CHAPTER TWO ~ OPERATION: COOKIE CUTTER

My 17 birthday Morning.

 

 

“Morning Pop,” I call out as I push into our sunny kitchen. Pop peers around a gigantic mixer and grins proudly at me. The counter is stacked with large stainless steel bowls. I toddle over and endure a fatherly bear hug. He's in his element while cooking.

“Happy birthday love,” he says, sounding all chirpy.

My Pop, Christopher Alexander Blakely, is a burly six-foot-four Irishman. Viking blood runs in his veins. At first glance, he reminds you of a ferocious Warrior of Old. In reality, he is a teddy bear with a heart as big as his appetite. He has a thick mop of curly red hair and sparkly green eyes. I’m told I inherited my mom’s athletic ability and great skin, but I have Pop’s quick tongue, auburn hair and eye color. Happily and thankfully, my hair is long, thick, and very straight. He was a famous Chef in Ireland and D. C. Needless to say I eat well. I’m fortunate that I can eat anything without gaining weight. This drives Char crazy. She’s always on a crash diet trying to lose the proverbial 10 pounds.

“Thanks,” I say, forcing a big smile as I step back and observe all the groceries. “Geez Louse, looks like you’re planning on making enough food to feed an army.” I can’t bring myself to look him in eyes or tell him about Char’s phone call just yet. I’m too angry to discuss it right now—especially on an empty stomach. Besides, I don’t want to spoil his good mood with my bad news.

“Aye Lassie,” Pop says, as he bustles around our large, well stocked kitchen preparing a humongous gourmet meal—now apparently for just the two of us. “You know I like to make a fuss over you and your friends. Sit, you are the Irish princess today.” He hands me a plastic tiara left over from last New Year’s Eve.

I put it on then cross the floor and slide into the kitchen nook blinking back a fresh batch of hot tears as he sets a glass of ice cold milk before me. I take a long drink and feel Pop’s stares. It’s next to impossible to hide anything from him.

A timer dings and Pop moves away from the table. He opens the wide oven door. Then returns a few minuets later with a large platter of piping hot cinnamon buns and sets them in front of me. I bug my eyes at the confection mountain.

“Wow.”

“There are seventeen, one for every glorious year my beautiful daughter has been on the planet.”

“Awesome!” I pluck off the top bun and sink my teeth into the warm sweet gooey dough. “Mmm yummy,” I moan and close my eyes while the white sugary icing melts on my tongue.

“I added extra fresh ground cinnamon,” he says, in his strong Irish accent. “Does it have the approval of the Princess?”

I smile around my mouth full and nod earnestly. I feel better already.

Pop dances across the floor then crouches next to the kitchen island, opening the cabinet doors, taking out all sorts of cooking utensils. He winks at me then begins singing some Irish ballad about some dude named Danny O'Donoghueand sets to work chopping and mixing whatever.

I reach for another cinnamon bun and slump further down in my seat in bliss. I turn and stare blankly out at the backyard. The day is so brilliant it hurts my eyes. The grass on the back lawn is emerald green and Mom’s rose garden is bursting with color. In the back of my mind I expected Char to fink out on me, but I can’t help thinking that Sean is lying about having to drive his dad to the airport tonight. He’s just mad that I won’t put out. I’m starting to wonder if having a boyfriend is worth all the hassle. I mean really.

After three buns and another glass of milk, my stomach is about to burst. I still don’t have the heart to tell him no one is coming over for dinner. Oh well, we’ll have tons of leftovers to take to the homeless shelter.

I’m bored so I stand and volunteer to help with the cooking knowing full well he won’t allow the Irish Princess to lift a finger on her birthday.

“No way daughter, it’s your birthday. Goof off or do whatever it is you teenagers do up in your room for hours upon hours.”

“Okay…if you’re sure I can’t help." I peck him on the cheek and pat my tummy. "Thanks for the yummy cinnamon buns.” Pop shoos me out of the kitchen with a long wooden spoon.

I head back up to my room and curl up in my window seat to write in my personal journal about my boyfriend woes. I’m used to sorting things out on my own. I’ve done it most of my life.

