Chapter 7
Elijah, then, was a unicorn to me. That very first morning, he was up before me. I heard him shuffling around in his bedroom and the bathroom, brushing his teeth and running water to wash his face.
I slipped into a final snooze. I wanted to stay in my bedroom at least long enough for her to leave.
Following the previous day’s oven incident, she’d kept to her side of the duplex and I kept to mine.
Elijah distracted me from the roommate tension.
He and I played his card games—two of which I’d never even heard of, so of course he beat me.
Talked plenty of noise, too. “Boo-yah! Take that, Grandma!”
But I redeemed myself with UNO and whipped him a few times. I’m the kind of person who will make you draw all four of your cards before I slap down my last one, revealing that I already knew I’d beat you before you went through all the trouble.
It humbles a person.
I showed Elijah the summer children’s activity flyers I’d collected for Robin Creek. He said the library would be great, and the YMCA, too. “Are there any kids on your street?”
“I’ve seen a few,” I recalled, suddenly regretting the fact that I hadn’t made my rounds in the neighborhood since moving in a little more than two weeks ago. “I’ll ask Miss Mary, the mail carrier, tomorrow. She knows everybody and their children and their dogs.”
We had hot dogs and beans for dinner—using the stove only, of course. Later, we watched a movie, which I fell asleep on.
“Grandma, you’re asleep,” Elijah said as he elbowed me. “You should go to bed.”
“I will. After it’s over.” The truth was that I hadn’t figured out how to put the child restriction on the television, so I couldn’t leave him alone with free rein over a remote control.
This was the kind of thing Gabriella could help me figure out, but I gathered she and I were still in “cooling off” mode, with our attitudes lingering in the air as much as the burnt-oven-coil smell.
So waking up again to the smell of simmering fruit the next day and hearing Elijah’s voice intermixed with Gabriella’s—yeah, that was different from either child I’d raised, and definitely different from the silence between her and me the day before.
My hand reached for my trusty robe first, which ushered the memory of Gabriella’s rant about robes and housecoats.
Amusement brought a tiny grin to my face.
My roommate was an opinionated one. Strong.
Didn’t let anyone—including me—run over her.
I liked that about her. I could have used more of that in me at her age. Maybe even now.
I proudly zipped up my pink fleece housecoat, handled my morning business, and joined the two of them in the kitchen.
Elijah wore Gabriella’s “Kiss the Cook” apron.
I obeyed the instruction, grabbing his cheeks and planting a smack on his forehead.
Then I pointed at his apron, and he smiled at me.
“Morning, Grandma. We made breakfast. It’s waffles, but we’re not using syrup. ”
“Oh?”
His eyebrows jumped with excitement. “We cooked strawberries, raspberries, and blueberries. We added sugar, water, and cornstarch.”
“It was easy,” Gabriella singsonged as she set a stack of perfectly golden-brown waffles on the table, avoiding eye contact with me.
“Good morning, Gabriella.”
Finally, she looked at me. “Good morning.”
My mother used to say that there’s more to good manners than just words. “Speaking to folks lets us all know we see each other, and it keeps lines of communication open,” Momma said. And she was right.
Elijah blurted out, “We also added lemon, to balance out the sugars—right, Gabriella?”
It occurred to me then that I hadn’t properly introduced those two yesterday, with the smoke and all.
“It’s Miss Gabriella to you, EJ.”
“Oh, I don’t mind—”
“And I want her to call me Elijah.”
Those two were bursting with information.
“It it’s all the same to you, Gabriella, I’d like for him to practice his manners, respecting his elders, by calling you Miss Gabriella. And EJ…Elijah…that’s fine. Do you want me to call you Elijah, too?”
“No. EJ is fine for you.”
“Great. Miss Gabriella and Elijah, otherwise known as EJ, the breakfast looks and smells amazing. I can’t wait to taste your creation.”
A silent puff of forgiveness passed between me and Gabriella as we all sat down to break bread.
Elijah blessed the food, and we passed the plates of waffles, chicken sausage, and eggs around first. Then came their masterpiece of mixed-berry syrup, which melted away the last remnants of my attitude with Gabriella.
The syrup, still a little warm and thick with fruit chunks, glistened as it poured slowly from the pitcher—deep reds and purples swirling together like stained glass.
It clung to the waffles, seeping into every crevice.
This girl had some kind of culinary magic in her hands.
Now, my momma could cook, as could Grandma Jewel.
