My phone buzzed and I grabbed it, wondering who would be texting me at eight o’clock on a Sunday. Surely not my friends who’d had a few more pints of beer than I had.
Eng? I hadn’t given him my number though. Had he somehow sleuthed it through the internet? Texted me to say last night was amazing and he wanted to see me again? My breathing hitched at the thought even though I’d promised myself I wouldn’t see him again, that I wouldn’t fall into the bad-boy trap like I always did.
The text wasn’t from Eng. Even more disappointing, it was from one of my clients cancelling our personal training session for this morning. Wincing, I texted him back that I would see him on Wednesday and mentally calculated the hit on my back account.
One cancelled session shouldn’t make that much of a difference in my income, but I was budgeted down to the last penny. And had been since I’d gotten out of college eight years ago. There had been a crossroads when I’d made the decision between a medical career in physical therapy, or what I’d eventually chosen. I loved my job. There was flexibility in my hours and in the athletic levels of my clients. My per-client-hour income included a free membership at the gym. And best of all, I got to help people reach their goals. Increased mobility? Running a marathon? Keeping bone density loss at bay? Or justbeing able to take the stairs up to your third-floor apartment without gasping for air? There was such a high, such a feeling of joy in putting what my parents had thought would be a pre-med degree to use. I wasn’t a doctor, but I hoped I helped all of my clients avoid a health problem that would need a doctor.
But there was a limit to the amount of clients I could manage in a day or in a week, and even picking up the occasional spin or yoga class didn’t bring a noticeable difference to my checking account balance. I didn’t get regular raises. I didn’t have any company-paid benefits. And the career I loved had completely stalled. Which meant I was coming to the unfortunate realization that something needed to change. I was one major car repair, one broken bone away from poverty. And while my family would do their best to help me out, they shouldn’t need to pay the bills of a daughter they’d put through college.
It was time to grow up and face the fact that unless I won the lottery, or some unknown distant relative left me a pile of money, I’d need to change careers to something that paid better, something with the potential for growth.
Something that at least offered minimal health insurance coverage.
But that was a depressing topic for another day. Right now, I needed to get ready to go over to my parent’s house for our family ritual—Sunday dinner.
After a quick workout at the gym, I showered, put on one of the few family-friendly dresses I owned, tossed my gym bag into the back of my car, and made my way out to Canton. We hadn’t been rich growing up, but between my father’s solid union job at the port and my mother’s teaching salary, we’d been comfortable. Eight of us kids meant we’d needed to share bedrooms and bathrooms, and pretty much everything else. There had been lots of squabbling, but there had also been lots of love and loyalty that had continued as we’d all flown the nest.Those of us who could make it to Sunday dinner, did. Those who couldn’t were with us in spirit if not in person. There was a rotating roster of us kids each week. Even Emmajean and her family, who lived in Atlanta, flew north to see the family at least twice a year.
I made a special effort to be there. Partly because I lived in Baltimore and even if I had an appointment with a client, I still could at least manage to drive over for an hour or two. Even when my car had blown a gasket Dad had sent an Uber to bring me and had driven me home that night.
And he’d Venmo’d me money for the repair—money I gratefully accepted.
The other reason I did my darnedest to show up every Sunday was that I was acutely aware that time was ticking and there would be a day when my grandparents, my parents, and maybe even some of my siblings might not be there. The thought of that sent an ache through my chest that I quickly shoved away. I was the youngest, and while my grandparents were in their mid to late eighties, they were all reasonably healthy and active. A depressingly quiet family home wasn’t on the immediately horizon.
I parked on the curb because the driveway was reserved for after-dinner basketball. Or maybe before-dinner basketball depending on which of my brothers and sisters were here. I saw Agatha’s car down the street, and Leroy’s, and Charlene’s, and Terrance’s. Walking up the path to the porch I was nearly bowled over by a pack of five kids, one carrying a basketball.
“Don’t break any windows,” Charlene called after them. “Or dent any cars.”
“You know Leroy is secretly wishing they total his and Sela’s minivan,” I said.
My brother had been looking for an excuse to upgrade their family vehicle. His wife had argued the van could last anothertwo years, but if she needed to go one more year with their ancient kitchen appliances they’d all be living off microwaved pizza served on paper plates with disposable plastic utensils. I’d sided with Sela, having witnessed said appliances. Mom, Agatha, and I had all let Leroy know that the new appliances should come with some freshly painted cabinetry and maybe even granite countertops.
“Two years. That’s the deal on the minivan,” Sela shouted from the other side of the screen door. “I don’t care if we have to duct tape it together and power it with our feet like Fred Flintstone, that thing needs to last two years.”
I climbed the steps and embraced Charlene, thinking that even two years from now, Leroy’s minivan would be in better shape than my own vehicle.
Charlene stayed outside to cheer on the kids and their pickup game. I went in to greet Sela, then peeked into the living room where Agatha, Leroy, Terrance’s husband Justin, my paternal grandfather, and my father sat. The television blared some football game, but I could hear my mother’s laugh over the announcer. She was in the kitchen—the hub of our house. I followed the laughter and the smell of tomato sauce, peppers, and garlic and smiled when I saw her holding out a spoon for my brother Terrance to taste the sauce.
“Chug, chug, chug,” Grandma Filipkowski chanted.
I bent down to kiss her cheek, feeling the cool papery texture of her skin against my lips. She was a spry eight-six with pale blue eyes, and wispy white hair coiled in a bun at the nape of her neck. She looked fragile, but I knew how strong she was—and I remembered how strong she had been in my youth. When my parents had married back in 1975, mixed race marriages weren’t common or always accepted, but with the approval of both sets of parents standing beside them, my mother and father had weathered any storm society sent their way. I loved mymixed heritage, loved when Grandma and Grandpa Filipkowski told me about their childhoods in Poland, loved when Nana and Pops Washington told me about how our family had come north after the Civil War to Baltimore and opened a tiny neighborhood grocery store. That store had been sold three generations ago, but the success had fueled a large family of teachers, doctors, lawyers, and business owners.
“How do you expect me to chug a teaspoon of sauce?” Terrance teased our grandmother. Then he tasted the contents of the spoon and swallowed, a thoughtful expression on his face.
“More oregano?” Mom asked.
He shook his head. “Maybe a touch more basil. And toss in a couple extra bay leaves.”
“Do those bay leaves actually do anything besides be a nuisance when you’re trying to eat your pasta?” I asked as I hugged my mother then did the same to my brother.
Mom swatted at me. “The recipe called for bay leaves, so I’m putting in bay leaves. Stop complaining about having to pick them out of the sauce.”
I grinned. “Okay, okay. What can I do?”
“Sit and entertain your grandmother.” Sometimes dinner involved lots of chopping and dicing, but outside of special occasions or a rare impulse to try a particularly chef-worthy recipe, Mom opted for easy dishes that could feed an army. Because that pretty much summed up the size and appetite of our family. We were all tall, strong, and including the kids, there would be eighteen of us for dinner tonight.
I sat down beside Grandma Filipkowski and she patted my hand. “How are youmoja droga? How is Brad?”
Terrance rolled his eyes. “Grandma, Brad is dead.Dead.”
