Chapter 12
The day before Elijah was scheduled to leave, Gabriella and I busied ourselves making a special meal for him. My chest ached at the thought, but I kept telling myself that I had to do what was best for myself this once. Tomorrow would be a difficult day for all of us, including Gabriella.
“What time are you meeting Elijah’s mom?” Gabriella asked as she flattened the dough to make homemade tortillas. She’d gotten up before me to mix and let it rise.
“Late afternoon,” I replied, taking a sip of hot green tea to get myself going for the day.
“You sure you don’t want me to ride with you? It’ll be dark on your way back. And everybody I know over the age of fifty is not down with driving at night.”
I knew she was only trying to lighten the mood with one of her senior jokes, but it didn’t work. “No. I don’t want you to see me crying all the way there and back.” My voice faltered at the thought of saying goodbye to Elijah, especially knowing he didn’t want to leave.
Gabriella glanced over at me, her face full of empathy. “I’m really going to miss him, Joyce,” she said quietly. “And I hate that it’s all because of my culinary drama.”
“Hey, now,” I interjected, “don’t you feel bad about that. This kitchen repair needed to happen no matter what. It’s just life, and sometimes we have to adjust.” But even as I attempted to reassure her, I couldn’t shake my own sadness over Elijah’s departure.
“Life be lifin’,” Gabriella mused.
“So true.”
Gabriella tested the grease with a drop of water. Satisfied with its sizzle, she said, “All right. Let’s make these breakfast tortillas, Abuela’s way.”
“Sounds perfect,” I agreed, pushing aside my worries and focusing on the task at hand.
Gabriella began by chopping up a medley of colorful veggies—red bell peppers, green onions, and tomatoes—while I whisked together eggs and a little milk in a bowl, as she instructed.
The sizzle of butter melting in the skillet filled the kitchen with an inviting aroma that nipped at the gloominess we had been feeling.
The knife chop-chop-chopping against the cutting board added a comforting cadence to the room, a soothing melody.
“Next, we’ll add some spices,” she said, handing me a small glass jar filled with a vibrant blend of cumin, chili powder, and smoked paprika.
I sprinkled it over the vegetables as they cooked, watching as the spices released their rich, earthy scents into the air.
They added depth to the complexity of the smells.
As the vegetables softened and became infused with the spices, Gabriella retrieved a package of smoked sausage from the refrigerator.
We worked together to slice it into thin, even pieces.
Each slice added to the skillet brought a new layer of savoriness, the smokiness of the sausage complementing the spices perfectly.
The sound of the sausage sizzling and the sight of it browning amid the colorful vegetables was a sensory delight.
“Is this your family’s special seasoning?” I asked, taking in the fragrant mixture.
“Yep, my abuela used a dash of it in almost every meal,” Gabriella replied with a wistful smile. “It reminds me of home.”
She suddenly grew quiet, her eyes distant as she stirred the contents of the skillet. “Joyce, can I tell you something? Promise not to judge?”
“Of course.”
“My mom’s side of the family came here from Mexico,” she began hesitantly. “My grandfather crossed the border, looking for a better life. There was no work, no food to feed his family.”
“Mmmm,” I said softly.
She looked at me. “The other day, when we found the recipes for Black travelers, I thought about how amazing it is that both my Black ancestors traveling across this country and my Mexican ancestors escaping to this country had both packed specific foods for the journey.”
Now it was my turn to be intrigued. “You don’t say?”
“Yeah. I mean, I know it’s, like, a hot political topic these days, but back when my grandfather came to America—across land and a river—he says they packed salty nuts and seeds.
Canned foods. Water. And garlic and tobacco, to ward off snakes.
He also wrote his name on his underwear, just in case he died of heatstroke or drowning. ”
“I can’t imagine,” I said.
“He got here and started working, took the classes, and became a citizen,” she said. “He kept that underwear, though.”
“You’ve got quite a few stories to share, Gabriella.”
“This is why I love cooking. So much history.”
“Your family’s journey is a testament to the strength and resilience in your blood,” I told her. “On both sides. You’ve got some kind of resilience in you. And that’s why we gotta kick Mrs. Maine’s behind next time!”
Gabriella’s full mane trembled with her laughter.
“Yes! Crush Mrs. Maine!”
And in that small kitchen, with the smell of warm spices and freshly cooked tortillas wafting around us, we found solace in each other’s company—a bond that I hoped would endure long after the last bite of breakfast had been savored.
