here,” I said, exasperated. “I’ve been worried sick about you all day and I’m thrilled to see you here, but . . . how?” I looked to Mrs. Wentworth, who had taken another dainty bite. “Did the super let them in?”
My mom half turned from reaching into the refrigerator. She locked eyes with Mrs. Wentworth and then with Nana. Like a shared joke.
Mrs. Wentworth chewed, then swallowed, as Nana poured hot water over a new teabag. “Why don’t I let your mother tell you?”
“Mom?”
With her back to me, my mom shook her head. Her voice was a playful scold. “Why didn’t you tell us?”
How could I have told them? I’d been debriefed in meetings all morning. But that didn’t mean they hadn’t seen it on the news. “Tell you?” I asked. “You mean about the dead guest?”
The three of them stopped. My mom turned. “What dead guest?”
“The one at the—” I stopped myself. Living with my mom and nana as I had for years before striking out on my own had prepared me for such disjointed conversations. But it had been a long time and I was out of practice. With my fist against my forehead and the other hand raised to halt further talk until my brain could catch up, I grabbed the floor before anyone else could beat me to it. “First things first. Tell me how you got here, and how you got in.”
The alarm in their eyes at my “dead guest” comment hovered a moment, but they read my anxiety and decided to let the matter drop, for now. Their faces relaxed into tiny, conspiratorial smiles.
My mom set a plate of food in front of me, but I didn’t even notice what she’d prepared because her eyes met mine and held tight. “Tom,” she said.
“Tom?” I felt slow and stupid. My mother and nana had never met Tom. I’d mentioned him a few times, sure, but I’d held back on waxing too poetic on our relationship. I’d had serious boyfriends before and sometimes I thought Mom took the breakups harder than I did. I wasn’t about to put her through another one, although I held out hope that this particular relationship would continue to evolve. “Tom let you in?”
Nana settled herself in the chair to my left. She reached over and clasped my forearm. “Why didn’t you tell us he was so tall? And so handsome?” She laughed. “Tommy is a serious beau, isn’t he?”
Heat shot up my face. “Tommy?”
My mom laughed. “Nana started calling him that on the ride over here. I think he likes it.”
“The ride over here?” Again, I tried to stop my mind from reeling. “Start at the beginning,” I asked again. “Please.”
Nana pointed. “Eat.”
I dug my fork into the heaping food on my plate. Homemade meat loaf. Whipped potatoes with a pat of butter swimming in the crater’s center. I used to pretend my mashed potatoes were a volcano and the butter its lava. Green beans. Standard fare in homes around the world, this meal offered a savory taste of memory in every bite. My mom watched me from across my kitchen, beaming.
I forked off another small portion of meat loaf and watched the tender ooze before I took a bite. “Okay,” I said, almost unable to contain my joy at eating favorite homemade foods that I hadn’t prepared myself, “I’m eating. Now, all of you, tell me what’s been happening here.”
Mom set a glass of Pepsi in front of me, and the chilled can next to it. I was usually a water fanatic, but today I needed the treat. I took a long swallow and thanked her.
“Can I get you anything else?”
“Just sit down, please,” I asked. “And talk to me.”
As my mom took the chair to my right, I again noticed the group’s conspiratorial air. It was disconcerting to sit in one’s own kitchen and to be the only one not in on the whole story. I waited, firmly committed to staying mum until I got the answers that, despite their attempts to be coy, the three of them were clearly bursting to tell me.
“Our plane touched down right on time,” my mom began.
Nana added, “You
My mom half turned from reaching into the refrigerator. She locked eyes with Mrs. Wentworth and then with Nana. Like a shared joke.
Mrs. Wentworth chewed, then swallowed, as Nana poured hot water over a new teabag. “Why don’t I let your mother tell you?”
“Mom?”
With her back to me, my mom shook her head. Her voice was a playful scold. “Why didn’t you tell us?”
How could I have told them? I’d been debriefed in meetings all morning. But that didn’t mean they hadn’t seen it on the news. “Tell you?” I asked. “You mean about the dead guest?”
The three of them stopped. My mom turned. “What dead guest?”
“The one at the—” I stopped myself. Living with my mom and nana as I had for years before striking out on my own had prepared me for such disjointed conversations. But it had been a long time and I was out of practice. With my fist against my forehead and the other hand raised to halt further talk until my brain could catch up, I grabbed the floor before anyone else could beat me to it. “First things first. Tell me how you got here, and how you got in.”
The alarm in their eyes at my “dead guest” comment hovered a moment, but they read my anxiety and decided to let the matter drop, for now. Their faces relaxed into tiny, conspiratorial smiles.
My mom set a plate of food in front of me, but I didn’t even notice what she’d prepared because her eyes met mine and held tight. “Tom,” she said.
“Tom?” I felt slow and stupid. My mother and nana had never met Tom. I’d mentioned him a few times, sure, but I’d held back on waxing too poetic on our relationship. I’d had serious boyfriends before and sometimes I thought Mom took the breakups harder than I did. I wasn’t about to put her through another one, although I held out hope that this particular relationship would continue to evolve. “Tom let you in?”
Nana settled herself in the chair to my left. She reached over and clasped my forearm. “Why didn’t you tell us he was so tall? And so handsome?” She laughed. “Tommy is a serious beau, isn’t he?”
Heat shot up my face. “Tommy?”
My mom laughed. “Nana started calling him that on the ride over here. I think he likes it.”
“The ride over here?” Again, I tried to stop my mind from reeling. “Start at the beginning,” I asked again. “Please.”
Nana pointed. “Eat.”
I dug my fork into the heaping food on my plate. Homemade meat loaf. Whipped potatoes with a pat of butter swimming in the crater’s center. I used to pretend my mashed potatoes were a volcano and the butter its lava. Green beans. Standard fare in homes around the world, this meal offered a savory taste of memory in every bite. My mom watched me from across my kitchen, beaming.
I forked off another small portion of meat loaf and watched the tender ooze before I took a bite. “Okay,” I said, almost unable to contain my joy at eating favorite homemade foods that I hadn’t prepared myself, “I’m eating. Now, all of you, tell me what’s been happening here.”
Mom set a glass of Pepsi in front of me, and the chilled can next to it. I was usually a water fanatic, but today I needed the treat. I took a long swallow and thanked her.
“Can I get you anything else?”
“Just sit down, please,” I asked. “And talk to me.”
As my mom took the chair to my right, I again noticed the group’s conspiratorial air. It was disconcerting to sit in one’s own kitchen and to be the only one not in on the whole story. I waited, firmly committed to staying mum until I got the answers that, despite their attempts to be coy, the three of them were clearly bursting to tell me.
“Our plane touched down right on time,” my mom began.
Nana added, “You
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