With the Fire on High(50)
“Yeah, Mrs. Palmer bought some Children’s Tylenol. And she was nasty to me as usual and she said I was irresponsible and talked about custody and I didn’t know where you were.”
’Buela’s mouth becomes a hard, white line. “You called Mrs. Palmer? And she said what about custody?”
I sniffle back the tears. “No, the daycare called Tyrone. Tyrone called his mother. They didn’t know who else to contact. And I think she was just being mean, not serious, but she did mention something about my being unfit.”
We stand there unmoving. Unblinking. Babygirl breaks the silence with a sniffle, her little face scrunched up into a red and silent cry. ’Buela reaches for her, but I get there first and pull Babygirl out of her grasp. “It’s okay, baby. I’m here. Mommy’s here.”
I begin to carry her out of the room but turn around before walking through the doorway. “’Buela, why have you been going to the doctor so much?” I raise myself to my full height. I can take whatever she throws at me.
’Buela fiddles with her wedding band before looking at me. “I’m not sick, Emoni. I’ve lied to you. I haven’t had all those doctor’s appointments. I just needed a private afternoon with my thoughts where I’m not in this house. Where I’m Gloria again, and not only ’Buela. I don’t know how to explain it. And I don’t want to talk about it.”
I bury my face into Babygirl’s neck so neither one of them can see the tears in my eyes, the relief laced with hurt.
Holidays
’Buela always treated Christmas like she would if she was still on the island, which means that Christmas Eve was a huge deal. A big-ass pernil dinner and coquito, and I got to stay up late and open my gifts at midnight. Then, on Christmas Day I would go to Angelica’s house and have Christmas dinner with them and watch holiday specials on TV. It was the best of both worlds. And with Babygirl I try to bring in both traditions, feed her both days, let her open gifts both days. Thankfully she’s over her cold and able to enjoy the holiday. And although I’m too old to ask for gifts or expect much, I never know how to react when people get me a gift.
Angelica has me open an elaborately wrapped box, and inside is a really pretty wrap dress that she found at the thrift store and said made her think of me. It’s a beautiful dark red and the skirt swirls around my knees. I feel older. Like the woman I always say I am. I baked her a dozen colorful macarons. It took me forever to get them right, but when Angelica opens the bakery box and sees the orange, blue, and pink desserts, I’m glad I kept trying batch after batch. She pulls one out of the box like it’s a piece of expensive jewelry. Then she stuffs the whole thing in her mouth and grins, her teeth covered in spun sugar.
On Christmas morning, my cell phone vibrates and I wake up to Malachi, his deep voice breaking on the high notes of a Christmas carol, and it’s so silly but also beautiful. I just cradle the phone and wonder at the different kinds of gifts we can give one another.
’Buela and I have been quietly tiptoeing around each other since the day Babygirl came home sick, but the holiday throws open the curtains and lets light diminish, or at least hide, the remnants of our awkward conversation.
On New Year’s Eve I send Aunt Sarah a picture of her black-eyed peas recipe. I simmered them in a compote of purple grapes, which is not a part of Aunt Sarah’s original recipe, but ‘Buela says eating grapes at midnight means good fortune for the new year, and in her notes, Aunt Sarah said the same for black-eyed peas. So I figured combining both would double my luck in this coming year.
The rest of my break is fine. I spend a lot of it working afternoons at the Burger Joint, finishing homework assignments due after the break, snapping pictures of Babygirl, and cuddling with her on the couch. I finished my Common App college essay just in time to meet most of the deadlines on January 1. I applied to all the schools that Ms. Fuentes and I discussed, but my heart isn’t into them, not even Drexel and its dope culinary arts program. The closer we get to graduation, the more I feel like I want to be doing, not spending four years pretending to do.
New Year, New Recipes
It’s my first day back at school after the break, and during Culinary Arts, Chef Ayden gives us our final itinerary for the trip.
At work, I knock softly on the manager’s door. Steve doesn’t like being “loudly interrupted.”
“Steve? It’s Emoni. May I speak with you? Please.”
“Enter,” he calls through the door, like he’s some sort of king in Game of Thrones. He already sounds annoyed. I push the door open and peek my head in. I try not to roll my eyes. Although he’s quick to close the screen he’s looking at on the computer, a tab stays open for his social media. Clearly, he’s getting a lot of work done. “What can I do for you, Emoni? I hope this isn’t another schedule change.”
Even though Steve has an empty chair across from his desk, I stay standing. I clear my throat and look around at the chipped-paint walls and corners cluttered with boxes. Everywhere but at Steve. “Kind of. I was hoping—”
He slaps a hand on his desk. “I hope you aren’t going to ask me for another favor. I already make too many concessions for you as it is. You need to be home early on school nights. You can only work afternoon on Saturdays because you have to get your daughter ready for . . . something. You can’t work Sundays because you need to help your grandmother. It’s always an excuse with you. I’m trying to run a business here, Emoni. Not an extracurricular training program for struggling moms.”