They passed down their cooking skills and recipes to me, and I knew them by heart after so many years of repetition.
Gabriella had a way of taking what was already delicious and adding her own twist. Such was the case with this syrup.
There was a little more warmth and depth to it—something besides the ingredients Elijah had listed.
I swallowed. “There’s something in here. Adding richness…”
Gabriella rewarded me with a wink and a smile. She turned toward Elijah, who was beaming with enthusiasm. “Should we tell her?”
He nodded half a second before shouting, “A dash of vanilla!”
“Mexico is one of the original sources of vanilla,” she said.
“Mmm, mmm, mmm,” I said, swirling another square of my waffle in the sweet crimson sauce. How she’d known to add vanilla was pure genius. “This is so rich, I hope it’s paying local taxes.”
Gabriella laughed, and Elijah joined her like he actually understood the joke.
She dabbed the corners of her mouth with a napkin and cleared her throat.
“Well, I’m glad you like it, because I’m planning to enter it next week in a contest. At Preston’s Fine Dining.
In Lubbock. They’re accepting entrants for the summer Breakfast and Bliss contest. I’m thinking I’ll enter my waffles and this syrup. ”
“You’ll definitely win with that combination,” I told her.
“But I need that soul food spin, so I’m gonna perfect my honey-pepper bacon. Which means I’ll need the oven. With a broiler. Like, soon and very soon.”
Her reference to ’70s gospel music struck me almost more than her request. “Whatchu know about Andraé Crouch?”
“They sing that song at every single funeral on my dad’s side of the family. And ‘Amazing Grace.’”
“We might need some amazing grace and a miracle, too, to get that oven fixed by next week,” I told her with a shake of my head.
She reached into her jeans pocket and handed me a slip of yellow paper.
I unfolded it to find three names with phone numbers.
“Handymen near Robin Creek,” Gabrilla added. “My boss recommended the first two. The third is my cousin.”
Following her previous marks, I refolded the paper and set it next to my napkin. “I’ll give them a call.”
“Thank you, Ms. Joyce,” Gabriella said.
She learned fast, I tell you.
Elijah and I cleaned up after breakfast so Gabriella could head out for work. He asked me at least ten times what I thought of the food.
“It was amazing, EJ. I never knew you could cook like that.”
His teeth—way too big for his mouth—shone brightly. “I took a picture of the syrup recipe. I’m going to make it again for my mom and dad.”
“Maybe you could make it with Grandpa. He keeps berries and fruits around, you know.”
There I went again, trying to smooth things over between family members. And there went Elijah’s smile. “No. Only with my parents. And you.”
The next dish to pass from the sink to the dishwasher was the large plate that had previously held the waffles. Elijah grabbed his side of the dish, and I didn’t let my side go, which forced him to look me in the eye.
“EJ, you know your grandfather and I still love you very much even though we’re not together.”
He tugged at the plate again, and I released it. The sullen look on his face remained.
“Did you hear me?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“What do you have to say?”
He faced me again. “I don’t think Grandpa loves me.”
“Why would you say that, EJ?”
“’Cause whenever I’m around, he tells me to be quiet or go to another room. He never calls me, he doesn’t come to any of my games.” Elijah concluded, with a shrug, “He doesn’t act like he loves me.”
And right then and there, I stopped trying to convince my grandson to override his people-meter.
Shoot, if I had any sense, I would have come to that same conclusion about my ex-husband twenty years ago instead of writing him passes because he worked (which he would have to do, married or not), protected us (I guess by virtue of being a male residing in the home), and didn’t cheat (to my knowledge).
I swallowed hard. This hurt. But Elijah was telling “his truth,” as they called it now. Blood-kin relationship and proper manners aside, this was his experience with his grandfather. And I had to agree: People who act like they don’t love you probably don’t.
Elijah deserved an offering basket for that sermon.
I rinsed the next juice glass, passed it to him. “I understand.”
Two hours later, the second handyman on the list, who’d offered the cheapest estimate and the earliest available slot, showed up with tools in tow.
“You related to Miss Jewel?” he asked. He was old enough to be my uncle, yet still clearly flirting, with his too-wide grin and his too-tight wedding band.
“Yes. She was my grandmother.”
“Whoo! You’re just as beautiful, sugar.”
“Thank you, sir,” I replied, because I wanted him to know he was at least ten years older than me and needed to watch it.
“Naw. Don’t sir me. Just call me Wardell,” he said with a wink. “A pretty woman like you ought to know—age is just a number.”