Together, we filled the tortillas with our mixture of veggies and meat, and topped them with a creamy cheese sauce that she whipped up in the same skillet we’d used earlier. Every single bite of these burritos would be full of flavor.
How Elijah slept through our conversation and laughter, let alone the irresistible aromas, was beyond me.
“Gabriella, I’m going to check on Elijah. He’s usually up by now,” I said as I wiped my hands on a dish towel and left the kitchen.
I made my way down the hall, my footsteps echoing softly on the laminate floors.
The door to Elijah’s room was slightly ajar, and I could see his outline in the dim morning light.
He was sitting in the rocking chair, knees drawn up to his chest, wearing different pajamas from the ones he had gone to sleep in.
His bedding was in a heap on the floor, and a towel covered part of his mattress.
“Baby, are you okay?” I asked, taking a cautious step into the room.
Elijah buried his face in his knees, his voice muffled as he spoke. “I peed in the bed, Grandma. I’m sorry.”
My heart ached for him; I could feel his embarrassment radiating off him in waves. I crossed the room and rested a hand on his shoulders. “No worries, EJ. Everyone has accidents sometimes.”
He looked up at me, tears welling in his eyes. “I still don’t like it when it happens.”
“I’m sure you don’t.”
“Please don’t tell Gabriella. I don’t want her to know.”
“Of course I won’t,” I assured him, giving his arm a gentle squeeze. “Why don’t you go ahead and take a shower? I’ll take care of the laundry.”
“Okay,” he whispered, sliding off the rocking chair and heading toward the bathroom.
As he closed the door behind him, I gathered up the soiled bedding and carried it to the laundry room, making sure not to catch Gabriella’s eye. My mind raced with worry for my grandson.
Both of my kids had been completely potty-trained by age three, and we never had a slip-up, except for the time Eric Jr. refused to step away from a video game because he didn’t want to lose.
He won the game against Terri, but he lost control of his bladder in the celebration, and she never let her brother forget it.
Elijah, at ten years old, should be long past his bed-wetting days, in my estimation.
I stood in the hallway, listening to the sound of the shower running behind the closed bathroom door. I slipped back into my bedroom and called my daughter.
“Hey, Momma,” she answered, her voice hurried. “What’s up?”
“Terri, I need to talk to you about something that happened with Elijah this morning.” I launched into an explanation of the situation. “Is this normal for him?”
“Ah.” Terri sighed. “He only gets that way when he’s feeling anxious. It’s not unusual, but it hasn’t happened in a while.”
“Could it be because he’s going to his grandpa’s house soon?” I wondered aloud, my mind racing through possible reasons for his distress.
“Maybe,” Terri replied, sounding distracted. “Look, I have to get to my next seminar session. We can talk about it later.”
“Wait,” I pressed, unwilling to let the conversation end just yet. “Is there any way Elijah could just go home and stay with his father instead? Maybe that would help with his anxiety.”
“Mom, I said I can’t talk right now. I’ll call you back when I have more time.”
“All right,” I relented, the weight of worry settling heavily on my shoulders as we hung up.
As I stood in the dimly lit hallway, the scent of breakfast tortillas wafting from the kitchen, I couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that I needed to find a solution for Elijah.
My grandson deserved the best summer possible, and I was determined to do whatever it took to make that happen.
But first, I needed to learn more about what was causing his anxiety and how I could help him through it.
I stood there, lost in thought, my fingers absently tracing the delicate wallpaper lining the hallway. The sound of running water ceased, and I knew Elijah would soon be stepping out of the shower, freshly washed and hopefully feeling a bit better about his morning ordeal.
“Focus, Joyce,” I whispered to myself, straightening my shoulders. “You’ll figure this out. You always do.”
I took a deep breath and returned to my room, steeling myself for the next conversation I needed to have.
Calling my ex-husband, Eric, was never an easy task, but discussing Elijah’s well-being was more important than any lingering discomfort between us.
I dialed Eric’s number and waited as the line rang.
“Hello?” Eric answered, cautiously curious.
“Hi, it’s Joyce,” I said, trying to sound as casual as possible. “I wanted to talk to you about Elijah.”
“Is everything okay?” he asked, his voice portraying a hint of concern, which brought a small relief.
“Things are fine. I—I just thought we should discuss his upcoming visit with you. He might be anxious.”
“Anxious? Why?”