Chapter Fifteen
Fifteen
“Why didn’t you invite them in? They looked nice!” my aunt chided me as I walked past her into the living room.
“They’re busy.” I set my tote bag on the floor next to the couch. I remembered the day she got this couch. We were kids and were so excited that we immediately threw ourselves on the soft brown corduroy. The corduroy was worn in places on the armrest and seat, but it was still the best couch to melt into and smelled like the sweetgrass she burned every night when she prayed.
This small home seemed huge when Sage and I moved into it. We each had our own room instead of a cramped one-bedroom with our mom. Compared to that old apartment, this was palatial. Now, after spending time on the executive floor at work and ordering sushi lunches that cost more than what Auntie spent on groceries in a month, I could see the effect time had had on this little place. The small wrinkles in the patched plaster walls matched the growing lines on my auntie’s face. She smiled and plopped down next to me.
“It’s so good to have you home. Sage went out to grab some ground beef. I’m making Indian tacos.”
“You sent him with your car and money?” I couldn’t be bothered to mask my disapproval.
She tsked. “Sage is young, but he’s trying to do better. Give him a chance.”
I ignored her and crossed my arms over my chest.
“Who was that man?” I know she asked to change the subject, and she was the town’s biggest gossip. I had yet to bring any person home apart from Joanna, and that was because she lived down the street with her mom when we were growing up.
“I told you, he’s a friend.”
“I never had friends that were that good-looking. He looked like a fine young man. I saw that smile. He likes you.”
“He likes me because I’m his friend.”
“With benefits? Isn’t that what you young kids do nowadays?”
“Auntie! No! We aren’t talking about this. Can I help make the dough while we wait for Sage to get back from the store?”
“I hoped you would ask. Come on, I have everything laid out.”
Where the outside was a sad, dingy yellow, the kitchen was cheerful and bright. The walls were lined with white ceramic tile, and the linoleum had little pink bows in a pattern. It was home.
The flour, Crisco, salt, and baking powder were already out.
“Wash your hands, you look like you have seen better days.”
“It was hot as hell out there.” I turned on the faucet, and the water sputtered out at first until it got a good flow going—same as always. After drying my hands on the embroidered kitchen towel, I grabbed my favorite apron. It was made of a faded red-checkered fabric, so soft from years of running it through the laundry.
This was a dish I had made so many times that I never used any measurements other than my hands. I scooped handfuls of flour into a bowl while Auntie warmed up the milk in the microwave. I threw in a generous pinch of salt and some baking powder, and she came and poured in the warm milk. I mixed the ingredients with my hands, forming the sticky mixture into a mound that was starting to resemble dough. I began kneading it, punching out my frustration.
“Whoa, careful there. We don’t want tough fry bread. We want it light and tasty.”
“Sorry,” I mumbled and broke off a piece, rolled it into a ball, and then squished it flat. With the palms of my hands, I slapped the dough back and forth, rotating it slightly to keep it round.
Auntie started whistling as she spooned some Crisco into the pan and moved it around with the metal spoon to make it melt faster. Once she was satisfied the pan was getting hot enough, she joined me and broke off a piece of dough, working it in the same way she taught me, except hers always turned into a perfect circle, all the same thickness throughout. Mine were always a little lopsided and wonky, but they tasted just as good.
“Let’s test it,” she said, giving me a mischievous smile and dropping her dough into the pan. It fit perfectly into the bottom. The bubbles rose quickly, and with her fork she flipped the dough over, revealing the perfectly golden-brown bottom. Only a few minutes, and it was done. She popped it out and I threw mine into the oil, letting the satisfying sizzle and warm smell of frying dough settle me. I felt like the old me again. Not anxious. Not mad and resentful. Just Auntie and me doing what we loved.
Once mine was done, she placed it on the paper towel and sprinkled sugar and cinnamon, the oil catching the sweet crystals and spice.
We liked to test our batch first, purely for quality’s sake. The warm fry bread was sweet and exactly what I needed. The spicy cinnamon with the sugar, it was like our own Indian cinnamon roll…except without all the butter, and it was flat and bumpy with the air bubbles.
“Ah, it’s perfect.” She kissed her fingers like an Italian chef, and we smiled, munching on our sweet snack.
