Mothered (30)

So sorry! Let’s catch up! I could pick up brunch?

Halle-fucking-lujah. And he didn’t sound mad. Grace quickly replied:

Picnic in my backyard?

She waited, hoping he was still near his phone. Thirty seconds later he responded.

Pamela’s the usual?

Yes!!!!!!!!!

She wanted to send him a thousand kissy-face emoji and not just because she loved Pamela’s french toast. If Miguel wasn’t mad at her, if he was still her friend, then she could probably survive the wreckage that had become her life.



Thirty minutes later she was showered, dressed, her cropped hair drying in waves. She bypassed Jackie in the kitchen and headed down the basement steps. It took her two trips, but she happily ferried the folding card table and two chairs and set them up in the middle of the backyard. She’d decided to create an outdoor café, which she thought would be nicer than a picnic on the ground.

On a mission, Grace got out plates, forks, glasses. She stood for a moment, gazing around the kitchen, tapping a finger on her lip, wondering if she still had the tablecloth-and-napkin set—and if so, where Jackie would have put it.

“Gray?”

Grace didn’t look at her straightaway. “Have you come across a plaid tablecloth? It might look a little Christmassy, burgundy with green and gold.”

Her mother dropped what she was doing—

Slicing a bowl of eyeballs, her cutting board crimson with gore.

Grace blinked and shook the vision away.

No, her mom was pitting cherries. The cutting board was slick with red juice.

Jackie dug through the cupboard where she’d stashed Grace’s old plastic storage containers. She retrieved the linens and handed them to Grace. “They’re a little damaged, looks like you got wax on them, but it wasn’t my place to throw them away.”

The memory came back—a Valentine’s Day evening with Miguel, when they’d both been single and cranky. Wine, candles, chocolate cake. She’d dressed up her old coffee table, and they’d binged a slutty melodrama on Netflix.

“Perfect.” Grace beamed and headed outside to set her card table.

If they were eating inside she might’ve searched for candleholders, for old time’s sake, but in addition to needing the fresh air and glimpses of sun, the backyard was the only place where she could expect some privacy. She hoped her mother would conveniently disappear before Miguel arrived, but Jackie had moved on from the messy cherries and was now rolling out a flat circle of dough. When the doorbell rang, Grace dashed to answer it, determined to usher Miguel through the house before either he or Jackie, in a fit of friendliness, could alter her plans. She and Miguel needed to talk.

“Good morning, lovey,” said Grace, opening the door.

“Morning, lovey. I come bearing food.” And for proof, he held up a take-out bag.

Grace took his free arm hostage and led him through the house toward the back door—though she couldn’t stop Jackie and Miguel from exchanging air-kisses and flamboyant greetings.

“Are you making a pie, Miss Jacquelyn?”

“Cherry, nice and tart.”

Grace tugged Miguel out the door.

“I’ll save you a piece!” Jackie called out.

“Sorry for my manners, Grace is really hungry—”

Jackie laughed, good humored, as Grace pulled the heavy door shut behind her. She imagined her mom in there alone, her laughter becoming a cackle.

“You went all out.” Miguel admired the outdoor café as they approached the table. He sat with exaggerated panache and dipped into the take-out bag for the first container.

“I’m so glad you’re here. I’ve been a mess, and I was getting so worried when I couldn’t reach you.” She poured him a glass of water from the pitcher she’d left on the table.

“Lovey, it’s not like we talk every day.”

“But we also don’t just ignore each other’s texts.”

Miguel’s eyes went wide with exasperation. “Well you’re not the only one who’s had a week. French toast . . .” He opened the carton and handed it to Grace.

Grace’s mouth started watering at the very sight of the buttery, eggy french toast. She took the proffered food and slid it onto her plate.

“And bacon. Burnt.”

“You’re the best.” She stuffed a piece of the heavenly, crunchy bacon into her mouth.

Miguel transferred a broccoli-and-cheddar omelet and Lyonnaise potatoes onto his own plate.

“Do you want anything other than water?” Grace asked, pouring syrup and licking her fingers. “I can make coffee?”

Miguel shook his head, forking his first big bite of omelet. “I’m sufficiently caffeinated. So what in the world has been going on?” He chewed as he spoke, and they both ate as if ravenous. “If you’d left a more specific message I could’ve tried to get back to you.”

“Where were you? It’s like you fell off the earth.”

Miguel got that exasperated look again. “My sister. Carolina. Decided to have an impromptu wedding. And wanted me to do in five days what really needed six months. So we had a wedding on Wednesday. Only twentyish guests, but Carolina had some pretty elaborate ideas for hors d’oeuvres and centerpieces and flower arrangements. The one thing she didn’t want my help with? Her hair.” He snorted. “She wore a pink wig. Don’t ask.”