I felt before Dad lost his temper. Children adore frosting. Go to any occasion with cake and children and look at the table after they get finished. You will see cake left on their plates but never the frosting. I have spent the last forty-two years scraping the frosting off my cake – convinced myself that I didn't like frosting. No longer will I do this. I will have my cake and enjoy my frosting too! Life is too short to deprive ourselves of the good stuff.