The front door closed, and I hunched my shoulders, bracing myself for my first meeting with my brother in almost a year.
“Yo, Auntie! I’m back!” Sage carried a white plastic bag into the kitchen, holding it up like a prized catch of the day. He was wearing black sunglasses, and his hair was buzzed. He had cut his hair in jail. That broke my heart. Was he forced to, or did he choose to do it?
My stomach dropped. Tito sauntered in after him. He had buzzed his head since the last time I saw him. Probably to copy Sage or some poor attempt at solidarity. Of course Sage would be out of jail and immediately hanging out with his old crew again.
Sage saw me. “Hey, hey! Big sis! I didn’t know you were here yet. I didn’t see your car outside.”
“That’s because it’s dead on the side of the highway.”
“What’s good, E?” Tito asked me as he kissed Auntie on the cheek. I ignored him.
“It had a good run,” Sage said with a laugh.
“You mean when you used it and got your DUI?” I deadpanned.
“Okay, enough. Are either of you boys hungry, or you want some of this sweet bread?” Auntie took the grocery bag from Sage and started emptying it on the counter. “What’s this?” She held up scratchers and a pack of cigarettes.
“Oh, I used the change, let’s scratch ’em for old times’ sake. Maybe we’ll win enough for a new car,” he said through a mouthful of our sweet before-meal treat.
“Sage, did Auntie say you could have her change from the grocery money?” I swear he was nineteen, but I had to talk to him like a six-year-old.
She made a zip-it sound and shook her head.
“Relax, E, we’re here to have a good time,” Tito said and leaned against the wall.
I was trying to be respectful. Auntie invited me here and welcomed Sage home with open arms, but his casual disregard for anyone other than himself was triggering. Not to mention the fact that they allowed Tito to waltz back into their lives.
“If you want me to stay, then Tito has to go,” I declared.
“What? No way. He’s my best friend and I’ve only just seen him.”
“Sage, it’s for the best. I want peace. Tito can come to dinner another day,” Auntie said, smoothing it over like she’d done ever since we came to live with her.
“It’s for the best, man. E, I’ll catch you later.” Tito winked and left.
Sage sat down at the worn wood table with a huff. I could barely believe we sat and did homework together at this very table a few short years ago. Ate our family meals at this table. Where we cried when Auntie sat us down to tell us that Mom was never coming back and she had full legal custody of us, then promised to always be there for us. Sage was so small then. She and I both tried our best to shield Sage, and watching him ruin his life and mine made me feel like we made a huge mistake. I never wanted Sage to shoulder any burden, but as he got into mess after mess and spent our aunt’s limited money, I resented the lack of responsibility he had.
I was just as much to blame as Auntie. Sage was spoiled and always would be.
“I love scratchers—thank you, Sage. But you really shouldn’t smoke. It’s bad for you,” she said from the counter. “Let’s all scratch one.”
She brought us teaspoons and the scratchers. Sage went to town scratching all the boxes, looking for matching numbers. It came up empty and he threw the busted card in the air.
“Whoo! Five dollars! I’m a winner!” Auntie cheered.
I took the edge of the spoon and scratched away. I hated these. No matter how many times I had tried and failed to win, my heart always lurched with the hope that maybe this would be my lucky ticket. It could be the solution to all our troubles. But as I revealed box after box without a match, I deflated. That was the problem with hope. It created expectations, and when they weren’t met, you were left feeling crushed.
But my lucky break did happen. I had a new job that paid real money. I needed to train myself to expect nothing more.
“So, tell Sage about your new job,” Auntie nudged as she swept up the scratched-off foil.
“No more Bobby Dean’s?” he asked as he leaned back in the old oak dining chair.
“Nope!”
“She’s an accountant!” Auntie’s pride was like a warm balm to my soul.
“No shit.”
“Actually,” I said and rubbed my palms together, “I was promoted.”
“What? Already! Oh, this is great news!” Auntie went to the fridge and got out her favorite strawberry-flavored wine coolers. “We have to celebrate!”
“What do you do now?” Sage asked, though he sounded bored.
“I am the interim executive assistant to the CEO of the company.” I smiled and maybe gloated a little. Hard work does pay off. Not that Sage would know.
