Meanwhile, Marcus yells from the grill, “Hey, now the party can start.” Again, there’s a tinge of sarcasm there but he managesto make me laugh. Marcus puts down the meat and crosses the backyard to greet JT—and to confiscate the liquor-filled Super Soaker for his own enjoyment, squirting some into his mouth. He gives Valencia a sly grin as she continues to scold JT about bringing liquor to their house while he’s underage. JT insists his own parents don’t mind and it was a gift for Marcus and Valencia.
CRUNCH.
I turn at the sound of Gramma Sharon taking her first bite of Watergate salad, surprised at how crunchy the pecans still are after sitting in the Cool Whip for so long.
“Mmm!” Gramma Sharon is just as surprised because her eyes go wide. But thatmmmwasn’t like ammm, this is deliciousmmm. It was one of shock. She drops her plastic spoon, and it flops into the remaining mountain of Watergate salad.
Her jaw moves and her eyes widen as she makes another “MMM!” sound, this one scared and urgent.
“Gramma?” I say.
She reaches for a napkin and puts it to her mouth.
A light pink foamy mess of marshmallows, Cool Whip, pineapple, and pecans flows out.
“Oh my God.”
Miles looks on in shock as the flood of Watergate salad pouring out of Gramma Sharon’s mouth turns bloodred. She whimpers as she pushes out the rest of the bloody mess with her tongue. It lands on the napkin trembling in her hand and more blood flows from her open mouth.
So much blood.
She looks across the table at me, her eyes wide.
“Isth gwath!” she says with another bubble of blood.
“Mom?” Valencia sounds horrified.
Miles jumps up to grab more napkins and Gramma Sharon doesn’t have to repeat herself because I understand her perfectly. Everyone surrounds the table, wondering what’s happening, panicking at all the blood.
But I’m looking at the plate of Watergate salad in front of me.
And the thick shards of glass mixed in with marshmallows and pineapple.
Thirty-Three
I watch as water dissolves the mini marshmallows in the colander over the sink. What doesn’t dissolve is the pecans, pineapple, and glass.
So much glass.
Glass that wasn’t there when I was mixing up the ingredients a few hours ago. I pick up a piece and hold it to the light. There are no marks or labels to give me a hint of its origin. It could be a drinking glass, wineglass, window glass. I have no clue where it could have come from.
“I take it back,” Miles says, gazing down at the pecans, pineapple, and glass in the colander. “I love diabetes. It’s my favorite thing in the world now.”
“You think this is funny?” I snap. He holds up his hands in defense.
“I don’t. And I think you know me well enough by now that that question is being asked in bad faith, so I’m going to assume this is you freaking out.”
He assumes correctly. “Sorry,” I say.
Marcus and Valencia drove Gramma Sharon to the hospital, leaving all the food and supplies for the barbecue. So Miles and I cleaned up what we could and put it in the fridge. But I wanted to see how much glass was in the Watergate salad. Turns out, it’s a lot.
When I look at the glassware in the cabinets, it’s all accounted for.
“Where did it come from?” I ask. Honestly, I think I’m still in shock. The paint, the flowers, the gas—all that could be logicked away if I tried hard enough, but not this. This was deliberate.
Miles goes over to the recycling and pulls out the rinsed can of crushed pineapple, turning it around in his hand and looking inside. “No chance it was a factory error?”
I look back down at the glass in the sink. It’s not possible. I could pick up all the glass and put it in the can and it would probably overflow. I don’t even think there’d be enough space for the pineapple.
