“Oh no, Nina, you sit down and relax. You’re the guest of honor, and I’ve been feeding this family most of my life now. I can do it with my eyes closed.” It’s not my intention to disregard my hostess, but I am used to contributing with both hands. Besides, my movement is automatic since the scene is a familiar one. My mother prepared Jamaican dishes from scratch for every celebration, whether she was the host or not. Jerk pork, rice and peas, and oxtails were her specialties, and I was often her sous chef and junior waitress. At a later age I found myself chafing at the unfairness of the men and boys seated around a feast as the women and girls bustled around them. I hope to raise Xandra with the same interest in caring for her own family one day, minus the generational chauvinism. Back in Pasadena, Leo is a champ at busting suds when I prepare dinner.
“Leo and I can carry the rest,” I insist.
“Nina, don’t you let any of those boys in my kitchen, ruining my dinner. I worked all day on this. I don’t need any dirty thumbs getting in my side dishes. Please, please go sit down with Leo. Enjoy yourself,” Emily says with a warmth I can feel is genuine if not enhanced by a few gin and tonics and taking multiple items out of the oven.
“Okay. But let me know if you need help,” I concede, turning back to the table. My mother would have had the same response to an offer of men mucking up her kitchen.
“Your hair reminds me of pipe cleaners. Does it hurt to sleep on pipe cleaners?” my five-year-old dinner companion asks, with a mouth full of mashed potatoes. I’ve had similar questions before about my braids. It’s usually followed by asking if I got the pipe cleaners or straws or extensions from the prize box at the pediatrician’s office.
Jake nervously jumps in before I can respond to his son’s inquiry. “Why would you ask that? Are you trying to make silly conversation?” A parent frantically attempting to cover up an honest question coming from a curious kid is also something I’m used to. Twenty years in schools prepares you for every possible social interaction with a child and their parent. This is where I shine.
“I’ve never seen brown pipe cleaners. Only blue, yellow, green, and sometimes red ones.” My mini-journalist is fact-checking his past life experiences against the one he’s having right now. I like this line of critical thinking posed by a fair-headed boy to the most different person he’s probably come across in his short life. I also notice everyone at the table leaning in a little closer.
“Ah, so you all are kind of curious to know the answer, huh?” I suggest, maybe a bit too self-assuredly. I’m relieved to have the social propriety of not talking about my Blackness broken by a kindergartener.
“What else do you all want to know?” I embrace Marisol’s advice and decide to open the floor to answer any and all West family questions. I want Leo to see that if his family wants to get to know me, I’m open to sharing, but I sure hope this doesn’t turn into an episode of How the Black World Turns.
“So, you grew up with your mom, dad, and brother, is that right, Nina?” Emily asks first.
“And my best friend, Marisol. She spent most of her childhood being a Morgan. Lots of big personalities in my small family, so it always felt like we had a full house. The rest of our family lives in Jamaica.”
“And you have a daughter in high school too. Leo tells us she’s very smart. She attends a school outside New York City if I remember correctly. That’s quite a place to be.” Curtis pulls on his beard, probably trying to imagine living any place other than Omaha. I slide my hand onto Leo’s thigh. I’m touched he’s spoken so positively about Xandra given the fact that her cold war on him only began to thaw with the peace offering of AirPods.
“Yes, Xandra’s the best of me and the entire Morgan clan rolled into one. She goes to school near where her father lives, but I miss her every day. I really hope she comes back west for college.”
“I know a thing or two about missing your children when they move from home. I never expected mine would end up so far away.” Emily pauses for dramatic emphasis. “I will say, Omaha’s a very nice place to raise a family, good public schools in our area. I’ve been telling Julia and her husband that for years, but they don’t listen. They think Seattle’s the best place on Earth.”
“Mom, give it a rest. The West is a great place to raise a family,” Leo counters.
Ignoring her son, Emily continues, focused on me, “Leo had a wonderful time growing up here, and I’m sure there are plenty of opportunities for a lawyer at any one of the big firms in town. Wouldn’t you like to give your son or daughter the same solid, family-oriented childhood he had? There’s nothing wrong with a white picket fence,” Emily says, leaving me wondering if she’s joking or not. While Leo claims his mother is a woman without an agenda, I knew there had to be some iron will behind that sweater set. Obviously, Emily set herself a goal since Leo announced I was pregnant. I’m getting the impression that goal does not take into consideration my job, Xandra, Fitzroy, Marisol, or the fact that California has been my home for almost two decades.
“The Freemans just put their house on the market, you remember what a huge backyard they have, don’t you, Leo? They even have a pickleball court now. I bet I could get you two a tour for tomorrow.” Emily gives me a cursory nod, acknowledging that I’m hothousing the baby that is slated to grow up in the Freemans’ backyard. I squeeze Leo’s thigh tighter, cutting off circulation. Dear God above this flyover state, Operation Mixed Baby has gone awry. Someone please change the subject off this woman thinking there’s any chance in hell of raising my baby in Omaha. Or me playing pickleball.
“So, Leo, are you Nina’s first taste of vanilla, or has she been to Baskin-Robbins before?” Bachelor Karl throws out for the save. Is there any chance he knows Marisol?
NINETEEN
Leo, are we ever going to talk about Karl’s question from dinner the other night? You know, the one that almost sent your aunt Nancy into a seizure.” In exchange for a quickie in his childhood bedroom that now doubles as Emily’s crafting studio, Leo has agreed to fifteen minutes of postcoital pillow talk about how the trip has gone before Curtis takes us to the airport. In a twin the only way for us to talk face-to-face is with me sitting on top of Leo, but the girls are proving distracting. I reach over to grab my sweatshirt off the floor, but the baby that is now the size of a basketball stops me short from being able to reach the carpet. Leo sighs in disappointment that the peep show is over and hands me the sweatshirt.
“Come on, Aunt Nancy barely flinched. You can’t spend forty-five-plus years at a dinner table of mostly boys and be that soft. Or sensitive. Actually, what you saw as a seizure was probably shock that for the first time in forever the conversation avoided all matters of bathroom humor. A universally favored topic of males everywhere.” Leo speaks as authoritatively on male eating rituals as he does about the legality of various tax loopholes.
“You’re the one being ultrasensitive because you’ve spent most of your life at a table of strong women. You’re not trained up to dine with men. And don’t tell me I don’t know what I’m talking about. I’ve been at your table, and I’m here to tell you your dinner topics don’t land in the gutter like ours do. Do you know how many times I’ve had to excuse myself to go to the bathroom and let one out not to offend your family? Growing up we would just lift a cheek, let it rip, and devolve into hysterics before asking for seconds.”