I jot down a brief description of my crazy dream about Josh O'Dell, and then chew on the end of my ink pen. Why did I dream about O’Dell? I mean, do I subconsciously like him, or what? O'Dell and I have known each other forever, but he and I never felt anything except friendship for each other. Besides, Josh isn’t in any of my classes. He’s a Brainiac taking the advanced subjects. We barely say more than a quick hi how ya doing in the halls. I saw that he was working at the Safeway this summer, but he’s always too busy stocking shelves to talk. I didn’t want to get him in trouble with the manager.

I stare at the page. Oh, well. It was just a dumb dream. Why do I even care?

Brainstorm!

I pick up my cell and call my friend Brook Bailey. Brook is the smartest girl in school. She can give me some sound boyfriend advice. Maybe even some current data on Josh; I think they were in a few classes together last year. Brook picks up on the first ring.

“Hello Cookie! Um…hey girl…happy birthday, it is today right?”

I frown. “Um, yeah, you know it is, stop kidding. Hey, are you busy?”

“Uh, sort of, I have to go shopping and do some stuff for my parents. Why what’s up?”

“Well, I still haven’t figured out what to do about Sean.”

“Is he still pressuring you? Because I can have Zak speaks to Sean mano-a-mano.”

“No, please don’t. You and Zak have been together since sixth grade. I know you two say that you plan to marry some day so you’re committed to each other. What I’m trying to get at is I’m not ready to have sex with Sean or anybody for that matter. But I want to be with him. Is that even an option? Char seems to think it isn’t. Then again, her answer to everything is “if it feels good do it. Uh, why does life have to be so stinking complicated?”

Brook says, “Look Cookie, you have to be honest with your self and Sean. If he wants sex and you don’t then he needs to respect your wishes or move on. It’s that simple.”

“Thanks Brook, I appreciate that. Have fun shopping.” I’ll bet it’s for my birthday present. Brook Bailey is so nice.

“Anytime. Bye.”

I click off and flip open my journal. I write Saturday August 19, 2006 my 17^thBirthday. I write down my honest feelings about Sean. I take pages. I finish with I wish my Mom was here to talk to. I fan the pages with my thumb. “Unbelievable… that was the last page.” I close my journal and stare at its floral cover for a few minuets letting the feeling come back in my right hand. Wow, over the summer I filled up my very first personal journal. Perhaps the only creative thing I accomplished all summer. I feel really good about this.

After my mom mysteriously died last Christmas, Pop and I were devastated. After a few weeks of trying to deal on our own with our grief, we decided to seek counselors. Dr. Susan Hillman, my counselor, diagnosed me with CD (Clinical Depression). I wasn’t surprised considering. Anyway, following one of our more intense sessions, she gave me this personal journal and suggested I write down my thoughts, dreams, and fears. Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night and write stuff while I’m half asleep. After about a month of writing my feelings, dreams, and thoughts, I discovered that I loved to write.

I don’t know if I’m any good writing. I am taking a creative writing class next year, guess I’ll find out then. I doubt that I’ll ever get over loosing my mom, but spilling my guts with pen and paper helps me cope.

I read over what I wrote about my issues with Sean.

Hum, I could call Dr. Susan and ask her advice on what to do about abstaining. Everything I say to her is confidential. Zak is so honest. He can’t keep anything a secret. It can wait until Monday her office closed on the weekends and this isn’t really an emergency.

I crawl out of the window seat and cross over to my bed. Bend, I slide my journal between the mattresses, my favorite hiding place. Last thing I need is Pop reading this.

Rising, I glance around my room. What to do? Well, it looks like a tornado went through here…perhaps cleaning will brighten my disposition. And take my mind off s-e-x. I start the task by fill my wastebasket with a weeks worth of empty Pepsi cans lining the top of my huge roll-top desk.

“Got to start somewhere,” I mutter noticing the thick dust under the cans.

I slip on my sneakers and skip downstairs on my way to the recycle bins located outside in the alleyway behind our house. As I stroll through the kitchen hugging my wastebasket full of cans, Pop glances over at me through a thick cloud of flour and raises his eyebrows.

“I thought you quit?”

I informed Pop not to buy so many cold drinks because I was kicking the Pepsi habit, especially after looking up the ingredients on the Internet…scary.

