26 Years Online
••• The International Writers Magazine - Lifestyles

The Cake Room • Jones Metzler I remember the call—the one that felt colder than the air outside. I knew what was coming before I even picked up the phone. The night before, I had struggled with insomnia, tossing and turning as though something was on my mind, though everything seemed perfectly fine. Then the phone rang.

My mom, without hesitation, firmly told me I needed to get to the city immediately to say goodbye. The moment the words hit, tears streamed down my face like a faucet turned on full blast. I scrambled to pack my bags, everything around me moving in a blur as I felt emotionally paralyzed, as if I were sinking into quicksand. I filled my car with gas and gathered last-minute essentials, feeling the weight of a thousand thoughts.  

At that moment, I just wanted to write “My grandmother is dying” on my forehead so that people could understand why I was acting so out of sorts—so unlike myself. Driving back to see her, I couldn’t shake the thought, “What do you say to someone when it's the last time you'll ever speak to them?”  

As I passed the quaint bakeshop on the corner of my street, its lights glowed welcomingly in the dark. It looked like a scene from a movie—like a candle lit for the street. Growing up in the South, I learned never to show up anywhere empty-handed. My Mom would always say, “It shows an uncommon grace in a world so marked by busyness.” I would argue that if the gift is unexpected, it makes it all the more special. That’s when it hit me: I should get a cake.   

I called the bakeshop, and the sweet woman on the other end asked, “What would you like us to write on it? Happy birthday?”  
I paused, unsure what words felt right to be written on a cake for a family grieving the loss of a loved one. Finally, I said, “Please write ‘I love you’ in pastel blue.”  
“That will be thirty dollars,” she said.  

I smiled softly and hung up the phone. Though it seemed small and maybe a little silly, I felt as if I had done something to bring a bit of light into a dark moment—even if it was just a cake.  

The next day, I stopped by the bakery to pick up the cake. As I entered, a little bell above the door jingled cheerfully. The counter, a deep shade of blue, was adorned with glass cases showcasing an array of decadent desserts.: D donuts dipped in strawberry glaze, cupcakes garnished with vibrant scarlet heart-shaped sprinkles, brownies smothered in chocolate icing. It was so small I could see the kitchen, and the wooden counters with glass shelves, making it feel even cozier than the chilly February air.  Suddenly, a large yellow lab darted in front of me. "Sorry, that's just Junior," the baker said warmly. “Here boy,” handing him a peanut butter-covered date. Junior trotted off to the side, contentment on his face.  

I stepped up to the counter, distracted by the Valentine-themed desserts—covered in pastel pink hearts and cheerful, cheesy phrases. "Here you go, hun," the woman said, handing me an ivory box with their mint-green logo. The colors made me think of spring and new life in sharp contrast to the goodbyes that will greet me at grandma’s house. 
 I took the box, carefully buckling it into the passenger seat, and set off.  

My sister awaited me when I arrived at my grandparents' house. "Should I bring in the cake?" I asked.  
"Not unless you want the entire family to eat it," she replied.  
"Exactly the point," I said, smiling. I grabbed the box, clutching it like a lifeline, and walked into the house I’d skipped in and out of as a child—excited for a movie night with Gram or grumbling as a teenager, wishing I were hanging out with friends instead.  

But this time, when I stepped inside, the air felt thick, stale, and hot. My entire family was gathered in the entryway, and a nurse handed me a baby blue mask. The walls were barren where they used to be filled with an annual family photo; the furniture that once felt as familiar as my own now appeared as though the house was being staged for sale—lifeless and faceless. "She's waiting for you in there," she said. My eyes met those of my aunt, who always looked effortlessly put together, no matter the circumstances. This time, though, she wore jeans, loafers, and a cozy white knit sweater. In stark contrast, my uncle stood casually in the winter chill, wearing shorts and letting his shoulder-length hair fall untamed, as he brewed a pot of coffee as if it were just another laid-back Sunday morning.  

Nothing could have prepared me for what I was about to witness. I fought back tears as I sat on the cream-colored leather couch, facing my grandmother. She lay there, bald and fragile, in a portable hospital bed. We spoke for a few minutes, but soon, she needed rest. I shakily stood to leave, my legs glued to the couch, weighed down by the heavy silence in the air.  

In the kitchen, my grandpa was sitting in his usual armchair. "I brought you a present," I said, holding the white box behind my back. His eyes lit up as I opened it, revealing the cake inside. He smiled, and the rest of the family slowly gathered around to take a piece. My aunts, uncles, parents, and siblings cut themselves a slice, sitting together in the room next to my sleeping grandmother, separated by just a wall. Some had tears streaming down their faces as they ate the pastel-colored cake.  

Later, we went back to see my grandmother, and through a haze of tears, my grandpa hugged me, saying with a soft chuckle, “Come back to the cake room.” 

In that moment, I understood a single situation holds both immense good and unbearable pain. Happiness and sorrow coexist, reflecting the layered, multifaceted nature of our emotional lives. Where there is loss and grief in one room, the next can be a cake room full of pastel colors and joy.  

© Jones Metzler March 2025
Jones is a Junior at the College of Charleston, majoring in English
(writing, rhetoric, publication with Dr Devet)

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