Love from A to Z(41)

I dropped to my knees to open a cupboard door. The cupboard door that hid the potatoes. And my face.

I didn’t want to make French fries. I just wanted to curl up beside Mom like I was a little kid again, not caring if I cried or not. Me not caring, nobody caring that I was crying. Nobody caring that I wasn’t going to be okay.

I wasn’t.

One by one, I took potatoes out and put them on the counter above my head, wordlessly.

“Okay, stop,” she said, her voice husky. “Five is more than enough.”

“For both of us?”

“For all of us.”

I closed the cupboard door and made a face at Mom. “But I’ll eat three potatoes by myself.”

She was crying. But laughing, too. Tears and smiles. “All right, fries monster, take out more, then.”

I reopened the cupboard and added five more potatoes, one by one, again.

It’s okay to cry, then? Mom is crying and laughing.

I closed the door and stood up.

“Wash them well and then dry them really well,” she said, her voice full again. Like her throat was tear filled too. She picked up the dish towel I’d thrown. “Use this.”

I caught the checkered red-and-white cloth and hung it around my neck.

The sound of water running and potatoes being scrubbed masked the sound of Mom sobbing.

Then it hit me. Why Mom was doing this today.

No one was home. Just me and Mom.

Grandpa and Grandma had gone to Costco, a trip that took them a long time. Dad had taken Hanna for a checkup at the doctor’s.

We’re allowed to cry.

I let the tears fall too. I dried the potatoes with the dishcloth that had wiped away some of my tears, but not all of them.

Then I brought the clean potatoes to the table on a cutting board with a knife, and Mom showed me how to cut big fat wedges out of them.

When I was done, she grabbed my hand, looked in my eyes. “It’s okay to cry a lot. But we have to get the crying done before we heat the oil. Otherwise it will splatter everywhere. When it’s time to work with heat, with the hard part, we have to be ready. But get it all out now before we fry the best French fries in the world.”

I got off the chair I was sitting on and tucked myself into her arms, slowly so I didn’t hurt her.

It took us a long time to get ready. For the stove, for the heat, for the hard part.

I didn’t know then that Mom and I would be making her fries together only a few more times that year. Before she left us.

They really were the best in the world.

She really was the best in the world.

? ? ?

Sitting in the car in the hospital parking lot, I told Ms. Raymond the whole thing. The collision of memories, French-fried memories.

Ms. Raymond wiped her eyes. “Adam, why did you tell me this?”

“Because I can’t tell Dad,” I said, settling back into the headrest and closing my eyes. “Not yet. Please, Ms. Raymond.”

“Is it because you don’t want to show him your pain?” Ms. Raymond started the car. “He’s your parent. He’ll be the best support for you. The support you need.”

“I’m going to tell him. In a few days. I promise.” I kept my eyes closed. “You know, it’s not the right time right now. With him remembering Mom.”

“I still don’t understand.”

“I think that’s what Mom was trying to say. That there’s a time for everything. The time to tell Dad is later.”

“I don’t know if that was what your mom was trying to tell you, but . . .” She trailed off. “I’ll respect your wishes if you let me know soon that you’ve told him. That’s the condition.”

“I’ll text you when I do.” Relieved, I opened my eyes to the blurred shapes on the way to Connor’s house.





ZAYNEB


WEDNESDAY, MARCH 13


MARVEL: VICTORIES


EXHIBIT A: VICTORY AT THE pool.

Auntie Nandy was supposed to come home right away after school today, but she texted to say that a last-minute meeting had come up, and that our scheduled trip to see Katara, a reconstructed traditional Qatari village, would have to wait until another day.

That was fine, I guess.

I was feeling completely good for once.

This morning had been epic. Like Marvel-movie-level epic.

Auntie Nandy and I had walked down to the fitness center, her in her “regular” swimsuit, by Marc’s standards, with a thin cover-up on top, me in my burkini with the weird, sleeping clamshell on the front. The attached swim scarf, a zippered cap enclosing my hair, was up and on, goggles ready for pool use snapped on top of it.

I held my back straight, my head up, my mouth closed, trying to match Auntie Nandy’s steady steps to the facility, located in the middle of the condominium complex’s paved courtyard.

She opened the glass door for me, and I took a step in—with my right foot, as per Muslim custom. Maybe to make it an auspicious occasion? This showing up as my unapologetic Muslim self?

“Bismillah,” I whispered.

I led the way to the check-in counter.

Marc, seated, scrolling on a tablet in front of him, looked up as I wrote my name into the facility-use binder. Pool I wrote in the appropriate column.

I smiled—serenely—at him.