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Living in New York meant that I called the shots and cherry-picked the information I shared with my family. My parents and sister had no way of knowing I broke up with my boyfriend. No one could tell them.
Other than Dean Cole.
I made a mental note to fire Dean a text about keeping his pipe shut.
“So, Rosie, how’s work?” Mama asked through the background noise of a lively kitchen, pulling the casserole out of the oven with her flowery mitts. The scent of beef, onion, and fat egg noodles floated throughout the room, crawling into my nose and making my stomach growl. Millie licked her lips, gazing at the dish like it was Jamie Dornan. She didn’t normally like casseroles, but maybe she had realized how fundamentally wrong she was, because Mama’s casseroles were the eighth wonder of the world. I was just about to answer Mama’s question when she cut me off. Again.
“My sweet girl, are you hungry? Have a seat. I’ll give you a piece right now.” She patted my older sister’s back. I clamped my mouth shut, waiting to see if she’d prompt me to answer her previous question. If she really gave a damn about my job.
Mama ran from corner to corner, fixing Millie a plate while I stood there, arms folded, watching the scene. Charlene LeBlanc was an old-school Southern belle, down to her very core, and catering to people—especially her children—ran in her blood, thick and vital like oxygen. But there was something else there. The urgency in which she fed Millie, like my sister was incapable, or alternatively, had lost all her teeth.
“Rosie? Would you like some, too?” She glanced behind her shoulder as she opened the fridge, taking out a pitcher of her signature homemade iced tea. Peach pieces floated lazily on top, and drool pooled in my mouth.
I wanted both, but to my surprise, heard myself saying, “No, thank you.”
Mama turned around and brushed Millie’s lavender hair away from her forehead. “Is the casserole good for you? I know that it’s your favorite.”
Millie nodded, taking another bite, and my insides just about detonated.
“Actually,” I opened the fridge, making myself at home—not that Mama had made me feel particularly welcome—“Millie’s favorite food is your pulled pork sandwiches. Noodle and beef casserole is my favorite.” I plucked a beer bottle from one of the doors—of course, the fridge was a double-door and about as spacious as our previous Sunnyside apartment. Twisting the bottle cap, I took a swig. It was still early to be drinking, but I guess it was five o’clock somewhere in the universe. Wherever it was, that was where I wanted to be.
My sister and Mama stared at me through a curtain of sheer surprise, Millie’s mouth still stuffed with food. I wished she’d wash it down with the iced tea I loved so much—Millie never liked iced tea, she was more into Coke—so I wouldn’t have to see the confusion swimming in her eyes.
“I’m sorry.” I put the bottle to my lips and waved a dismissive hand. “Long, bumpy flight with Dean Cole as a companion. I think I’m going to take my sour butt upstairs, if you don’t mind.”
Millie got to her feet. “I’ll show you to your room,” she volunteered. “It’s really pretty. I even bought and hung up all your favorite bands’ posters. Let me get your suitcase,” she added, and guilt immediately slammed into my gut for orchestrating that little scene to piss Mama off.
“You will do no such thing.” Mama’s voice was steel, and it cut through my nerves, leaving a burn. “I’ll get the suitcase. Meet you girls upstairs.”
I followed Millie up the stairs, head hanging in shame. The silence was so loud, it bounced off the walls. They were all getting along fine before I got there.
Knowing that I had the tendency to make things stressful—with my illness, my attitude, and my general existence—I vowed to lower my head and get out of their way for the remainder of my stay. Truth be told, it was one of the reasons I didn’t want to come here earlier.
Wanting to make conversation, I asked my older sister, “So what’s up with Mama acting like you’re a six-year-old and force-feeding you all of a sudden?”
“Nothing is up,” Millie chirped, gesturing with her hands to random pictures hanging on the walls and statues in the corners of the airy hallways. “You know Mama. She’s a feeder, a nester, and a worrier.”
“True, but she never had a problem with you doing my heavy lifting,” I pressed. Millie’s laughter was foreign on her lips.
“She’s been acting like I’m made out of cotton ever since I got engaged. She wants everything to be perfect. Brides don’t look too good with a giant gash on their heads or an arm in a cast.”
