Chapter 6 #2
Wow. Elijah had a different recollection of his time at “the house” with me and his grandfather.
A pound of guilt thunked in my belly because I understood him well now.
I’d spent most of my life managing my husband’s relationships with the more passive members of our family, including EJ.
I reminded my husband to call our children, EJ, and even my sister-in-law on their birthdays to make him seem caring.
Muted him and then paraphrased his often-harsh words to soften the impact.
I signed his name on sympathy cards. But now, my grandson was dealing with my ex-husband head-on, and he had come to the same conclusion that had taken me thirty years to reach: He didn’t want to be around that man.
Instinctively, my first thought was to curb Elijah’s thoughts by pointing out his grandfather’s decent qualities. He was dependable. Practical. And he was a really solid baker when he put his mind to it. (He only put his mind to it when I cornered him about not doing his fair share.)
“Your grandpa makes the best cinnamon rolls, you know?”
Elijah muttered, “I know. But he only makes them when Breanne is there.”
“Breanne,” I muttered before thinking. “Who’s Breanne?”
Elijah slapped a hand over his mouth. “Oops. Sorry. I’m not supposed to tell you that Grandpa has a girlfriend.”
My entire torso tingled as though I was having a hot flash.
But that couldn’t be because there was no sweat forming on my forehead.
A girlfriend? I wasn’t naive enough to think that my husband would remain single after our divorce.
But bringing her around our grandchildren?
And using poor Elijah in this maniacal plan to impress Breanne, to fool her into thinking that he was the kind of man who voluntarily woke up early and made cinnamon rolls for his family?
Ridiculous. Yet typical.
I sucked my teeth to contain my anger.
Though tempted, I didn’t want to press Elijah for more information, given his slip-up, so I asked an adjacent question. “Who told you not to tell me?”
“My mom.”
“Hmph. Figures.” Terri was still more bitter than Eric about the divorce.
“What figures?” Elijah asked.
“Nothing, honey. Listen, I don’t want to know about your grandpa’s girlfriend, so let’s just act like you never told me that secret, okay?”
“Okay,” he happily agreed and opened his backpack, searching for something.
Everybody knows that children can hold secrets as well as they can hold water in their hands. How old was she, anyway? I didn’t start seeing Breannes on my class roll sheet until the Britney Spears days.
The cellophane unwrapping around a crispy rice bar brought my attention back to my grandson. “How about we stop at Mickey D’s and get you a kids’ meal?”
“I eat the grown-up meals now,” he said, looking up at me with all the certainty of a five-star restaurant critic.
No wonder he’d gained a little double chin since I saw him last. “Is that so?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
I stopped and got him some adult-size food on the way home.
He gobbled it down like a linebacker, and I could only hope that he snatched Eric’s hard-earned food money away with the same gusto.
The nerve of him. Introducing my grandson to another woman at the house!
We hadn’t been divorced long enough for him to bring someone in to take my place.
Turned out, I should have gotten myself some fast food as well, because, upon entrance to the duplex, it was clear the kitchen would be out of service for a bit. The smoke alarm trilled loudly, causing both Elijah and me to cover our ears as we crossed the threshold.
I read his lips: What’s happening?
There were no flames, just smoke and Gabriella running around the kitchen in a flurry, opening windows and, presumably, cursing in Spanish. Her hair was now disheveled, and the apron was streaked with flour and sauce stains.
I helped her by propping open the back door with a chair, and Elijah jumped into action by fanning toward the smoke alarm with the coloring book in his backpack, though it didn’t help.
It took three minutes or so for the loud noise to stop. By then, Elijah had started coughing.
“Go down the hallway. Your room is the third on the right.” I pointed him down my hallway.
Gabriella took another breath and leaned her hip against the dishwasher. “I’m sorry.”
“What’s going on?”
As the smoke cleared—literally—I could see the inside of my stove. The once-gleaming racks were now blackened with charred bits of whatever had been cooking.
“I think the oven overheated.”
“You think?” I snapped at her. This place was all I had. This house was my past, my present, and my future. My fixed income and alone future.
“It was an accident,” Gabriella said, defense stepping forward in her professional tone. “I was trying a new recipe. I had to use the broiler.”
“Did you utilize it or brutalize it?”
She crossed her arms. “I utilized it. Because my new trial recipe, blackened catfish with elote topping, requires that both the fish and the corn be, well, blackened by the broiler.”
I shook my head. “That sounds gross together.”
“Corn and fish?” she asked.
“Elote corn and fish. That’s like mayonnaise and fish. Doesn’t match.”
She squinted at me. “What do you think is in tartar sauce?”
She had me. I sighed. “So. You broke the oven.”
“The oven overheated. Probably because it’s old. And not updated.”
Irritation rammed through me. Gabriella must have gotten the blame-everything-on-Joyce memo that Terri had sent out to all my contacts, including my own grandson.
“I need to get Elijah settled in his room. And make sure his lungs are clear.”
My eyes stung from a combination of the smoke and my hurt feelings. My ex-husband had a girlfriend, my grandson no longer made special memories at “the house,” and my new roommate had almost burned the place down because I’d run out of money to fix it.
And tartar sauce really is mostly mayonnaise.
What else have I been wrong about?