by Renée Watson
“Sure,” I say. I actually like this idea. Getting manicures is something Mom and I do together every two weeks. Mom always knows beforehand what color she is going to get, but I have to look over all the options before I can decide. I wonder if my little sister will like to come with us. If we’ll make it an all-girls outing, leaving Dad at home.
“Let me know who’s on the guest list so I can send invitations out,” Mom says. “I’ll call Sierra’s mom tomorrow.”
We finish eating but stay at the table talking. “So, how’s school?” Mom asks.
“School is okay.”
“Just okay?”
I tell Mom about the Suitcase Project.
“That sounds fun.” Mom stands and starts clearing the table. She puts our forks and glasses in the dishwasher and grabs a dishcloth to wipe down the table.
“I wouldn’t say fun—”
“Why not?”
“Well, I don’t know what to write about because I don’t know anything about our family.”
“Amara, that’s not true. You know my parents were born in Louisiana, that I was their only child and—”
“I know the facts, Mom. I’m asking for some stories. Like, what happened in our family? What should I know about where I come from?”
I help Mom clean by throwing the takeout cartons in the trash. Once we’re finished in the kitchen, we go into the living room. I think we are going to find a movie to watch, but instead Mom says, “You know, I’m glad you have to do this project. I think it will be good for you—for all of us. Sometimes things happen in a family that are painful and hard and no one knows how or when to talk about it so we just, well, we don’t talk.”
“So, you’re saying you and Dad keep family secrets?”
“We’re not trying to keep secrets, sweetheart. It’s just that some stories are hard to tell,” Mom says.
Like how Grandma died on the day I was born, I think to myself. I don’t say it out loud. I don’t want to bring up something that will make Mom sad. As bad as I want to know about my family history, I don’t want to know if I am the reason why Dad and Grandpa Earl don’t talk anymore. Maybe there are some stories that should never be retold. Maybe.
“So, how can I help you with your project?” Mom asks. “What do you want to know?”
Here’s my chance to ask anything, and I can’t think of what to say. Well, I can think of a million questions, but I just want to ask the right one, the one that isn’t so hard to talk about. I say, “Tell me about Grandma Grace.”
Mom’s whole face brightens. “She was a strong, thoughtful, wise woman. That’s why we named you after her. Amara means ‘grace,’ and we wanted you to have her essence. And you certainly do.”
Mom tells me how Grandma Grace liked to cook, how she was the peacemaker in the family. “And oh, Amara, you would have loved going to basketball games with her. Your grandpa Earl used to be one of the assistant coaches for the Knicks. And your grandma Grace was his biggest fan. When she went to games, I think she cheered more for your grandpa than the players.” Mom laughs and I do, too.
“I didn’t know Grandpa Earl was a coach.”
Mom looks at me like she is not sure I am right about what I do and don’t know. “Really?”
“I’m positive,” I say. “See—secrets. And this isn’t even something so bad you need to hide it.”
“Amara, it’s not a secret. It’s, it’s just—there was a whole life going on before you were born. You know? I’ve had a whole childhood, your dad has. We’ve gone to schools, had jobs, had heartbreaks and so much joy. There’s a lot that happened before you got here, and I think some things just get forgotten or aren’t mentioned because life keeps on moving and we’re creating new memories with you, not realizing we haven’t shared old ones. Does that make sense?”
“I guess,” I say.
Mom keeps going with stories about Grandma Grace. She tells me that when her own mother died, Grandma Grace really took Mom in as her own daughter. With each story I feel more and more connected to Grandma Grace. Mom says I have her laugh, her smile, her love of books. She says that I am a steady reminder that Grandma Grace is still here. Inside me.
5
I wake up at 4:30 the next morning. My eyes are stinging with tiredness, and they don’t really want to be open, but I know that while I am lying here in this warm, cozy bed, there’s a line wrapping around Nike. I get up and I’m dressed and ready in less than ten minutes—teeth brushed and all. I walk down the hall to Mom and Dad’s room. I knock twice before deciding to go in. “Mom?”
