Honey Girl(70)

Things don’t break apart in space.

This is not space.

When she gets in the car, Mom asks, “So how did it go?”

Grace squeezes her eyes shut and cries. She cries at digging her hands in some of that sludge and getting permission to let it go. Clear it out. Break it down.

“Shhh,” Mom says, rubbing her back. “It’s gonna be okay, kid.”

Grace, with everything she’s got in her, wants to believe that’s true.



Seventeen


It’s early October and the start of the harvest season. Grace sees Heather once a week. She has a psychiatrist and a prescription for two small pills she takes every day.

She doesn’t know if they’re working yet, but she takes them each morning dutifully. She wonders if this is how Agnes felt, with Grace and Ximena watching over her like it was part of their morning routine, wondering if these little pills would help untangle the wires in her brain.

So, Grace takes her pills. Heather suggests a hobby. “School locked you into a routine for a long time,” she says in one of their sessions. She’s wearing a pink suit that looks like a sunset. It’s hard for Grace to feel mad at her, and sometimes she does feel mad, when Heather looks like a sunset. “Maybe getting that routine back will help orient you a little.”

“What should I do? I don’t have any hobbies.”

Heather smiles. “I can’t give you all the answers. I can only give you the resources and help you navigate through the journey of finding them on your own.”

So, Grace works at the fresh market four mornings a week. It’s good work. The heavy lifting and haggling of prices distract her. She and the other vendors hide under their booths and eat fruit when it gets too hot. It’s good.

She comes home stained with orange juice and a little money in her pocket—half she gives to Mom and Kelly, and her share split with one of the grove workers, Yosvani, since he helps her lug the crates she brings to the market. She collapses on her bed even though she needs a shower because she smells like citrus and the cucumbers from the next stand over.

Mom knocks on the door and tosses her phone on the bed. “Somebody’s been asking about you,” she says, sipping at what looks like a margarita.

It’s only noon, but honestly all Grace can think is mood.

“Who?” she asks. She turned her own phone off after that ridiculous group text over a month ago. She knows she will have hell to pay when she finally enters the real world again, but it feels—not necessarily good—but right, sorting out the mess in her head without worrying that she will look weak in front of anyone else besides Heather.

Soon, she thinks. But not yet.

Mom plays with her straw. “Colonel James Porter,” she says brightly. “Or, Sharone, but you know. He’s been wanting to talk to you.”

Grace shoves her face in her pillows. If she suffocates, it would solve a lot of her problems. Heather would probably say that’s unproductive. Heather also made her talk about the expectations she always felt—learned—she had as a Porter, and so talking to Colonel feels like pressing on an open wound.

“What if I just didn’t call him back?” she asks. “He would let that slide, right? He would totally let that happen, right?”

Mom slurps her drink. “Sure,” she says. “I’ll let you believe that if you really want to.”

Grace lets out a long sigh. “I don’t want him to be disappointed in me. I’m not—I’m not doing anything we agreed on. I ripped the plan to complete shreds.” She looks up at Mom. “He’ll never forgive me for that.”

“There’s nothing to forgive,” she says. She perches on the edge of the bed. “Listen, I know you’ve always been eager to meet his expectations. But, Porter, they’re his expectations. You just have to be his kid. Our kid. You’re not perfect, and God knows you never could be, with parents like us.” She leans over and kisses Grace’s hair. “I think you’re doing pretty good, though.”

Grace groans. “Can’t I just have a minute?”

“Sure,” Mom says again, standing up. The liquid in her glass never wavers. “You have one minute, then you should probably make that call. I believe in you, Grace Porter,” she says over her shoulder.

Grace stares at the ceiling. Last week Kelly put up some plastic stars for her. They’re not the familiar ones from her room in Portland. These are Florida plastic stars that glow blue instead of green. These are still Grace’s stars, in Grace’s room.

She picks up the phone and dials.

“Hey, Mel,” Sharone answers. “I didn’t think I’d hear back from you so soon.”

Grace swallows. “Yeah, me, either,” she says. “Hi, Sharone.”

She hears a door shutting before Sharone whispers into the phone. “Porter, is that you?”

She clenches her hands in the bedsheets. “It’s me. I’m here.”

“And thank Black Jesus for that,” Sharone says. “You really had Mel calling to give us updates on you? At your big age? Since when do you up and go silent on us? You owe us a little more respect than that.”

Grace nods before she realizes she can’t be seen. “I hear you. I won’t do it again, I promise.”