Chapter Seventeen
Sin
Missing in Action
Sunday has become my favorite day of the week.
I used to spend it sleeping off Saturday’s excess and dreading Monday’s mania.
These days, I’m up with the sun, hit the ground running, literally.
Then I spend the rest of the day doing what I call my “body repairs,” washing and twisting my hair, facial masks, and the egg and tomato omelette that my mother makes every Sunday morning.
I used to think my self-care ended when I left for my parents’ because I went straight into the kitchen to help my mother make our Sunday staple—ground nut soup with pounded rice.
Even that chore has started to feel like a sacred ritual that gives me time with my mother, who is the best cook on the planet, learning and catching up while we make the food that nourishes more than just our bodies.
Dinner is a drawn-out affair that ends long after the food is finished.
I usually find my second wind by the time we’re done cleaning up. And then Kwame and I go sit outside, feet in the hot tub and talk until my parents start turning off lights and drawing curtains to signal it’s time for us to leave.
I go to bed exhausted in the best ways, happy, and ready to take on the week.
This Sunday, though, as we’re clearing the table, I’m itching to make my excuses and leave.
Kwame messaged my mother to say he had a cold and would see us next week.
No one seemed to give it a second thought. I felt alone in the surprisingly sharp pang of disappointment I felt when my mother announced his absence.
Never one to dwell on things I can’t control, I was sure the feeling would pass.
The old adage “You don’t know what you’ve got until it’s gone” kept playing in my head.
By the end of dinner, I’m wondering what I enjoyed about Sundays before Kwame started joining us.
No one asks what I’m working on and then actually listens.
No one else sits patiently while I try to make sense of something that’s bothering me.
No one else read my weekly column or shared them in their Instagram stories.
My parched ego and wounded pride soaked up his attention like rain. I’ve spent the week mentally preparing to dip my toe back into the world I left behind, and I could really use a dose of his praise.
The absence of his physical presence was palpable, too. He’s a big man, tall, solid, well-built. He’s also very affectionate with me in a way that has never felt misplaced.
His hugs, back rubs, thigh squeezes and lingering looks have been safe. Physical contact from a man who wasn’t only interested in getting me in bed.
I should have asked him what was wrong before he left last week.
I hate being pushed to talk before I’m ready, so I let him be.
I took for granted that I’d see him this Sunday.
Regret that is so heavy it’s impossible for me to think about anything else.
I abandon the small pile of dirty dishes on the table and pull my phone out of my pocket to call him.
I type his name into my contact list. Nothing comes up.
I search my message history for his name and that comes up blank, too.
How is it possible that I don’t have his phone number saved?
I feel like I talk to him all the time. But in reality, I don’t. Except for Sundays.
I could ask my mother for it but that would only invite unwanted, overly broad conversations about my private life.
Like I summoned her, my mother sticks her head through the swinging door that leads to the kitchen. “Why are you just sitting there when your sisters are in the kitchen?”
I don’t ask why she hasn’t asked Adonis the same question. I’m having a bad enough day without adding an argument with my mother to the mix. “I had to answer an email for work.”
She trains her disapproving frown on the phone in my hand and raises her eyebrows. “On a Sunday? You write an advice column. It’s not life or death. Surely, it can wait.”
I’m used to my mother’s dismissive attitude toward my work. Kwame’s interest and attention have made it even more noticeable. What used to roll off like water on a hot skillet slides right under my skin.
I get to my feet, slip my phone into the back pocket of my jeans, and pick up the pile of plates. “Thanks for the reminder, Mom.”
The sarcasm goes right over her head. She smiles at me.
“Of course, dear.” She reaches out to brush some invisible dust from my arm.
“When you girls are done in the kitchen, come join us in the living room. We’re watching 60 Minutes tonight.
Did I tell you that Aunty Dorcas’s son is a producer on one of the segments?
He just got a big promotion, too. I should introduce you one day.
He’s got good connections. Maybe he can help you with your career.
” She squeezes my shoulder and then walks away.
A year ago, that passive-aggressive reminder that I haven’t lived up to her expectations would have sent me into a spiral of despair about the way my life has turned out.
An explosion of laughter from the living room sets my teeth on edge, and I know I can’t be here a minute longer than I have to.
I stick my head into the kitchen where my sister Salomé is already elbow deep in a sink full of dishes.
The counter tops are littered with food that needs to be put away.
It will be at least half an hour before we’re done.
I can’t wait that long.
“Be right back,” I call out to her and hurry away before she can ask me where I’m going.
I tiptoe past the patriarchy party in the living room and slip into the small study where my parent’s dark blue leather-bound Encyclopedia Britannica collection has had pride of place in this study since they moved in.
Even though everything in them is either outdated or available at the click of a button, my mother dusts and polishes them like they’re the holy grail.
I opt for the flashlight on my phone instead of the overhead lights and sit at the built-in desk where my father has sat to pay bills every Saturday morning they’ve lived in this house. I grab the old-fashioned Rolodex where my mother still keeps a record of every contact and strike gold.
I scribble down Kwame’s address and make a note of the zip code as Georgetown.
“Perfect,” I whisper. My favorite Vietnamese place is on my way. My mom didn’t say what kind of sick, but there’s almost nothing a bowl of pho won’t cure.
I slink back to the dining room, grab my purse and keys, and slip out of the front door with no one the wiser.