She turns over.
“Mom, you have to wake up. It’s time to go.”
She groans.
“Mom, you promised you’d take me.”
“Amara, honey, I know. But this baby and Thai food did not agree. I was up all night. I can’t right now—I just … Give me a few hours.”
“A few hours? Mom—there’s no point in going if we don’t go early.”
Mom turns on her side, bends a pillow under her head.
“Mom.”
“Amara, I’m not saying no. I’m saying not right now.”
“That is saying no. If we don’t go now, by the time we get there my size will be gone. I’m not going to get—”
“Amara Baker!”
I stop begging. Switch up my strategy. “Well, can I order them on the SNKRS app?”
“Do you get the employee discount on the app?”
“No, but—”
“We’ll go later. Close the door, please.”
I go to my room, text Titus to ask if he is going. Knowing Titus, he is already there, but either he doesn’t have his phone with him or he has it and it’s not charged. I get back in bed, but now that I’ve been up, I can’t go to sleep.
I wait.
Every now and then I can hear a car driving down the street, the tires demolishing puddles. Every thirty minutes I go to Mom’s bedroom and hold my ear up to the door.
5:00. She’s still sleeping.
5:30. She’s still sleeping.
6:00. She’s still sleeping.
6:30. Still.
And then at 7:00 I hear Mom walking down the hallway, down the stairs.
I run downstairs. “You ready?” I ask.
Mom is at the stove scrambling eggs.
“Mom—we don’t have time for that.”
“There’s always time for breakfast,” Mom says. “These eggs will be ready in two minutes.”
I should just say never mind. Should just say let’s spend our Saturday morning doing something else, because I know there is no way I’m going to get shoes today. We finally get in the car and make our way to the Employee Store. Once we turn onto Knowlton Street, I can already see this is going to be even worse than I thought. Traffic is backed up so bad we can’t even pull into the parking lot. The first thing Mom says is, “All of this for some shoes? This is ridiculous.”
I don’t even bother to remind her that if we had come earlier, we wouldn’t have to wait in traffic. Once we’re in the parking lot we circle it at a snail’s pace to find a spot. Nothing. Just when Mom calls it quits, I see Titus walking out of the store with one bag in his left hand and one in his right.
Mom rolls her window down and the cold air rushes in. “Big T,” she yells. “I see you got in. Where’d you park? I’ll follow you.”
“Nothing in there now. Might as well go home, unless you coming to get some headbands or shoelaces.” He’s laughing, but I don’t think it’s funny at all. Then he nudges Titus and says, “But Titus hooked Amara up.”
Titus walks to the passenger side of the car. I roll my window down. “Size eight, right?” He hands me the bag in his right hand.
Mom erupts in gratitude. “Aw, you didn’t have to do that. That is so nice of you.”
She goes on and on so much, I can hardly get my own thank-you out.
Titus says, “When my dad told me your father was out of town I kind of figured you weren’t coming.”
<
br /> “Oh, your dad told you? I sent you a text this morning.”
Titus takes his phone out of his pocket. “Oh, my battery is dead.”
I open the bag and there they are. The newest pair of Jordans. “Thank you, Titus.”
“You’re welcome.”
Mom says to Big T, “How much do I owe you?”
“Come on now,” he says. “You already know—you don’t owe me anything.” He steps away from the car, refusing to take any money. A horn honks, and Big T motions for Titus to come over to him. “Look at us holding people up. We better let you go.” They walk away.
“Thanks, Big T. Thanks, Titus,” I shout out the window.
Titus smiles at me, and as soon as we drive off, Mom says, “See, it all worked out.”
I want to ask if we can stop at McDonald’s on the way home, but I figure I can’t have it all.
