Total pages in book: 149
Estimated words: 142866 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 714(@200wpm)___ 571(@250wpm)___ 476(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 142866 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 714(@200wpm)___ 571(@250wpm)___ 476(@300wpm)
“You made grits!” I squeal like a little girl. My mother’s grits are the stuff of legend, and no matter how much I follow her every instruction, mine never turn out quite like hers.
“And look what else.” She turns to pull a pan from the oven.
“Hash brown casserole? Mama, you went all out. You didn’t have to do this.”
“I wanted to. It’s good to have you home.”
“Glad to be here.”
She searches my face. “Are you? I know it’s a lot for you to take six weeks off.”
“Well, I’m not taking six weeks off.” I load eggs and a few slices of bacon onto my plate. “I gotta work. As long as I have a phone and internet, I can still get shi—work done.”
Things haven’t changed enough for me to be cussing in my mama’s house.
I pause scooping grits onto my plate. “I think we need to upgrade the internet. It’s gotta be reliable for my meetings.”
“All right,” Mama says. “You sure do a lot of them Zooms.”
“Couldn’t run my business without them.” My spoon is loaded with grits and on my way to my mouth when Mama’s ahem stops me.
“We still say grace in this house, Hendrix Rae.”
“Oh.” I set the spoon back into the mound of grits. “Yes, ma’am. Sorry.”
“Heavenly Father,” Mama says, hands pressed together and eyes closed. “Child, why are your eyes open?”
How does she always… whatever. I obediently close my eyes.
“Heavenly Father,” Mama begins again. “We thank You for the food that is set before us and ask that You bless the hands that prepared it.”
Her hands.
“We ask that You’d make it good for the nourishing of our bodies,” she goes on. “Please bless those who don’t have, oh God. The ones that don’t have a home or food to eat. And we thank You for Your power. Your wonder-working power. For the blood Your Son shed that we might have life and life more abundantly.”
Was the blessing always this long?
My stomach releases a growl in raucous protest of the food that smells so good and is being withheld.
“We ask that You’d extend Your healing to our sister Geneva, who’s recovering from surgery. Lord, You know her situation. By Your Son’s stripes, we are healed. We pray for a speedy recovery.”
I clear my throat, hoping to throw a hint, but Mama prays for New Hope’s sick and shut in, the church’s building fund, and the young adult choir before we are allowed to eat.
“In Jesus’s name,” she finally says. “Amen.”
“Amen,” I say, relieved and starving. My taste buds water with the promise of Mama’s grits. As soon as they hit my tongue, I almost gag.
Lord, they’re awful. I have no idea what they are missing or what was added, but they’re inedible. I reach for a napkin to discreetly spit the food into, and move on to the eggs and bacon. Fortunately, they’re as delicious as always. After the Christmas dinner debacle, I wasn’t sure Mama should cook at all, but things stabilized some with Aunt Geneva in the house and the regimen of meds back on course. The doctor cleared her to cook with light supervision and said taking something she loved so much away could prove detrimental. So she will cook some until it becomes apparent her condition has advanced too much for that at all. Still, Aunt Geneva usually at least loosely supervises. I wasn’t up to do that today.
“Do your grits taste funny?” Mama demands, frowning and spitting hers into a napkin.
“Um, yeah. A little.” I reach for the cup of coffee set by my plate, black the way I like it. “Probably just too much salt or something. It’s no big deal.”
I don’t want it to be a big deal. One of the first ways we knew something was wrong with Mama was her food. She’d always been the best baker for miles. I’ll never forget that first German chocolate cake that was just… off.
“I don’t understand.” Mama walks over to the stove, opening the cabinet where she’s always kept her spices. She pulls down the little white dish for salt. “I don’t taste any salt, but I know I used it.”
She pinches a little between her fingers and drops it onto her tongue. Her face freezes into a mask and she shoves the dish back in the cabinet. I’m surprised when she pushes past me and out of the kitchen.
“I’m not hungry, Hen,” she calls as she mounts the stairs. “Clean up the kitchen when you’re done, ’kay?”
When her bedroom door closes, I tiptoe over to the stove and pull out the salt dish. Looking furtively over my shoulder, I go through the same motions Mama did, pinching the salt and placing it on my tongue.
My face screws up at the unexpected taste. “What is that?”
Not salt, for sure. I taste again experimentally.