But this isn’t a functioning, normal, happy household. So, they stare, and after a while, Jahlani unfurls her spine, looming over the woman who gave her life but notpurpose.
Did she get shorter?
Jahlani reaches out to … to do what? Pet her? Shake hands with her? Hug her?
She lowers her hand, making a tight fist before pushing it behind her back.
“You look just like him,” her mother says, clucking her tongue as she ambles toward the kitchen.
Himas in her dad. The other person who makes up fifty percent of her DNA. The piece snaps into place.
That’s what’s missing.
Her mom has scrubbed any remains of him from the house. His furniture. Collectibles. Pictures. Disintegrated. As if his entire existence had been a fever dream. Jahlani trails meekly behind her, breathing in her outdoor scent.
“It’s been a while,” her mother says, dropping the mangos onto the marble before rinsing them one by one.
Yes, four years is a long time, Mom.I missed you too,she thinks,andno, I’m not doing okayfloat through her head, ready on her tongue. Instead, she stays quiet, falling into sync with her mother. Jahlani pulls her sleeves up as she walks to the counter, washes her hands, and gets to work slicing the already rinsed mangos on the cutting board. For a while, the swift thud of the knives hitting the boards is the only sound that echoes throughout the kitchen. Jahlani notices that the layoutis different here too. The golden teak wood cabinets have been replaced with a simple white base. Dressed around the island are four sleek leather barstools and instead of the electric stove, a glittering gas range sits on display in the middle.
Clearing her throat, Jahlani motions with her chin toward the stovetop.
“That’s nice,” she murmurs, glancing at her mother’s face.
Her mother turns to look at the oven, before nodding slightly.
“A gift,” she says, and that’s the end of it. She doesn’t seem too interested in having a conversation with her one and only child.
Jahlani waits and waits, slicing before lifting one to her mouth. The cool liquid of the mango springs against her tongue, leaving a tangy taste. Memories of humid summers, swarms of lovebugs, and lounging by the community pool with her cousins arise.
Then, as if on cue, her mother says, “Everyone will be glad to see you tomorrow. They haven’t heard from you in years.”
Jahlani exhales through her nose as she chews.
“Well, the phone works both ways,” she mumbles, not looking her way. She resists the urge to knock the bowl of mangos over and scream at her mother, because she’stiredand she hasn’t bothered to ask if Jahlani’s up to going.
It’s a demand.
An expectation.
Her house, her rules.
When her mother doesn’t say anything, Jahlani clears her throat, turning slightly to face her.
“Tomorrow?” She asks, trying to sound nonchalant. Trying not to let her irritation rise to the surface through any inflections in her tone, to let her mother down easy because she’s not a child anymore. She should be allowed to say no and establishboundaries. She should be allowed to not want to be the subject of her family’s judgment, ridicule, and outrageously invasive line of questioning. Her mother should understand that.
Right?
But her mother shrugs, slicing open another mango. “Teryn got accepted into some program for her master’s.” Her knife waves around in the air with ‘some program.’So did I, she wants to yell.Where’s my party?
Jahlani is quiet for several beats, chewing another slice, giving herself time to come up with a good enough excuse. She hums while nodding, wiping her hands against the front of her cotton leggings, heart drumming.
“I don’t know. I’m really exhausted. And I still need to unpack,” she starts slowly, returning to cutting. Careful with her choice of words. “I have a meeting at the school about my internship that I need to?—”
Her mother’s loud exhale stops her from saying more, and Jahlani sees from the corner of her eye that she’s set her knife down.
Here we go.
Her dark eyes flutter around Jahlani’s face before looking away, her expression stoic.