Mom and I are at the dining room table, which is actually cleaned off, filling out the invitations for my birthday sleepover. I have a stack, and she has a stack. Even our handwriting is opposite, hers more like pearls, mine like hoop earrings. “Mom?” I ask. “Am I the reason Dad and Grandpa Earl stopped talking?” I didn’t plan on asking, not right now, but I can’t stop thinking about what I saw in that Bible, what I heard Mom and Dad talking about.
Mom sets her pen down. “Absolutely not, sweetheart. Why would you think that?”
“I overheard you and Dad.” I say “overheard” because it sounds better than telling her I was eavesdropping. “I know Grandma Grace died the day I was born, and I know Dad and Grandpa Earl stopped talking twelve years ago.”
“Amara, no. Your dad and Grandpa Earl have some things to work through, but it has nothing to do with you.”
I want to believe her. “Why aren’t they talking?” I ask.
Mom thinks for a moment, then says, “That’s your dad’s story to tell.” She gets up from the table and goes to the built-in bookshelf next to the fireplace. She takes a photo box from the bottom shelf, opens the lid, and says, “But I can tell you some of my stories.” Mom spreads photos and letters, postcards and greeting cards all over the table. I pick up a card that has one small red heart in the middle of it. When I open it, I recognize Dad’s handwriting right away. “I can read this?” I ask just to make sure.
“Yes, you can look through all of this. You know, before texts and emails and FaceTime, there was just good old-fashioned handwriting on paper,” Mom says. “Maybe you’ll find something useful for your project.”
I look through Mom’s pile of memories: photos of Mom when she was a baby nestled in her mother’s arms, postcards from her college friends, cards from Aunt Tracey.
Mom walks into the kitchen, where she left her cell phone, and calls out to me, “What do you think about pizza for dinner?”
“Ah, yeah, sure.” I can’t even think about eating right now. I am full from the feast spread out on this table.
6
Dad is missing church, and I can’t wait until he gets home tonight to tell him that Mom and I actually went to Titus’s church. He is going to be so disappointed, mostly because at Titus’s church they serve coffee and doughnuts in the foyer. When Mom and I walk in the building, an usher who is wearing a black T-shirt and jeans says, “Welcome, and help yourself to our coffee corner.” I walk over to the long tables that are covered with trays of doughnuts, muffins, and scones. There are three black dispensers on the table: one for coffee, another for decaf coffee, and the last one full of hot water for tea and hot cocoa drinkers. “What do you want, Mom?”
“Nothing. We just ate at home,” Mom says. “Plus, I can’t gulp down hot coffee. Church will be starting soon, and we can’t take food into the sanctuary.”
I point to the man who is walking into the sanctuary with his own travel mug of coffee. “I don’t think it matters if you drink in the sanctuary,” I say.
Behind him is a woman carrying tea in one hand and a scone wrapped in a napkin.
“Are we at church or the movies?” Mom asks.
“Mom.”
“Come, on, let’s go in.” Mom puts her arm around me, guiding me inside.
“But can’t I get a doughnut?”
“Look, I see they have different norms here, but you know this is not what we do.” We walk past the pews in the back and see Titus and his family sitting on the left side near the middle. Titus’s mom waves us over. I call her Aunt Sofie, even though she is not my real aunt. She’s like a sister to Mom, so that makes her family. I wish Mom was close to Aunt Tracey, my real aunt. Wish I could know what it’s like to go to church with her and my cousins. We slide into the pew, stepping over feet and bags that are on the floor, and sit down with them.
Titus looks like he looks at school—jeans and a hoodie. Big T and Aunt Sofie are a little more dressed up but not by much. They both look like they’d be comfortable if we all decided to go to the movies after church. But not me or Mom. My feet hurt in these pointy shoes, and Mom would definitely be overdressed if she went to a theater looking like that. No matter how much I told Mom that Titus’s church was casual, she insisted on us wearing the clothes we always wear to church. “It’s what we do,” she told me.
