Can't Get Enough (Skyland, #3)(131)

We step into the kitchen and I open the refrigerator, contemplating a late-night square of Aunt Geneva’s lasagna.

“It’s even better the next day.” I lift the foil from the pan slotted between other dishes. “And, yes, I know technically she just cooked it today, but you know what I mean.”

Sheila E settles into the bed I keep in here for her and falls into a light snooze. A muffled sound makes me pause reaching for a plate. I leave the kitchen, guided to the living room by the sound of soft footsteps and muttered speech. Mama paces in front of the living room window, every few seconds stopping to pull the curtain back.

“I told that man,” Mama mutters, the lapels of her robe gripped between her fingers as she walks a worn path in front of the window. “Old stubborn fool.”

Oh, please no.

My shoulders droop and my heart plummets. There is a part of me that wants to run and bring Aunt Geneva to handle this, for her to be the one who steps back in time to one of the most painful nights of our family’s history and bring Mama home.

But I’m here.

“Mama,” I say, keeping my voice low and even. “It’s late. Come on to bed.”

“Bed?” She whirls around, brows furrowed with worry, one of her rollers slipping from a curl. “I can’t. Your daddy still ain’t back. I told him not to go get me that ice cream.”

Her features soften into affection. “You know how he gets, though. He was determined I’d have that ice cream before bed. He’s been gone for what seems like hours, though.”

More and more, the present is becoming a foreign, fractured world of strangers. The past is familiar. The love of her life is there, alive and hale. Whole. Frozen in their best days. Is it selfish to keep trying to drag her back here? Are we the comfort? Or are we the ghosts? Having seen that fresh devastation in her eyes, I’ll never tell her again. The truth is not the most important thing. Her peace is.

“He’ll be back, Mama.”

At my words, her frightened eyes do a slow slide from the empty street beyond the window and over to me. “He will?”

“Yes, ma’am.” I approach and slip my elbow through the crook of hers. “I’m thinking while we wait, maybe we should watch a movie or something.”

“A movie? We haven’t done that in a long time.” Her expression brightens, but she searches my face as if for confirmation. “Have we?”

“No, you’re right. We haven’t.” I guide us into the living room and settle Mama on the couch.

Mama still has a DVD player because she always insisted she’d need it to play her favorite movies. I blow the dust off the technological relic and rummage through the basket of discs she always keeps close by until I find the one I’m looking for.

“Sister Act!” I grin triumphantly and hold up the tattered disc.

“Two?” Mama asks suspiciously.

“The first one is better,” I say, smiling at our old argument. “You know that.”

“But the second one has L. Boogie.”

My seventy-five-year-old mother calling Lauryn Hill “L. Boogie” has me cackling, but I just nod and slip the disc in. As usual, when we reach Lauryn’s solo, “His Eye Is on the Sparrow,” Mama hums along. We both do. As the credits roll, Mama turns to me, staring at my profile long enough that I’m forced to turn and meet her eyes.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

“You see that poem right there?” She nods to the opposite wall where “Footprints” has hung for as long as I can remember. It’s always been one of Mama’s favorites.

“Of course.” I shift to settle more comfortably against the cushions. “What about it?”

“You ever really read it?”

I glance from her to the wall, allowing my eyes to skim the familiar stanzas. “Sure. I mean, not in a long time, but I know it. The person says they see two sets of footprints, but at the lowest times of their life, it’s just one set.”

“Right, and they ask God why He left when things were hardest.”

“Yeah, I know it almost by heart,” I say wryly.

“I read it now and think about it differently.” She swallows and fiddles with one of her Velcro rollers. “When I look at those disappearing footsteps now, I see us.”

“Us?” My brows pinch into a frown. “You and me?”

“I’m the one vanishing, Hen.” She breathes out shakily. “I’m scared of the day when my body is still here, but I’m gone for good. I mean in my mind, gone for good.”

“You are here.” I cup her jaw, urging her to look at me. “You’re here with me, Mama, and I’m gonna take care of you. You hear me?”

Silence greets my question, but after a few seconds, she nods, a single tear streaking down her cheek. I swipe it away with my thumb and pull her close.

“I’m not going anywhere, Mama. When those footsteps disappear, that’s me carrying you. I will never leave you alone or in the dark by yourself. Okay?”

She offers a shaky smile and leans into my arm, her head dropping to my shoulder. I force myself not to move, but sorrow and determination and gratitude and resentment and a thousand disparate emotions war inside me. While I choke back my own tears, Mama slides down until her head rests in my lap.