My mother, in barn clothes, was sitting at the kitchen table, writing out a grocery list. “You want to be careful, running in this heat.”
I slipped by her. “That’s why I went early.”
“Well, drink some water. Have you had breakfast?”
She meant well. I knew that. I opened the fridge and froze, paralyzed by the well-stocked shelves. There was so muchfood. How could I possibly choose?
“How about some coffee?” Mom asked.
Black, two Sweet’N Lows.Easy. I smiled at her in gratitude. “Thanks, Momma.”
Amy came downstairs.
“You’re awfully dressed up,” our mother observed.
“Going to the bank today.” Amy reached by me. “Got the loan from Aunt Phee.”
She grabbed a yogurt. I took one, too, relieved of another decision.
“That’s wonderful,” I said.
“And then what?” our mother asked.
Zero grams of fat, said the small print on the yogurt carton. Seventeen grams total carbs, eleven grams of protein. One hundred twenty calories. Less, if I didn’t eat the fruit on the bottom. I got a spoon.
Amy was talking, something about driving back to New York this week. Her new hire had quit, and Flo needed her there.
“You know your own business best,” our mother said.
Amy grinned. “That’s very good, Ma. Have you been practicing?”
Our mother smiled. “A mother’s job is to teach her children not to need her anymore. Sometimes I have a little trouble accepting how well I’ve succeeded with you all.”
“Aw.” Amy hugged her. “Love you, Momma.”
Our mother patted her.
“We’ll always need you,” I said.
“I love you girls, too.” Mom cleared her throat. “Well. The cheese won’t make itself.”
The screen door swung shut behind her. Amy propped against thecounter as I peeled open the yogurt, aware of her watching, weighing every bite that went into my mouth.
We weren’t the kind of sisters who talked. I mean, to each other. Not about anything meaningful. Not before this summer.
I had a chance to make things different, I reminded myself. The way I wanted them to be.
“How does Trey feel about you going back to New York?” I asked.
For a long moment, I thought she wouldn’t answer. But maybe she was trying to change, too, because after a pause, she said, “Trey and I don’t talk about his feelings.”
I could relate.
“That doesn’t mean he doesn’t have them,” I said. “Sometimes the more you feel, the harder it is to say anything.”
“The song of our people. I should put that on a T-shirt,” Amy said. “I’ve never told Trey how I really feel, either. I’m afraid he’ll freak out. Or worse, feel sorry for me.”
“But, Amy, you’re so beautiful. So confident. I’m sure Trey cares about you. He’s probably just afraid of being hurt.”Again. “Everyone he’s ever loved has left him.” His parents. His family in Florida. Jo.
