Chapter 18 Jabali
I never thought I’d see Mrs. Amanda at my parents’ table again, fussing with my grandma Sarabi about somebody’s potato salad while my daughter tried to sneak an extra roll, but that’s what Christmas did in Emancipation. It turned the impossible into regular life.
I stood in the doorway for a second, just watching.
Aziza sat at the little cousins’ table with Zoriah and the rest of the swarm, snowflake barrettes in her hair, cheeks all round and happy. She laughed at something Braeden said as he made their ginger ale fizz on purpose. My daddy’s face looked ten years younger every time he glanced at her.
Kyleigh stood by the window talking to Mama and Aunt Ola Kate, dress a rich deep green that did something disrespectful to my self-control.
She’d worn her hair in her natural, tight, curly-coils.
They framed her face soft and wild, like she’d been kissed good all night.
Which she had. By me. Yeah. That look on her face? I did that.
She must have felt me staring, because she looked over.
Our eyes caught. She gave me that small, private smile she did not give this town, the one that said I know you and I still like you anyway.
My heart sped up for a second. I didn’t think it would ever stop doing that when I looked at her.
I walked in before anybody could accuse me of lurking.
“Boy, grab these rolls. You standing there like you the guest of honor,” Mama said.
“I am the guest of honor. My baby here.”
“Your baby and mine. Lord, she look just like you did at that age. Same forehead. That’s a big forehead.” Mama took a breath and wiped at the corner of her eye.
Aziza perked up. “My forehead is perfect, thank you.”
Laughter went around the table. I bent to kiss the top of her head.
“It is, baby. Perfectly big.”
She gasped. “Daddy!”
“Y’all leave that baby alone,” Mrs. Amanda cut in. “Foreheads run on every side of her family. We all blessed and we know it.”
She sat near the head of the table, pearls on, sweater with a little cardinal embroidered on the front.
Serena sat next to her, Max resting by her feet, hoping someone dropped food.
That dog had already broken at least three house rules and earned zero consequences.
Mr. Benton stood near the drink station like security, refilling cups, eyes on everything. That man had a history.
“Mr. Benton, you off the clock,” I told him.
He sniffed. “Security has no holidays, sir.”
Kyleigh rolled her eyes. “He is not wrong.”
I moved toward her and wrapped an arm around her waist, loving the feel of her plush body against my side. “You good?”
She glanced around the packed dining room. My people. Her people. Our people. “I’m still waiting to wake up.”
“Tell me if it starts feeling like too much. We can go breathe on the porch. Or in the pantry. Or upstairs. We can definitely go upstairs.”
She gave me a side-eye. “You not slick. You just listed three places you already tried to kiss me.”
“And was extremely successful, thank you.”
Aunt Ola Kate snorted. “You two gon’ flirt all through grace or you gon’ let us bless this food?”
I loved the blush that warmed Kyleigh’s pretty brown face. We shut up. Mostly. Daddy stood, cleared his throat, and everybody quieted. He looked at the long tables shoved together. Family everywhere.
“Alright. I ain’t gon’ preach. Alayna already did that at the tree lighting.”
“She did. Had me almost catching the Holy Ghost by the hot cocoa,” Ola Kate muttered.
He ignored her. “This year… we got a lot to be grateful for. Some of it came easy. Some of it came hard. We got new little ones at this table, new arrangements, new chances.” His gaze flicked to Aziza, then to Kyleigh and me. “I’m thankful for every one of them.”
He nodded, bowed his head, and prayed. It was simple and honest. Thanked God for protection, for food, for stubborn women and hard-headed men, for second chances, for trees on hills and light in dark places. When he said Aziza’s name, my throat closed up for a second.
“Amen,” the room echoed.
Plates started getting passed like the place had been rehearsing for days. In a way, it had.
“Let me fix your plate, baby,” Kyleigh offered.
“You not on servant duty. You the honored guest.”
“Please. I am the town villain on parole. Hand me a spoon.”
“You not a villain no more. You the mysterious lady of the hill. That’s different” Akeira called from down the table, a hand on her very pregnant belly. Ajani nodded as he rubbed her back.
“Sounds like an upgrade. Next year, aim for beloved recluse,” Brae teased.
“I’m aiming for peaceful homeowner,” Kyleigh shot back, giving me way too many greens and not enough hot water cornbread.
Aziza leaned toward her. “Mama, can I stay a beloved niece, please?”
“You already are,” Zahara murmured.
She scooped extra mac and cheese on Aziza’s plate just to prove it.
Watching them, it hit me again how close we’d come to missing all of this.
