Turned out, I should have gotten myself some fast food as well, because, upon entrance to the duplex, it was clear the kitchen would be out of service for a bit. The smoke alarm trilled loudly, causing both Elijah and me to cover our ears as we crossed the threshold.
I read his lips:What’s happening?
There were no flames, just smoke and Gabriella running around the kitchen in a flurry, opening windows and, presumably, cursing in Spanish. Her hair was now disheveled, and the apron was streaked with flour and sauce stains.
I helped her by propping open the back door with a chair, and Elijah jumped into action by fanning toward the smoke alarm with the coloring book in his backpack, though it didn’t help.
It took three minutes or so for the loud noise to stop. By then, Elijah had started coughing.
“Go down the hallway. Your room is the third on the right.” I pointed him down my hallway.
Gabriella took another breath and leaned her hip against the dishwasher. “I’m sorry.”
“What’s going on?”
As the smoke cleared—literally—I could see the inside of my stove. The once-gleaming racks were now blackened with charred bits of whatever had been cooking.
“I think the oven overheated.”
“You think?” I snapped at her. This place was all I had. This house was my past, my present, and my future. Myfixed income and alonefuture.
“It was an accident,” Gabriella said, defense stepping forward in her professional tone. “I was trying a new recipe. I had to use the broiler.”
“Did youutilizeit orbrutalizeit?”
She crossed her arms. “Iutilizedit. Because my new trial recipe, blackened catfish with elote topping, requires that both the fish and the corn be, well, blackened by the broiler.”
I shook my head. “That sounds gross together.”
“Corn and fish?” she asked.
“Elotecorn and fish. That’s like mayonnaise and fish. Doesn’t match.”
She squinted at me. “What do you think is in tartar sauce?”
She had me. I sighed. “So. You broke the oven.”
“Theovenoverheated. Probably because it’s old. And notupdated.”
Irritation rammed through me. Gabriella must have gotten the blame-everything-on-Joyce memo that Terri had sent out to all my contacts, including my own grandson.
“I need to get Elijah settled in his room. And make sure his lungs are clear.”
My eyes stung from a combination of the smoke and my hurt feelings. My ex-husband had a girlfriend, my grandson no longer made special memories at “the house,” and my new roommate had almost burned the place down because I’d run out of money to fix it.
And tartar sauce really is mostly mayonnaise.
What else have I been wrong about?
Chapter 7
Both my children used to sleep as late as possible. We have an old VHS somewhere of Eric Jr., around five years old, crying because we woke him up at 9:00 a.m. to open Christmas presents. They both despised cleaning on Saturday, too, but they couldn’t go anywhere until they’d finished changing their sheets, dusting, and vacuuming their rooms—all tasks that required straightening up as a prerequisite to cleaning with chemicals.
Elijah, then, was a unicorn to me. That very first morning, he was up before me. I heard him shuffling around in his bedroom and the bathroom, brushing his teeth and running water to wash his face.
Gabriella was also skittering around, though this was no surprise. She had to get to her job at a local Mexican restaurant by 10:00 a.m.
I slipped into a final snooze. I wanted to stay in my bedroom at least long enough for her to leave. Following the previous day’s oven incident, she’d kept to her side of the duplex and I kept to mine. Elijah distracted me from the roommate tension. He and I played his card games—two of which I’d never even heard of, soof course he beat me. Talked plenty of noise, too. “Boo-yah! Take that, Grandma!”
