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Abey went to work, and I hurried home early the next morning to shower and change my clothes.
I’d almost made it to my bedroom before my mom stopped me. “You didn’t text me last night,” she said. “You do remember promisin’ me you’d always text if you weren’t comin’ home, right? I don’t need to know what you get up to or where you are, but it would be nice to know my daughter hasn’t become roadkill out on Route 20.”
“Ah, shit,” I breathed, freezing mid-step as she surprised me in the hallway. “I’m sorry, Mom. I totally forgot.”
I could feel her eyes on me. I had always been able to.
“I’m glad to see you’re in one piece.”
Turning in my bedroom door, I couldn’t wipe the smile off my face for all the money in the world. I hid my arms behind my back and stepped forward to kiss her cheek, feeling all kinds of guilty. It seemed weird to reach out to hug her with the hands I’d had inside Abey’s body all night long.
She uncrossed her arms, the long sleeves of the teal and coral floral cashmere robe I’d given her for Christmas last year falling over her hands at her sides. That thing had cost a pretty penny, but working at Ace’s House, I could afford it, and she was worth the expense. And she loved her robe. She said she wished she could wear it to work, it was so soft.
“Well, you gonna tell me who she is?”
Twisting my lips, trying to hide my perma-smile, I said, “Remember the deputy who arrested me? The one I said was annoyin’?”
“Devona!”
“Oh, Mom, relax. It’s not like I traded sexual favors for my freedom.”
She cocked her head, her kind eyes inspecting my face, and the long braid she wore to sleep every night slipped over her shoulder and fell down her back. I wasn’t sure what she saw when she looked at me, but the annoyance she’d felt over worrying about me disappeared.
“I haven’t seen you smile like this in a long time, at least not about anything outside of your work at the center. It warms my heart, Devil. Is it serious?”
“Mm. I don’t know. I-I’m not sure.”
“C’mon,” she said. “I’ve got the coffee brewin’ already. We can have a cup, and you can tell me.”
While she fixed our coffee, I watched her, even more grateful for her now. To know—to take for granted, really—that she’d always been there for me, that I could talk to her about sex, that she supported me in whatever I wanted to do had been such a freeing thing in my life.
My mom gave me confidence and strength, and I realized as I listened to her humming an old Chiricahua song that she was the reason I felt like I could make a difference in the world. That I could fight it. And when the lilting sounds she made settled inside me, like the notes of the music had inked themselves on my bones because the song had been such a solid part of my childhood, I realized that maybe I could try to be more like my mom.
Maybe she had been right the eight thousand times she’d tried to tell me that I could fight injustice much harder with my heart than I could with my mouth or my fist.
She was a wise woman, and I respected her more than anyone else in the world.
“I love you, Mom,” I said when she set my coffee in front of me. She’d even added a little frothed milk on top, just like I liked. She’d bought a ten-dollar battery-operated frother just so she could spoil me a little ’cause she knew how much I loved the silky taste of cappuccinos.
“‘Sil n’zhoo,” she said with a warm smile as she patted my hand on the counter. I love you in our native Apache language. It was beautiful, and the softness of her voice warmed me. Made me feel safe and loved.
She sat across from me at the long kitchen island. “I have somethin’ I need to say before you tell me all about your new love?—”
“Wait, I didn’t say—” My heart almost burst out of my chest when she used the word “love.” How could she know that already?
“I lost my job, Devona.”
“What?” I stood, all thoughts of love and sex pushed to the back of mind. My mom loved that job, and we’d depended on her income from the school for as long as I could remember. “They fired you? They can’t do that!”
“Sit down. Please.”
But I couldn’t sit. Not at a time like this. What did this mean?
“It’s not just me. They’re closin’ the elementary school. There just aren’t enough kids enrolled this year. It doesn’t make sense to spend all that money to run a building for seventeen kids. They’ll all get bussed to nearby schools like the older kids. So there’s no need for a lunch lady anymore. I already looked into it, and they’re already fully staffed in Corner Junction.”
She sighed, a look of heartbreak on her face as she stirred the coconut milk in her coffee with her spoon. “We’ll have to depend on your income for a while. I don’t make enough from my crafts to cover all the bills.”
I was already nodding. “That’s okay. I can cover it. I’ve been tryin’ to pay for stuff, but you keep pushin’ my money away.”
