Page 108 of Someone Like Me
I’m undone. At loose ends. I should dive into the repairs and lose myself in cylinders and gaskets, but instead, I dig out my phone.
Me: How’s it going?
It’s only been about thirty minutes since I left her, but I need to hear from her. It’s crazy and stupid and weak. But I need her.
And to my relief, her response is immediate.
Evie: S’ok. M&D wanted to talk now @ home. I nixed that. Having dinner @ Masala’s tonight.
I grin at her shorthand and her triumph.
Me: Good. Guess you can’t make it for pork chops. Grandma Q will be bummed.
She sends me a tearful emoji.
Evie: Can I come by after? I need the afternoon to yoga & meditate. Kind of nervous.
My brows draw together. I wish I could go with her. Just for moral support.
Me: You got this. And if things go south, just call for Collie.
Laughing emojis fill my screen.
Evie: KALI! And why do you think I chose an Indian restaurant?
My own laughter bounces through the garage. God, I love her.
Me: Ah. Got it. And yes. Please come over after.
I will see her in a few hours. The worry of moments ago eases.
Evie: I like you texting me.
She doesn’t need to know I couldn’t help myself.
Me: Good. I’m out of practice, but it’s fun.
“You can’t tell me that’s from burning cane.”
Grandma can’t speak yet, coughing viciously for the third time since we sat down to dinner, but she’s eyeing me with menace.
“I’ll be the one,” she rasps and then covers the cough with her napkin. “to say what it is.”
I narrow my gaze at her. “When did that start?”
She shakes her head, frowning, and points a gnarled finger at my plate. “Eat your pork chop.” Grandma Q clears her throat, and her voice comes out a little stronger. “It’s getting cold.”
My plate is a southern feast. Smothered pork chops in gravy. Rice. White beans. Cinnamon apples. My favorite meal of all time.
One glance at Grandma’s plate shows a stark contrast. She’s served herself a few morsels of meat, not even a whole chop, a little mound of rice and gravy, maybe a forkful of beans, and two apple slices.
“Aren’t you hungry?”
She shrugs like it’s nothing. “I tasted this and that too much while cooking to make sure everything was done just so,” she says, pushing her fork around on her plate. “Ate half my dinner standing at the stove.”
I’ve heard her complain of spoiling her appetite this way before, so I take another bite, wanting to appease her. She went to all this trouble for me, after all.
“Well, it’s great,” I say, and that’s the truth. It’s the second time she’s made pork chops for me since I’ve been back. The first time, I realize, was the night I met Evie. Here in this kitchen.