“What the hell is that?”
I used the buzzwords Natalie taught me in my training. “It’s a strategic position directly supporting a one-hundred-million-dollar organization.” The words were buzzy, so buzzy that they buzzed right over Sage’s head, and I could tell I’d completely lost his attention. “I help the big boss and got a raise.”
“Sick! I have some news too, wait a sec.” He shot up from his seat and ran to his room. The thing with mobile homes was that the bottom was hollow, so you could hear every step.
He came bumbling back, waving a white envelope like it held the answers to all of life’s questions.
“This is for you.” He extended the envelope and I read my name in all caps. The handwriting was neat and even. On the top left corner, the sender’s name was written: Mitch Cardinal .
No wonder Sage was so happy. In his head, this was the answer to all of our life’s problems.
Dad.
Somehow Sage came in contact with Dad. After nearly twenty years, this was the first time I had seen that name on anything. I never received a birthday card. Nothing. Neither did Sage, but the smile on his face made it seem like all of that was forgiven and forgotten.
“Take it, it’s from Dad.”
I refused to accept it. “No.”
“Don’t you want to know what he has to say? Why he left?”
“He left. I don’t need to know anything else or whatever excuse he has.”
“But he’s changed. When he gets out of jail, he said he wants to be a family again.”
“I don’t care what kind of heart-to-heart you had while in jail, Sage. He only talked to you in there because he clearly had nothing better to do and nowhere else to hide. What was he even in there for?”
“Stupid drug stuff, but he’s a good guy. He found god and—”
“And you can save it. Can we start dinner? My friend will be on his way soon to take me back to the city.”
“Ember, I think you should read the letter.” Auntie sounded quiet and subdued.
“Why are you siding with him? You’re always siding with him. I don’t want the letter, and you can’t make me take it.” I stormed out of the kitchen. Anger rose within me, and my vision blurred. I hated it. I kept walking until I was out the door. I went to the back of the house, to the old black walnut tree. The tattered rope that once hung a tire swing was dangling limp; not even a slight breeze blew on this hot day.
I squeezed my eyes shut and held my breath. I tried to settle my anger. Mitch Cardinal was a glorified sperm donor. He wasn’t worth any more of my tears. Couldn’t my life just be normal? Couldn’t Sage just be normal? Reconnecting while in jail with a dad who couldn’t give a shit about you wasn’t my first choice for bonding.
“You’ve gotta let go of this anger and resentment, Ember. You should be happy,” my aunt said as I heard her steps approach me. I still had my eyes squeezed shut as I breathed in and out. The country air was the best. It was clean, and even in the oppressive summer heat, it was calming. I gave myself five more seconds before I opened my eyes to face my aunt.
“He’s so selfish,” I whined.
“Sage or your dad?”
“Both! I am just trying to live my life and do good. Why is it so much harder for me to be happy? Sage can burn bridges and make mistakes, and he gets a pass.” I kicked the red dirt with the toe of my sneaker. I was still wearing the red-checkered apron, and this visit was turning into a melodrama.
“Sage chooses to be happy. He makes mistakes, but he’s jealous of you.”
“He wouldn’t have to be if he had graduated high school,” I said, rolling my eyes.
“Ember Lee.” She used my full name. She was pissed. “I didn’t graduate high school. Why do you sound so judgy? Sage will find his path. There are construction jobs. Not everyone is quick to leave and forget this life.” Her voice was sharp, and the lecture stung worse than a slap in the face.
I didn’t think I was better than my aunt, nor did I think I was better than Sage because I wanted to continue with school. It just wasn’t in my nature to accept things as they were. Was that bad? Was I the wrong one?
I didn’t think so, but I wanted to keep the peace. I could avoid another encounter with Sage for a while, but I had to survive this one, so I apologized. “I’m sorry. I just want what’s best for him.”
“Only Creator knows, and He has a plan for all of us. Now, do you want to start those tacos? Maybe they’ll be ready by the time your handsome friend without benefits picks you up.”
“Ugh, don’t say that to him.”
She turned to go inside, extending her arm to invite me in close. I went to her, wrapped my arm around her sturdy waist, and went back inside with the only person who had ever truly given a damn about me. I never wanted to disappoint her.