I step outside. The thermometer on the patio wall reads 95˚ and 100% humidity, typical for August in Georgetown. “I’m weaning myself off slowly. Hey, at least I’m down to just one a day.” Come to think of it, that’s another accomplishment. Maybe this summer wasn’t such a wash after all.

“Ah, good for you love,” Pop, mutters vaguely, eyes glued the soccer game playing on small TV at the end of the counter. He holds out a beefy arm. “By the way, I put a brand new state-of-the-art gate lock on the back gate, combinations on the pantry chalkboard.”

“What was wrong with the old lock?”

“Nothing, I just wanted to make sure the home front is secure while we’re in Florida. One can’t be too careful.” The week of Mom’s funeral, a devious reporter jimmied the old lock, entered the backyard and snapped pictures. Pop almost shot him with his 22.

“Right-o!”

Because of her job as a spy and the mystery surrounding the circumstances, the news of Mom’s death leaked out faster than Princess Di’s. Therefore, the media constantly bugs the family for pictures and info about her investigation. Thing is we don’t know much more than they do. Newsweek even called wanting photo shoots of the bereaved family of Agent Eva Sheahan-Blakely for their cover sometime in the future. We keep telling them we don’t know anything. We don’t! The FBI claims my mother’s investigation is Top Secret and could threaten national security. That something horrible might happen if the details were known. I’m like, whatev. Trust no one.

I go back inside, cross the floor to the pantry, stick my head inside, and put the three numbers to memory. Outside I keep repeating 35-23-46. I pretended not to notice the dead Mockingbird lying in the grass under the giant Irish Elm that takes of most of yard and casts deep cool shadows. Later on Pop will find it and give it a proper burial while he and my friends are decorating the yard for my surprise birthday party.

Hey, a girl can dream can’t she?

While crushing cans, I daydream about our upcoming vaca in Florida and my plans to rent a surfboard and master the art of surfing. I just hope Cocoa Beach has some nice wave action while we’re there…and no sharks.

I line up another row of cans and then stomp down on the first one hard. A white van rolls slowly down Elm Street, comes into view then backs up and stops at the end of the alley, about twenty feet away from me. The windows are darkly tented. A magnetic sign on the side panel reads Gus’s Cable TV Repair. The van starts backing up again, very slowly then stops in full sight at the end of the ally. There’s a light pole nearby, but no cable lines that I can see attached to it. This tells that the van isn’t here to fix the cable. I shade my eyes from the glaring sunlight and check out the numerous electronic do-dads and antennas attached to the roof. I crush another can, then another. A big eyeball lens above the cab appears to be rotating my way. I can actually feel someone watching me. I freeze mid-stomp and duck down behind our city-issued trashcans. Ewe, stinky-situation, pinching my nose shut, I peer around the side of the containers. The driver pulls forward and parks next to our side fence.

Freaking reporters!

Anger gets me moving. In one fail swoop, I smash the last two cans, toss the lot into the recycle bin, and fling my wastebasket into the backyard. Then dash through the gate shut it and slam the lock home. Safely inside the fence, I breathe a deep sigh of relief and smell exhaust fumes. The van’s roof is visible above the fence and the eyeball lens is tracking me however, the sun is too bright to be sure.

I grab the sturdy combination lock and shake it to make sure it’s secure. It’s a good deterrent but some reporters are beyond ruthless. Last month, Pop went ballistic when Dixie Rodriguez (the neighborhood gossip) came over to show him a cheesy tabloid that had pictures of moi, sunbathing in our backyard. Talk about your nerve. Dixie said she remembered seeing something suspicious about a week before the tabloid showed up on the newsstands. Like clockwork, Dixie walks Hernandez (her rat-sized Chihuahua) around the block at precisely 12:15 in the afternoon after his lunch “to do his business”. When she turned the corner to come down Elm Place, she saw a man standing on the hood of his car taking pictures over our fence. Pop tried to track the guy down, I was afraid that he wanted to kill the dude. Well, maybe not literally kill him, but at least teach him a lesson.

Did I mention that my father is very protective of me?

Anyway, no luck; the guy was apparently a freelance-paparazzi type because he sold the pictures under a bogus name. Pop drove all over town buying up copies and burned them in our fireplace. Not a good thing to do in July or any month for that matter. Ashes floated up the chimney and landed on all the cars in the neighborhood.

