that. I’m sorry that you still have nightmares about it.”
I look at her. “What?”
“You talk in your sleep, Bri. That’s why I check on you so much at night.”
It’s the secret I planned to die with, I swear. I never even wanted her to know that I remember that day. I blink fast. “I didn’t mean for you to find—”
“Hey.” She lifts my chin. “It’s okay. I also know that it’s hard for you to trust that I won’t end up on drugs again. I get it. But I hope you know that every single day, my goal is to be here for you.”
I knew it was a daily fight for her to stay clean. I just didn’t realize I was the reason she fights.
We’re quiet for a while. My mom strokes my cheek.
“I love you,” she says.
There’s a lot I don’t know and may never know. I don’t know why she chose drugs over me and Trey. I don’t know if five-year-old Bri will ever stop being afraid. I don’t know if Jay’ll stay clean for the rest of her life. But I know that she loves me.
“I love you too . . . Mom.”
One word, one syllable. All of my life it’s been synonymous with Jay but for years it hasn’t been easy to say. I guess I gotta work on it, like I’ve gotta work on trusting that I won’t lose her again.
Her eyes glisten. She must have noticed that I rarely call her that, too. She frames my face and kisses my forehead. “C’mon. Let’s go inside and pray your grandma hasn’t decided to slip some poison on my plate.”
Granddaddy lets us in. I don’t think my grandparents have changed anything in their house since Trey and I moved out. There’s a painting of President Obama on the living room wall (the only president, according to Granddaddy), right between Dr. King and a portrait of my grandparents on their wedding day. There’s this portrait of Grandma in a feathered boa and a diamond bracelet. (I’ve never asked and don’t wanna know.) Next to it, there’s a painting of a much younger Granddaddy in his navy uniform. There are pictures of me, Dad, and Trey all over the house. Wallet-size photos of my grandparents’ nieces and nephews line the shelf in the hallway, along with the little baby Jesus and praying-hands statues that Grandma collects.
Granddaddy goes to the backyard to work on this old pickup truck he’s been restoring since I was a kid. Grandma’s in the kitchen. She’s changed into one of her favorite muumuus and already has a couple of pots and pans on the stovetop.
“You need help with anything, Mrs. Jackson?” J—Mom—asks.
“Yeah. Hand me that seasoning salt out the cabinet. You think you can get them greens going for me?”
Who is this alien, and what has it done with my grandmother? See, Grandma never lets anyone cook in her kitchen. Nev-er. For her to let my mom help out with dinner . . .
This is the goddamn Twilight Zone. I swear it is.
Meanwhile, I’m only allowed to sit and watch. Grandma says I “ain’t got a lick of patience,” therefore I “ain’t touching one pot or pan in her kitchen.”
Trey and Kayla show up. Trey goes out back to help Granddaddy. I honestly don’t think they do a thing to that truck. They just go out there to talk about stuff they don’t want us to hear. Kayla asks if she can help with dinner. Grandma gives her this sugary sweet smile and says, “That’s all right, baby. Just sit your pretty self down.”
Translation: Girl, I don’t know you well enough to let you in my kitchen like that.
Grandma tells Kayla all about her recipes though. It only takes Kayla saying, “This already smells divine, Mrs. Jackson,” and Grandma’s head practically doubles in size. When she starts telling Kayla how to make cornbread, that’s when I slip out. Nothing makes me hungrier than people talking about food, and my stomach is already growling like it belongs in a cage.
I go upstairs. Whenever I spend holidays with my grandparents, I stay in my old bedroom.
Just like the house, my room hasn’t changed at all. I think Grandma expected me to come back someday, and for things to be the way they used to be, right down to me being the Tweety Bird–loving eleven-year-old who cried when she had to leave.
I throw myself onto the bed. It’s always weird being here, can’t lie. It’s like stepping