“It’s still in the box,” I say quickly.
“When it comes out, I hope you remember the fresh start we talked about and the trust we’re earning,” she says.
“Got it, Mom,” I say, catching Kayla’s gaze while trying to find anywhere else to look.
My mom’s eyes are a little watery after she says grace, smiling at each of us when we raise our heads. The silence is broken by the sound of silverware clinking and scraping as we all dig in.
I didn’t know my mom could cook like this. We used to live on easy things that she could make between nursing shifts or that I could throw in the microwave. It’s like she was saving the best version of herself for a family that would appreciate it. I feel a knot in my throat and swallow it down with some of the sparkling water in my glass.She’s thankful I’m home, I tell myself, and for now, that’s enough.
3
I always heard people talk about how good it feels to have the sun wake them up, but I never actually understood it until today.
Back in Lorial, our apartment faced another building, so the light would enter in ribbons. At the center, the sun could barely get into our units because of the thick bars on the windows. Here, the sun bathes my room with golden light, heating my skin to a point that’s slightly uncomfortable.
It’s Sunday. School starts tomorrow, which means I have one day to adjust to my new life before everything changes again.
My mom pokes her head in. “I have to run to the supermarket. Wanna come?” she asks.
“Okay,” I say.
I’m out of the bathroom in record time and throw on a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt. I look in the mirror, surprised at just how well they fit, and make a mental note to thank Kayla later.
Soon, I’m sliding into the plush seat of Mom’s car and we’re heading toward town. At a red light, she turns to look at me. “I’m happy you came.”
We sit in silence for a few minutes, and then she spends therest of the ride yelling corrections at her new phone, which is doing a hilariously bad job of compiling her shopping list.
“Bouillon cubes!!” she yells at the holder on the dashboard. I offer to write the list on my phone, but she waves off the suggestion. “I swear I’ll take it back.”
I smile, glad to have something to break the tension between us, but I can’t help but notice how different this all feels. We used to stock up on the same things from Foodtown twice a month when she got paid, and we definitely didn’t make shopping lists.
“I hope I don’t forget anything,” she says, pulling into a parking space. She tells me to grab the reusable bags from the trunk, and I try not to laugh as she cups her hands to whisper “boooo-yonnnn” into her phone.
Inside, she gets a cart, and I ask if she wants to split up so I can help find the groceries. We used to always get two carts to maximize our time since she usually had another shift to get to. She would head to the meat section in search of chicken parts recently marked down because of close expiration dates, then pick up a dozen and a half eggs, a carton of milk, a brick of cheese, and a loaf of wheat bread. I would head to the freezer section for bags of steamable veggies that were perpetually ten for ten dollars and five boxes of Ellio’s Pizza. On my way to meet her at the register in the middle, I’d grab a bag of white rice and five boxes of Kraft mac and cheese.Efficientis what she called it.
Now, she thinks for a moment. “Nope, we’ve got time,” she says. “Let’s stick together.” The guy behind the counter hands her meat wrapped in paper, and we keep moving.
“You don’t have any snacks at the house, Jas,” my mom says as we make our way down an aisle, “so get whatever you want.”
I look at her suspiciously. I’ve never heard her say that. She smiles encouragingly and waves me off with a “go!”
But it’s not that easy. Even though she worked hard for her money, we still never got just anything. I don’t know if my mind even works that way. I run my eyes over the snacks and tell myself not to look at the prices.
“Jasmine, oh my goodness,” my mom whispers loudly from down the aisle. “Do you remember these?”
She’s holding up a pack of strawberry wafers. How could I forget? They were a highlight of our Saturday nights before she started to work all the time. She used to say it was important to do something forus. The wafers would be the one deviation during our shopping trips. She’d call it a splurge, buying two packs at a time and telling the cashier, “We deserve this,” like they were judging her for it. “Even the little things can be special,” she’d say from the kitchen, dividing a pack of wafers and pouring strawberry milk into her special wine glasses. We were so close back then. It feels good to know she remembers.
“Of course, Mom,” I say, taking the pack from her and tossing it into the cart. She starts to protest as I pluck a few more off the shelf and add them to the pile. “You said anything!”
“You’re right,” she says with a shrug. “Then how about another flavor for good measure?” She picks up a chocolate one.
“Janice?” a woman calls out from behind me just as my mom turns to put the wafers in the cart. “I knew that was you!” Her voice is breathless, like she ran over here.
My mom smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “Hey, Melanie,” she says, casually moving to block the view of our cart.
“What a beauty!” Melanie practically shrieks. “You’re a total spitting image of your mother,” she says, looking at me.
“That’s sweet of you,” my mom says.