To being hostile strangers passing each other in holiday traffic.
I slid my hand under the table, brushed my fingers against Kyleigh’s thigh.
She tossed me a smile, still arguing with Braeden about whether potato salad should be yellow or white.
“Yellow,” she insisted.
“White.”
“You on the wrong side of the tracks with that answer,” she told him.
“Both of y’all wrong,” Ola Kate said. “It’s beige and it’s mine, pass it down.”
The room rolled. Somebody turned on music in the living room. Kids shouted for no reason. My cousin Truth tried to sneak another roll and got his hand popped by Katelyn like he was six.
Normal. Loud. Messy. Beautiful.
Dinner went on like that, stories, jokes, people out-talking the music. At some point, Aziza hopped from the kids’ table to squeeze herself between me and Kyleigh.
“I like it here,” she said around a mouthful of dressing.
“You like where the food at,” I teased, kissing her jaw.
“Yes. That too.” Then, softer, “I like the people, too.”
Kyleigh kissed the side of her head. “You got good taste, baby.”
Aziza looked up at my daddy. “PopPop,” she said like she was testing out the name. “Can I have another piece of ham?”
He damn near melted. “Zahara, give my grandbaby the whole ham.”
“No, she cannot. Her mama gon’ fight us,” Mama argued, smacking his arm.
Aziza pointed at Ola Kate’s plate. “She has three pieces.”
“I am grown and legendary. With privilege comes ham,” Ola Kate declared imperiously.
“You mean with age,” my baby muttered.
“Aziza!” Kyleigh scolded.
Ola Kate looked at her over the top of her glasses. “Keep on. You’ll be stuck eating that dry ass turkey breast at these events, messing with me.”
After the plates were emptied and the dessert knives appeared, Mama disappeared for a second. When she came back, she had a shoebox in her hands.
“A’ight. Before everybody falls into a food coma, we got something to do.”
She set the box in front of Aziza. My girl’s eyes went wide.
“For me?”
“For you. And for this family.”
Kyleigh’s fingers went still on her fork.
Aziza opened the box carefully. Inside was a small, velvet case and a folded piece of paper. Her little fingers fumbled with the paper first. Truth leaned over to help her open it up.
It was a hand-drawn family tree. Somebody had gone all out.
Names in neat script, little doodled hearts around certain boxes, branches that crossed and curled.
At the bottom, in fresh ink, was a new branch.
Aziza’s name sat there, connecting Christopher, Shipley, Grindley, and Mrs. Amanda all in one messy, beautiful knot.
She stared at it. “That’s… me?”
“That’s you,” Pops said. “We’ll put the official one in your room when we get it framed. This just the draft.”
Her fingers traced the lines. She smiled, slow and bright, like she could feel roots growing under her feet.
“What’s in the little box?” Serena urged.
Aziza opened it. Inside was a delicate bracelet with tiny charms—an A, a little hill, a tree, a tiny book, a music note.
“Mama.”
Kyleigh covered her mouth. Tears were right there, but she held them back like a champ.
“It’s a starter bracelet. Every year, you get another charm. From anybody who wants to claim you. This one’s from us. Next one…” Mama looked at Mrs. Amanda. “We’ll let your great-grandmother fuss about that.”
Mrs. Amanda sniffed. “I already ordered mine. A little gavel. For when she grows up and sues all of us for emotional distress.”
Laughter rippled around the table again.
Aziza slipped the bracelet on, looking more serious than I’d ever seen her. “It looks like the one you wear, Mama.”
Kyleigh’s eyes flew to me. “Zi—” she began.
“Believe she got it on today,” Mrs. Amanda said breezily.
Kyleigh’s eyes narrowed, but she didn’t move as I reached for her sleeve. She wore a silver bracelet. From it dangled only two charms: a book and a quill.
The bracelet I had given Mrs. Amanda for her so long ago. I met her eyes, understanding the significance of the fact that Aziza recognized it. She had kept it. She had worn it. I swallowed, blinked.
All I said though, was, “Only two charms?”
She gave me a little bittersweet smile. “It didn’t seem right for anyone else to put some on here.”
I nodded. Swallowed again. “I guess I got work to do.”
I glanced back to where my daughter was still marveling at her bracelet.
“That means I belong here?” she asked.
“You been belonging here. Bracelet just catching up,” Pops said gruffly.
She looked at me, then at Kyleigh, then at the whole table. “Okay,” she said, and smiled like the sun.
After dinner, we migrated to the living room. Kids rolled around on the floor. The grown folks argued about whether to watch a game or a movie. Max made his rounds like he was running for office.