Another thing we do that is a clear difference from Titus’s church is talk back to the pastor as he preaches. At my church, the congregation is always saying “Amen” and yelling out “Yes, Lord!” but not here. Here, they don’t even clap after the choir sings—Mom and I both learned that the hard way. We both started clapping right after the last song, and the couple in front of us jumped—literally jumped—they were so startled. Big T gets to laughing, then Aunt Sofie and Titus get started, and Mom and I are tickled, too. This is the first time I know I won’t get in trouble for laughing in church.
After church we go to dinner. After we order and are good into our meal, Big T says, “So, Amara, I hear you have a birthday coming up.”
Aunt Sofie asks, “What are you doing to celebrate?”
“Well, I wanted to go to New York with my dad, but instead I’m having a slumber party.” I am not trying to start a whole conversation about it, I am just telling the truth.
I couldn’t have known that Big T and Aunt Sofie think me going to New York is the best idea ever. They both tell my mom, “You should let her go,” but Mom is not having it. Without saying much, she just gives them a look and says, “There are many reasons why I don’t think it’s a good idea.”
Big T can obviously read her eyes. He says, “And that might be why she should go.”
Mom, Aunt Sofie, and Big T start doing what adults do—talking in code right in front of us because they don’t want us kids knowing what they are talking about. So rude. I turn to Titus. “Want to go play some games?” I ask him. We leave the table and go into the game room.
I know they are talking about Dad and Grandpa and me wanting to go visit. I know Mom is giving all her reasons why letting me go is not a good idea, but I am hoping that whatever Big T and Aunt Sofie are saying to her will change her mind.
7
Monday morning I wake up, and the first voice I hear is Dad’s. He is in the kitchen talking with Mom in hush-hush whispers. I get dressed and ready for school and join them at the kitchen table for breakfast. When I get downstairs, I expect Dad to greet me with arms wide open and a gift from LA, like he always does whenever he comes back from a trip. But instead, he’s quiet and barely looks me in the eyes. Mom too. She’s sitting at the table, raking through her scrambled eggs like they’re a pile of heavy rocks.
“Good morning,” I say.
They both talk at the same time, slow and empty of emotion. “’Morning.”
I fix my plate and sit at the table.
“How was your trip, Dad?”
He clears his throat. “It was good, yeah, it was, ah, good.”
Mom gives him a look.
“What’s going on?” I ask.
“You tell her,” Mom says.
In an instant, every sad story I’ve h
eard from my friends about their parents sitting them down to talk floods my mind. This is either the Somebody-You-Loved-Has-Died talk or the We’re-Getting-a-Divorce talk, or something else that is definitely going to ruin my day.
Mom says, “I’m sorry, Amara, but we have to cancel your birthday sleepover.”
“What? Why?”
Dad says, “Because it’ll be rude of you to have guests over when you’re not even here.” His stern face breaks into a wide smile, and he and Mom laugh and laugh. “You’re going to be with me. I’m taking you to New York for your birthday.”
I look at Mom. “Is he serious? Really?”
Mom is nodding. “Yes. He’s serious.”
“And you’re letting him take me?” I ask.
“Hey, now—she’s not letting me—”
“I’m letting him,” Mom says. “It’s only for a week. I actually think it will be good for both of you. We think it will be good for you to get to know your grandpa Earl and the rest of the family. And it will be good for your dad to reconnect with them.”
Dad adds, “I’ll be working. This is not a vacation for me.”
Mom and Dad have a whole conversation with their eyes, and I don’t even try to interpret it. I’m going to New York, and that’s all that matters right now.
On the walk to school, the first thing I tell Titus is that I am going to Harlem to visit my dad’s side of the family. “So the Suitcase Project homework assignment worked?” he asks.
“I don’t think it had anything to do with that. She just, she changed her mind. She thinks I need this and that my dad does, too.”
We cross the street, stopping at the median because we won’t make it across this wide street before the light changes. “You should become a lawyer,” Titus says. “Or a sports agent. You just negotiated with your mom and got your way. And somehow you have her thinking that this was her idea. You’re good.”
I laugh. “So, you have to help me come up with a must-see list,” I tell Titus.