“I’m not hungry,” a voice that sounded like a child said. “I told you that.”
“You’ll eat something if I make it.” Footsteps, then a door—the screen one downstairs, I was pretty sure—slamming. “Mama! What happened to all my bread?”
“Your what?” That was Mimi.
“My bread! I’m trying to make Gordon a sandwich.”
“Honey, I don’t know. If there’s bread, it’s in the regular place.”
“But that’s not my bread, that I bought with my money, formyfamily to eat,” her daughter replied.
“I’m not hungry!” came again from downstairs.
“I’ll remind you that we are all your family,” Mimi hollered, “and if you want to get picky about it, then you can stop drinking all my Pop Soda and not replacing it.”
Silence. But the heavy kind. Meanwhile, I thought of my mom, who was the only person I’d ever known who had heard of Pop Soda, much less drank it. It was like a generic Diet Coke, heavy on the syrup. It had been years since I’d had one, but I could still remember how it made my teeth hurt.
“Mama, all I am asking is where is the bread,” the woman said, sounding tired. “If you have some other issue with me, let’s get into it, by all means, the day hasn’t yet been long enough.”
Mimi responded, although at this point they were apparently close enough not to be yelling, so I couldn’t hear it. But I was up now, so I grabbed my toothbrush and navigated the way to the tiny bathroom at the end of the hall. Once rid of nap breath, I finger combed my hair, took a deep breath, and went downstairs.
At first the kitchen looked completely empty. Only when I’d started to the cabinets for some water—again noting all those dirty dishes, how could you just leave them like that?—did I notice a little girl standing just inside the opening to the hallway. Until she reached up, adjusting the glasses on her face, she’d been so still I’d assumed she was part of the wall.
“Oh,” I said, startled. “Hi.”
She studied me, her face serious. While her appearance—dark hair in a ponytail, denim shorts and thick plastic clogs, a purple T-shirt that said #AWESOME—was young, the expression on her face reflected the world-weariness usually seen in a much older woman. “Hello,” she replied.
I glanced down the hallway, to the screen door. “Are you looking for Mimi?”
“No,” she said. “Are you?”
“No,” I replied. “I was actually trying to find a glass for some water.”
Another beat as she studied me. Then she turned, crossing into the kitchen and standing on tiptoe to open an upper cabinet. She pulled out a plastic tumbler with a gas station logo on it, holding it out in my direction. “If you want ice, it’s in the bucket in the freezer.”
“I’m good,” I said, taking the glass. “Thank you, um...”
“Gordon,” she said.
“Gordon,” I repeated. “I’m Emma.”
She nodded, as if this was acceptable. Then she watched as I went to the sink, filled my glass, and took a sip. “My real first name is Anna,” she said after a moment. “But nobody with two names ever uses the first one.”
“I do,” I said.
This seemed to intrigue her. “Really?”
I nodded. “I’m Emma Saylor, technically.”
“And you get to be just Emma?”
“Well, yeah.”
She looked wistful for a second. “Lucky.”
The door banged again, and I heard footsteps approaching. A moment later, a woman in jeans and a polyester uniform top that said CONROY MARKET entered the kitchen. She had long blond hair pulled back in a headband and wore tall wedge sandals of the sort Nana would call ankle breakers.
“Well, it looks like you’re having a quesadilla, Gordon, despite the fact I just bought—”
