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"I've offended you. I'm sorry." She turned off the water and came to stand near me.
“Is it bad? Let me see.”
"No, it's fine." She hesitated, clearly unsure about what to do next. "Do you like granola?"
"Sure, that's fine." I had a sense that I should be agreeable, even though it was clear neither of us wanted to be here.
"Go sit. I'll get us some yogurt and granola, and then I'll tell you the story of your mother and me."
What she told me left me wondering if I knew my mother at all.
Aunt Biddie had grown up with her sister, my grandmother, in this very house. "My sister was always the normal one, and I was the black sheep. My sister married a man our parentsloved and proceeded to have a beautiful baby girl, who was your mother.
“When I was twenty, I had a terrible falling-out with your grandparents. It was a fight so bad we vowed to never speak again. As it turns out, we kept our promises. I moved to San Francisco and lived life exactly as I pleased. Which, by the way, was not at all how my father wished me to live." She got up to pour herself another cup of coffee. She'd barely touched her granola and yogurt, and I had to stop myself from reminding her to eat. That was a habit I'd gotten into with my mom, as she often had little appetite and was always so thin. From what I could gather, under that caftan was another skinny Young woman.
She returned to the table and drew her hands together under her chin, taking in a deep breath. “Years went by. Your mother grew up and graduated from high school. That summer after she finished school, your grandparents and great-grandparents were all killed in a car accident. They’d been out to see a play at the Intiman Theatre. I don’t know why that detail always stuck with me, but it did. Regardless, just like that, your mother was an orphan. She'd planned to attend university but decided not to go.”
“She got pregnant with me instead.”
“That’s what I gathered,” Aunt Biddie said. “I heard through friends of the family that she’d had a baby daughter. Over the years, I thought about reaching out, but it had been such a long time, and she didn't really know me. Every time I thought about how much I’d like to know her, I thought of a dozen reasons she wouldn’t want to know me.”
“She would have,” I said.
“Did she ever talk about her family?”
I shook my head. “Only that her parents had died and that she had an aunt who had left the family years ago.”
Aunt Biddie nodded, her gaze focused downward. A muscle in her left cheek pulsed. Was she a teeth-grinder like my mother?
“You look like her,” I said.
She lifted her gaze, seeming to take me in anew. “I’m sorry about what happened, kiddo. Depression sucks.”
“Are you depressed?” I scrutinized her for signs. If she was like my mother I might be better off with a foster family. But what did signs even look like?
“No, fortunately it skipped me. My sister—your grandmother—had low periods, though. I can remember weeks she didn’t get out of bed.”
“Mom had those too. But she’d been better. The doctor had her on a new medication…” I trailed off, not sure what else to say.
“How do you feel about moving in here with me? Living here permanently?”
“Do you know anything about kids?”
“Not a thing,” she said. “But I suppose I could learn. Anyway, you don’t seem like most kids I’ve met.”
“What do you mean?” Why must I always seem different to others? All I wanted was to fit in.
“You’ve had to grow up faster than most. It’s made you more mature than other eleven-year-olds.”
I didn't know what to say to that. Was that true? I knew only that I was grateful she was willing to take me in. "I don't want to go to foster care."
"You won't. Not as long as I have a breath in my body."
“I’ll do whatever you want me to. Cook, clean, whatever.”
“You’ll have chores, but your primary job will be to go to school.”
“Do you mind having me here?” I asked quietly.
