Mom looks at her, startled. Eve laughs some more … hearty, cathartic chuckles.
“We used to joke about that,” Eve says, her face still so close she must feel Mom’s breath on her cheeks.
“Wha … ?”
“Shannon and I used to laugh about how you’d always try to make everything better with a nice cup of cocoa. No date to the prom? ‘What you need is a cup of cocoa!’ The dog devoured your science project? ‘A cup of cocoa will do just the trick!’ An asteroid destroys the Northern Hemisphere? ‘Well, I’ll just whip up a nice cup of cocoa!’”
Eve’s eyes glisten and she laughs some more. She reaches out as if she wants to touch Mom’s cheek, but she pulls back at the last moment.
Because now, Mom is crying.
I bite my lip. Confronting Mom with almost two decades’ worth of pain and grief doesn’t nudge her into vulnerability, but embarrassing her turns her to jelly.
“I didn’t realize you made fun of me,” she says in a brittle voice.
“Oh, Mrs. Stetson … no! No, Mrs. Stetson, that’s not what I meant! We weren’t making fun. We loved you for making everything better with your cocoa. Don’t you see what a source of comfort that was for us?”
Mom waves a hand dismissively.
“Oh, Mrs. Stetson … ” Eve continues plaintively.
Mom’s hand is still waving. Whatever, whatever …
Damn her. Why is it so much easier for her to be cold than sad?
“You know what we called you?” Eve soldiers on.
Mom looks up at Eve, dampening her lashes as she blinks them against her tears.
“We called you Sue-nami. Sue, as in Susanne. You were such a force of nature. We were in awe.”
We study Mom’s face closely. This could go badly.
But Eve’s sweet face is coaxing a smile from Mom’s.
“Sue-nami? Like the storm?” Mom asks.
Eve nods, giggling through tears.
Then Mom starts giggling, too. Crying and laughing at the same time. Eve’s fingers interlace with Mom’s. Their knuckles turn white, they’re squeezing so hard.
“You two weren’t the only ones to come up with nicknames,” Mom says, her teary eyes sparkling. “Remember when you and Shannon sprinkled bathroom bleach into the washing machine because we were out of laundry detergent?”
Laughter sputters from Eve’s lips. “Shannon was Spic and I was Span!”
Mom laughs harder. “Your mom and I had to buy new cheerleading uniforms so our Red Devils wouldn’t be pink!”
“Sixty bucks a pop!” Mrs. Brice interjects gleefully, laughing along with them.
“Oh, oh!” Eve says excitedly. “And don’t forget how we almost set your kitchen on fire when we baked our first cake.”
“‘Bake’ being the definitive word,” Mom says in a playful-scolding voice. She looks over at me to deliver the punch line. “They broiled it!”
Eve is laughing so hard, she’s teetering on her squatting feet.
“At least they didn’t paint your kitchen!” Eve’s mom says. “That was my Mother’s Day surprise one year. Surprise! Your kitchen is pink!”
“To match our cheerleading uniforms,” Eve says. Tears stream down their cheeks.
Dusk is settling in, and a gauzy peach ray of sun streams through the plantation shutters, making everyone’s cheeks rosy.
“I never heard about the uniforms or the cake,” I say softly.
Mom gazes at me warmly. “There were so many stories,” she says. “Where do you begin?”
I don’t know … at the beginning? In the middle? What the hell does it matter where you begin, just as long as you do? Oh, well. Maybe she’s beginning now.
Mom and I are washing dishes when we hear the front door open.
“Anybody home?” Aunt Nicole calls from the foyer.
Mom glances over her shoulder. “Oh, by all means, let yourself in,” she calls back. “Why stand on ceremony?” Mom pokes me playfully in the side as I dry a porcelain teacup.
Aunt Nic joins us in the kitchen. “Dinner dishes?” she surmises.
“High tea,” I correct her, curtsying. “We had guests.”
She pulls a chair from the kitchen table and settles in. “Who?”
I reach for a soapy teacup that Mom has just finished washing, but she pulls it away from my grasp. “Go sit with Aunt Nicole,” she tells me. “I’ll finish up.”
I sit next to Aunt Nic as Mom rubs a dishcloth against her china until it squeaks.
“Carole and Eve Brice came by,” Mom says, attempting an oh-by-the-way tone.
Aunt Nic blinks hard. “You’re kidding! Goodness, how many years has it been? How old is Eve now? She must be—what—in her mid-thirties?”
Silence.
Aunt Nic and I exchange puzzled glances, then look at Mom’s back at the kitchen sink. Squeak, squeak, squeak goes the china.
“Sue?” Aunt Nic says.
More silence. Squeak, squeak, squeak.
Aunt Nic’s eyes search mine for an explanation. I shrug.
“Mom, did you hear Aunt Nic?”
Squeak, squeak, squeak.
But then the squeaking stops. Mom freezes in her spot until her shoulders convulse. Her head drops and a sob rumbles through her throat.
“Sue … !”
Mom turns toward us, her blue eyes glistening with tears. The teacup in her hands drops to the ceramic tile, breaking into a thousand jagged pieces. Aunt Nic and I gasp and jump to our feet. Mom holds out a hand to stop us from coming closer.
“Stay where you are!” she says through her sobs. “You’ll get cut.”
We ignore her, rushing over and enveloping her in our arms.
“The glass!” Mom wails. “You’ll cut yourself on the glass!”
“We don’t care about the glass!” Aunt Nic says, pressing Mom’s face into her neck.
“It’ll cut you!” Mom insists, but we’re not listening. We’re just hugging her, Aunt Nic’s fingers tangled with mine as we stroke Mom’s hair.
“I have to clean it up,” Mom says, but her voice is small now, defeated. She crumples into us, our muscles flexing to absorb her weight. Her sobs emanate from deep in her gut.
“It’s okay,” Aunt Nic whispers in her ear. “It’s okay, Su-Su.”
We stand there for a long time. Our faces turn sideways and rest on each other’s shoulders. Our arms caress each other’s backs.
“I miss my baby,” Mom moans, then shakes as more sobs churn through her chest.
“I know,” Aunt Nic coos. “I know.”
“It’s my fault,” I say. “I shouldn’t have called Eve. I didn’t mean to upset you, Mom.”
Mom’s back suddenly stiffens and she pulls away from us. “Why did you call her?” she asks. I try to read her expression. Angry? Accusing? Betrayed?
I hold a hand against my mouth, grasping for words. “I don’t know,” I say, staring at the shattered glass on the floor. “I need to know her, Mom. You never talk about Shannon, other than superficial stuff. I want to know my sister. But I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
She takes my cheeks in her hands, her palms cool against my skin. “I’m glad you called her.”
My face crumples. “But I made you cry.”
Mom shakes her head. “It’s okay to cry, sweet girl. My sweet baby girl,” she says, and our tear-stained eyes stay locked for a long moment.
Then Mom’s hand tugs self-consciously at the collar of her blouse. “I must look a fright,” she says. “Let me go wash my face.”
Broken glass crunches softly under her pumps as she starts to walk out of the room.
Aunt Nic suddenly smiles. “I can’t believe it,” she says. Mom turns around to see what she’s talking about.
“This is the first time I’ve ever see you walk away from a mess,” she tells her sister.
Mom blushes. “Oh, the glass!”
She starts rushing back into the kitchen, but Aunt Nic is shooing her away. “We’re got it, we’ve got it,” she assures her. Mom hesitates, then smiles and walks out of the room.