I was just this way with my grandmother, and I’m filled with a purity of love and gratitude that’s unlike any other emotion I’ve ever felt. “Me too.” I kiss her head and she regains the shape of a girl. “I made some cranberry bread. It’s on the counter.”
“Not until you help us lug all this stuff upstairs,” Stephanie says.
Jasmine huffs. “Fine.”
My daughter, Stephanie, emerges with more dignity, pushing her glasses up on her head. She’s what we once would have called statuesque, though I haven’t heard anyone use that word in a long time—almost six feet tall, with a curvy figure, big breasts and broad hips, and thighs to carry her twenty miles a day if need be. Girls now own that body, wearing leggings to show off their curves, their tiny waists, but the body-positive movement came too late for Steph. Her wardrobe is unremarkable, very professional, suits and slacks and blouses designed to hide her bustiness. She keeps her blonde hair trimmed precisely to her shoulders and spends quite a lot of money on good cosmetics to enhance her gorgeous face—big eyes, wide mouth, great cheekbones. In many ways, she reminds me of my mother. Both lawyers. Both no-nonsense. Both too stubborn to do well in marriage. Stephanie has been divorced since Jasmine was in utero, and hasn’t let anyone else close. Her ex was a football player who went pro, and she had no patience for the lifestyle.
“Hello, Mom,” she says, bending to kiss my cheek, then unlocks the trunk. “She pretty much brought everything.”
That arrow of dread goes through my lungs again. She brought everything because they’ll be moving when Stephanie gets back. “I suppose that saves some time. Let’s get it all inside.”
Jasmine’s room is the one I used to live in, a cozy pine-paneled space at the back of the second floor, overlooking a forest grove. A window seat with cushions occupies the dormer, and one entire wall is lined with bookshelves. I stack boxes in one corner while Stephanie clops up the stairs and deposits a suitcase in front of the chest of drawers that’s been there as long as I can remember, sturdy wood painted a dozen times over the decades, and all the colors show in the chips and worn places. Jasmine drags two garbage bags into the room, opens one, and dumps the contents out on the bed. Her collection of stuffed animals tumbles out, approximately 750. I laugh. “Where will you sleep?”
She blinks. “With you. Obviously.”
“No,” Stephanie says. “We had that conversation. You’re a big girl. You don’t need to sleep with Nana anymore.”
“But I like it.” She dances over to me and slides her arms around my waist. Her head nearly reaches my chin. When did that happen?
“We’ll work it out,” I say. “Do you want to stay for dinner, Steph?”
She shakes her head. “No, I need to get back on the road. My flight leaves early tomorrow.”
I study her, feeling her pushing me away. “Sure?”
“I’m sure, Mom.” She shakes her head, like I’m a nag.
“Okay,” I say as mildly as possible. She’s stressed to the gills and I am almost sure to make it worse.
We all clatter back down the wooden stairs, Maui leading the way, pausing every few steps to look back over his shoulders. “We’re coming,” I say, exasperated. “Go.”
He races the rest of the way down and whirls around, waiting for Jasmine, who falls to her knees and scrubs his chest. “Such a good dog, yes, you are.”
Stephanie hesitates in the living room, her manicured hand tapping her smart watch. Her gaze is on Jasmine, and I glimpse a rare snippet of uncertainty.
In the pause, I offer, “Have a cup of coffee.”
“Sure. I can do that.”
I head into the big kitchen. It’s dated, with ’80s oak cupboards and a dropped ceiling I’d love to get rid of, but the light is good from a giant window that looks toward the forest. A big island makes the space usable. It’s a homey room, meant for a serious cook. A couple of years ago, Stephanie gave me a Keurig for Christmas along with a bunch of compostable pods, and although I had resisted for ages, I have to admit I love the damned thing. I take her favorite mug, hefty with a seafoam glaze, from the shelf and start the machine. “Everything ready to go?”
She slides onto a chair at the island. “I hope so. The movers are coming to box it up next week and I won’t be here, so—”
“I’m sure it’s perfection,” I say, and slide a saucer with cranberry bread toward her. She waves a hand in refusal, but I leave it there. “You must be so excited.”