Need I say more?

Still leaning on the gate, I note that the van starts rolling forward a few feet...then it backs up and turns into our alleyway. Geez-la-wheeze, are they coming after me? This must be what Paris Hilton constantly deals with. I actually feel a ping of empathy for her and a few other celebrities I pay attention to.

I press my ear to the gate’s rough surface and hear the soft purr of an engine is on the other side. My brain screams run. I snatch up my wastebasket and run for the house, my heart thundering in my chest. Once inside, I push the lock on the sliding glass door and lean on it to catch my breath. The kitchen appears to be empty thank goodness. If Pop saw me, spazing I’d have to tell him about the van. He’d run outside and make a scene. If it is some creep reporter, he’ll be upset the rest of the night. My birthday is already ruined—I don’t want to make things worse.

My heart stops pounding in my ears and I hear Pop in the pantry singing.

I quickly tiptoe through the kitchen and dash up the stairs to my room. I shut my door, place my trashcan near my roll top desk, and stand in my dormer window seat. I’ll be able to see the white van clear as day from up here.

It’s gone.

Maybe it moved to another location. I plop down and ponder about who could be inside that van watching us this time? It’s either a real cable company or a crew of reporters once again trying to sneak a peak at the private live of relatives of the mysteriously deceased spy. It’s so weird having people lurk around your house, watching your every move. I’m constantly looking over my shoulder these days. I push out of the dormer window and tell myself, you are a paranoid-freakazoid. Write that one down in your psycho mumbo-jumbo books.

Leaning over, I gather clothes off the floor. My eye catches the Goo-Goo Dolls tour calendar Char gave me last Christmas, sticking out from behind the back of my roll top desk. The Goo-Goo Dolls are my all time favorite group.

“Oh my gosh, when did that fall down?”

I retrieve the calendar, shake off the dust bunnies then flip it to August and tack it back up on my corkboard. I really do need to clean my room more often. August shows Robby Takac doing a guitar solo in black leather pants. My heart skips a beat. Sure, Robby is hot, but that is not what startles me…it the fact that school starts in less than a week.

I cannot believe I’m finally going to be a senior. Happy dance…whoa. My stomach lurches at the thought of returning to school. I wrap my arms around my waist and sink down on the edge of my unmade bed. I used to love school—until Mom died and everything went nuts. Shake it off. You’re supposed to look for a bright side. I get up and stare at the calendar. Hum.

MONDAY, AUGUST 21 is circled in red marker All I see dark unknown territory. What will my senior year be like? At least things can’t get any weirder than they were last year. After Mom died, I literally didn’t care about anything, and by the end of the year, my grades were beyond repair. I found it comforting to mentally block out the world outside my inter realm.

During the summer, I was forced to attend summer school…or repeat my junior year. Not an option in my mind. I made up the work I missed. After taking a second SAT make-up test last week, I finally achieved a respectable score. My guidance counselor Mrs. Everett called and told me because of my situation they were somewhat lenient on me. When she said, “Cookie, you need to start applying to colleges.” I just stared at the phone thinking you’ve got to be kidding I don’t know if I even want to go to college. What on earth would I major in? Here it is the end of the summer and I still don’t have a clue what I want to do about anything concerning my future.

Sigh. “I don’t even know what I want to do tonight.”

For the next few minutes, I gaze adoringly at Robby’s picture. This cheers me up a little. I guess I could try to get into George Washington University where Mom went. Now that I think of it, her old friend Dean Thompson did call and tell Pop that he would make sure I was accepted “as a favor to Eva”. More importantly, if I plan on buying a car this year, I have to get some kind of a job...like, soon or Pop will be driving me to school every morning. How lame is that?

After seeing the calendar and thinking about the future I don’t feel much like cleaning anymore. But I force myself to “just do it”.

I turn around, flip on my old beat up portable radio/CD player, and pray for the gazillionth time, “Pop please buy me a new stereo for my birthday”— thank you God. The antenna and the tuner knob are missing therefore the radio is forever tuned into DC101 ROCK the only respectable station in this town.

“This is Max MacGilliahan,” the DJ says with a heavy Irish accent. “Topic of day…” I tune out while he goes on about a “Summer Symphony concert series” playing at the riverfront. He finally raps it up and announces the next song. “And now for all of you listening to DC101 on this bloody hot DC afternoon, rock on to, Better Days by the Goo-Goo Dolls.”

