We Are Not Like Them(66)

He has a point. I don’t think I’ve ever made anything from scratch in my entire life, but suddenly, making this recipe is important to me. It doesn’t matter that I’ve got no idea what rhubarb even looks like; I’m going to make this pie for Christmas. Why I’m suddenly seized by the urge to be some sort of Carla Hall wannabe is beyond me, but I’m desperate for any way to feel connected to Gigi. How many times had I watched her, her arms speckled with bright white flakes of flour, kneading dough or squinting over vats of hot grease she kept in a giant old tomato can that never moved from the back of the stove? How many times had I rolled my eyes as she joked—half joked—to me, “Get over here and learn to cook if you’re ever gonna get a fine man?” How many times had she rolled her eyes at my pretentious lectures about the patriarchy. “Girl, there ain’t nothin’ wrong with wantin’ a man.”

“Putting a husband aside, cooking is history,” she once told me as she made biscuits. “Me and my momma and my momma’s momma before that have been making these ’zact same biscuits. That’s a bond, ya hear. It’s not much—some flour, some water, some salt—but it’s what we had and it’s a legacy, a connection.”

She always said she felt the spirit of the ancestors, would have full-on conversations with them when she was in a tizzy about something or when she was in the kitchen. Kneading biscuits, dragging fat chicken thighs through flour, rolling out piecrust, it all made her feel close to them. So maybe it would do the same for me—connect me to them, to Gigi.

Speaking of legacy, Dad flips open the ancient album, its pages creaky and cracking at being disturbed. We spot Gigi in the first picture. She must be about five years old, in a white lace dress, head full of braids, spunky grin revealing two missing teeth.

A gangly teenager in crisp brown trousers and a white tank top revealing well-muscled arms stands beside her, his hands on her shoulders. They’re in front of the house, and it looks exactly the same as it did when I came up the drive.

Momma turns it over and reads the handwriting on the back. “?‘Marla and Jimmy, 1935.’?” I grab hungrily at the picture. Jimmy’s wearing a felt hat with a feather in the side. His nose is crooked like it was broken and never healed right. It doesn’t make him any less handsome though, in fact just the opposite.

I rub my finger over the photo like I’m reaching through time.

“Who’s Jimmy?” Shaun asks.

“Grandma’s cousin,” I start. “It’s terrible. He was—”

And Momma holds up a hand to stop me, sighs into her drink. “Another time. Another time.”

She’s right. Tonight’s a night to talk about Gigi, to reach for happy memories. So we do just that. Shaun launches into the time Gigi chased him through the house with a shoe for recording over an episode of General Hospital she hadn’t watched yet, and we pick at the spread Momma managed to cobble together from the meager options at the tiny local store—a roast that’s surprisingly tender, a big pot of turnip greens, a skillet of cornbread all brown around the edges.

“All we need is miracle bread,” I say. “Who’s making the miracle bread?”

The question makes me happy before it pains me. No one loved miracle bread like Jenny. I tug at the pearl bracelet circling my wrist. I’ve changed out of my dress, and the necklace is back in the box. I’m still wearing the bracelet.

“When are you going to give it to her?” Momma asks.

“This week, when we’re back.” I say it even though I don’t know if it’s true.

“What’s going on with you two anyway?”

“Come on, Momma, you know what’s going on.”

“No, I don’t, Riley, so you’ll have to use your words.” She says it exactly like she did when I was a toddler wordlessly begging for candy.

That’s the problem. I don’t have the words. It’s hard to pinpoint, let alone describe exactly what’s going on between us—this weird, unspoken rift. The longer we go without talking, the stranger it all feels, like we’re in an invisible fight and neither of us understands the rules.

A loud snore comes from the threadbare couch where Daddy is stretched out.

“I’m gonna let y’all two talk that out,” Shaun says, standing to kiss Momma, then me, before heading to the back bedroom. I’m exhausted from traveling and from the sadness of the day, though it’s nice to sit here with my mother at this sticky linoleum table full of empty glasses and crumbs. Momma must be more than a little tipsy, because she makes no move to clean up the mess. My mind swims as I consider how best to explain what’s going on with Jen, but Momma’s moved on. Her eyes are a little glassy—could be heartache, or moonshine.

“You know, I bought Gigi a scarf for Christmas.” Her voice is small. “I was hoping she’d hang on until then. I knew even if she did, she wouldn’t last much past Christmas, and then I thought maybe we could bury her with the scarf, and then when I thought about that, I didn’t want to give it to her at all.” She tears a napkin into long white shreds. “I should’ve given her the scarf.”

“Did you bring it down here?”

“Nah, I left it at home. It’s in a box in the top of my closet. Maybe you’ll wear it when we get back. It’d look nice on you. You and your grandmother have the same coloring, like a twice-toasted coconut. She always said that when you were a baby.”