What Lies Beyond the Veil(Of Flesh & Bone #1)(59)

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Granddaddy leaves so early the next morning it’s still dark outside. I think the insects even sleep cause I don’t hear no crickets chirping and I don’t see no fireflies twinkling. I lay on the couch listening to the creak of the screen door as Granddaddy goes in and out. Carrying out his fishing rod, then his cooler, then some stuff I don’t recognize that I think is for catching the fish. I wonder if he ever took Momma fishing when she was a girl. I try to imagine them together, him teaching her the names of all the little parts. I bet Momma loved riding on Granddaddy’s shoulders. I imagine him carrying her—running—cause this was before he walked so slow. I bet when Momma smiled her ice cream cone smile at Granddaddy, it made him melt.

But now, Momma and Granddaddy barely even talk. When I think bout all Momma done missed with Granddaddy—all we done missed with Granddaddy—it makes me wanna grab on to his ankles and beg him not to go.

But I don’t, cause I’m s’posed to be too old for stuff like that now. When it’s time for Granddaddy to go, Nia comes from the room and they talk by the front door. I try to sneak and listen but can only hear some of it cause the fan in the corner of the room keeps circling back and forth. All I can make out is some stuff bout emergency phone numbers and a first-aid kit. Grown-up stuff, but the boring kind. Cept now, the grown-up is Nia, which don’t make no sense. She’s still a kid just like me.

“I’m gon’ get on outta here,” Granddaddy says louder, looking at me now. “Don’t wanna keep the fish waiting.” He winks, and I can’t help but smile.

“Have fun,” I say, and I really mean it. I don’t want Granddaddy to have a bad time on his fishing trip just cause I gotta be stuck here with stupid ol’ Nia.

“Bye, Granddaddy,” Nia says as she shuts the door behind him. Then we both sit there without saying nothin’, til finally we hear the crunch of his tires on the gravel as he pulls out the driveway. The curtains in the living room let just a sliver of light in from the climbing sun.

“You hungry?” Nia asks. I wanna ignore her, but I can’t ignore the loud grumble my belly just made. So I simply shrug.

Once she’s in the kitchen I don’t watch, but I listen. I hear the click of the stove as she turns on a burner. Usually she just microwaves oatmeal or pours bowls of cereal, so I ain’t sure what she needs the stove for. I hear her rumbling around in the pantry, pulling out a few things, then going back for more. Once, then twice, then three times. Now I’m curious.

I sit up from my spot on the couch and lean forward, just barely so that my neck and head can peek around the corner to the kitchen. I see Nia with her back to me, placing the big cast-iron skillet on the stove. On the counter beside her I see flour, baking powder, salt, sugar, eggs, and oil. Then she goes back in the pantry one more time and I bet I know what she gon’ get. Brown sugar and cinnamon, cause she’s making pancakes like Momma.

I wanna get closer to watch, but I don’t wanna give Nia that satisfaction. Instead, I watch from right where I am, as Nia takes out a large bowl and starts the mix. I’ve watched Momma make pancakes more times than I can even count. She’s made it the same exact way all my life, never changing a single measurement. I bet I could make ’em just by all that watching, if I tried. But I ain’t ever seen Nia watching Momma, so I don’t know how she got the recipe.

Either way, she’s doin’ it just right. Her hands even look like Momma’s when she moves. She pours in the flour, then the baking soda, then the salt. Separates the eggs with steady hands. Adds the yolk to the mix, then beats the whites so fast, looks like her arm is one of them electric mixers. She melts butter in the skillet til it sizzles as she finishes the rest. Just like Momma, she saves the brown sugar and cinnamon for last.

I wonder why she’s making pancakes now, when it don’t matter no more. I hope she don’t think it’s gon’ fix us. The butter finishes melting, and Nia pours half into the mix, filling the kitchen with a sweet, buttery smell that reminds me of Momma.

I lay back on the couch and enjoy the aroma as I stare at the ceiling. I miss sleeping in the room cause ain’t no crack in the ceiling out here. Everything is neatly in its place, cept for me with heavy covers that I lug out from the linen closet every night. At some point, I thought I would go back to sleeping in the room, cause the couch is lumpy and it can be scary sleeping in the front all alone. But I don’t want Nia to think I came back cause of her, so I drag them big covers out, night after night.

The sweet smells from the kitchen fill my nose and the sweet sound of nothin’ fills my ears. I close my eyes for just a second, but it turns out to be more than a second cause then Nia is standing in front of me and shaking my shoulder.

“KB,” she whispers, “breakfast is ready.” I blink a couple times to wake up, then nod. I figure a nod ain’t quite talking. Nia heads back into the kitchen. I can hear the scrape of her chair on the floor as she pulls it out, then sits down at the table. I yawn, stretch, then stand and follow.

The table is full of food that looks too good to eat. A plate of bacon and sausage with a paper towel beneath, soaked through with oil. Fluffy eggs peeking out from one bowl and chunks of fruit in another. Then golden, buttery pancakes right in the middle. I can’t help but grin when I see it all. If I ain’t know better, I might think Momma been here making breakfast and humming.