Gemotions

The steam from the pot on the stove seemed to be clinging to Martha's face, making her feel clammy and uneasy. She kept wiping her forehead with the back of her hand, even though the kitchen wasn't particularly warm. Her heart thumped a strange rhythm against her ribs. This wasn’t right. Everyone was raving about “Mrs. Gable’s Gingerbread.” But Mrs. Gable? Martha had always called it “Grandma Elsie’s Gingerbread.” The recipe, meticulously handwritten in her grandmother’s elegant script, was right there in front of her, the same ingredients, the same instructions. A cold dread seeped into her bones.

A commercial, playing on the radio, filled the small kitchen. It featured Mrs. Gable, smiling with saccharine sweetness as she proclaimed her gingerbread the “best in the land.” Martha squeezed her eyes shut. She needed air. Opening the back door, she stepped out into the crisp October air, taking a deep breath. It didn't help. The chill only seemed to amplify the shaking that had begun to tremble through her fingers.