Excellent.

I up the volume and dance around with a feather duster in one hand and sweeper in the other. I’m almost finished cleaning when my eye catches the shopping bag sitting just inside my door. I recognize the stationery store logo in the Georgetown Mall. When did that get there? I cross the carpet and pick up the bag. Inside is a wrapped package with no tag. I rip off the paper. Inside a white flat box is a new personal journal with an elegant Celtic design on the cover. Hum, Pop must’ve slipped it in here to surprise me. I smile. He’s so sweet and knows me so well. I love it!

Cool, I‘ll write in it in a little while. Hello, it’s my birthday, why am I working. I put away my cleaning tools then curl up in my window seat—my favorite writing spot. With pen in hand, I stare out the window waiting for the creative juices to flow. A mocking bird is feeding her babies in a nest in the crook of the Irish oak tree branch.

“That’s so cute!”

I recall the dead bird I saw on the lawn and I look down. He’s just below my window. There’s a smudge of blood on the upper left corner. The noise that woke me must’ve been him hitting the pane.

“Awe, how sad…”

I watch the baby birds gobble down a fat worm like Lady and the Tramp. Life goes on doesn’t it?

I’m nodding happily to the music when the DJ breaks into the song. “I’d like to take a sec to dedicate this song to me mum, Mary MacGilliahan.” *deep sigh* “Today would have been her sixty-fourth birthday—love you Mummy!”

Oh wow, his mother is dead too. That’s it, I’ll write something about my mum...um, mom. I flip to the first page and write the first thing that comes to mind.

Dear Journal,

Eva Sheahan-Blakely—December 24 would have been her 43^rdbirthday—instead—it was the day she died.

“Doesn’t that totally suck?”

Jeez, I’m surrounded by death today. I stare at the words then tear out the page and slam the book shut. I rip up the page and fight back the tears. STOP IT STOP IT STOP IT screams the little positive voice in the back of my head of which I am supposed to listen. For what seems like a really long time, I sit listening to song after song and just stare out the window at nothing. At some point, I must’ve fallen asleep.

A particularly loud obnoxious commercial comes on the radio and startles me awake. I rub my eyes and look at the alarm clock.

It’s 2:25 in the afternoon. I’m hungry and needed to pee, but I can’t motivate myself to get up. I guess Pop is so busy cooking he didn’t wake me for lunch.

I prop up on the throw pillows in the window and stare out at the awesome view. A slit of sunlight glows on the molten metal of the slate rooftop of the historic old homes of Georgetown. It’s kind of a spooky place with its prominent Gothic architecture. Scenes from the first Exorcist movie were filmed here—the part where the priest flies out the window and lands at the bottom of really the steep stone stairs. The site has become a big tourist attraction. People come here from all over the world to see those steps.

They have a tour of the homes of famous and important people who have and still do live in Georgetown. You can’t drive anywhere in Georgetown without seeing an old cemetery where famous people were laid to rest over the centuries. Mom is buried in Oak Hill the most well-known cemetery just two blocks from here. Ironically, Mom’s site is near Katharine Graham, a 19^th century Russian countess. I sometimes wonder if they’re up in heaven speaking Russian and sipping vodka together.

I prefer to think about Mom alive and pretty, like the way she looked the last time I saw her. I picture her wrapped in her soft yellow throw, stretched out on the couch in our suite at the Alpine Chalet Resort, snow falling on the other side of the wide pane window, the warm fire crackling in the hearth. Then the memory ends. It’s as if she vanished into thin air. I suppose I must eternally wonder what transpired after Pop and I said goodbye then left to go sunrise skiing. The government won’t tell us anything about her investigation. It’s all hush-hush. Don’t we deserve to know what happened to her? I totally hate Agent Warthouse, or whatever his name is, the Federal Agent running the task force, also Mom’s boss. He tries to be so sympathetic, but his words come off phony and insincere. Pop says Agent Warthouse is a jerk. I agree.

Sitting up, I stretch and distinguish the ringing of the phone downstairs from the song on the radio.

Pop shouts from downstairs. Cookie, can you please get the phone?”