Page 15 of Meet Cute Reboot
“That can’t be good.”
“Just ‘cause he’s the first draft pick doesn’t mean he’s any good.”
“It usually means something.”
Granny waves a hand at me and then wiggles her dentures before setting her jaw.
“Where’s Madison?” I ask. “I didn’t see her car.”
“She had to go pick your Aunt Suzanne up from work.”
“Okay. Well. Nana needs me in the kitchen. I’ll be back to visit in a bit.”
“I’m used to being alone in this icebox,” Granny grumbles.
Granny’s never alone. Nana’s here whenever Mom leaves and vice versa. Granny doesn’t need much help, just needs watching since she sometimes gets an urge to climb the stairs or wash her own clothes in the basement. She can’t be trusted with the gas stove, either. She forgets to turn off the burners and nearly blew up the kitchen a few years ago.
Granny has the downstairs bedroom, so she doesn’t have to climb stairs, and Mom and Nana sleep upstairs. They survive on Granny and Nana’s Social Security, along with Mom’s income from the bank.
It was the same when I was growing up, with Nana already retired and Mom working two jobs to make ends meet while paying off Dad’s hospital bills. Feeding and clothing us were all she could manage. We never went on vacations, barely left the city.
“I’ll bring you a roll,” I say over my shoulder as I head to the kitchen.
“Butter and honey,” Granny croaks.
On my way to the kitchen, I pause at the credenza and fuss with the fresh flower arrangement. Nana always splurges on a bouquet on Sundays to decorate our small memorial. Photos of the deceased Sears family patriarchs—my Great Grandfather Charles, my Grandpa Allen, and my dad, William—surround the vase.
Nana keeps our family history alive, bragging about how Great Grandpa Charles opened a chain of Charleston grocery stores. Grandpa Allen inherited the stores, but as the big box grocery stores took over market share, he had to close them one by one, until all that remained was Fresh and Save on King Street.
Nana managed the store after Grandpa died until it was no longer profitable. They hadn’t been able to save for retirement, so she took cashier jobs here and there to supplement Social Security until her feet wouldn’t allow her to stand for more than an hour.
I pick up my dad’s picture and brush away the thin layer of dust on top. He died when I was still in grade school. He was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer in May and passed in August. While mourning my dad, I worried about how Mom would pay the bills without Dad’s income, if we’d lose our house, whether I’d have presents at Christmas.
Mom couldn’t manage the bills, so Nana invited us to move in, which was a blessing amidst tragedy, even though my teenage self didn’t see it that way when I had two Sears women harping at me about spending too much time in my room texting my friends.
Dad had decided to shun the family business and become an electrician. He worked long hours but still managed to attend church, to call me his little princess when I danced for him in my Sunday dress, to take us to the beach and teach me to swim among the waves. Or at least float a little. While wearing floaties.
What if he’d been around to support the family, to call me beautiful before prom, to cheer me on while starting my new businesses? I sigh, set down the photo, and shove away the longing ache in my chest that revisits whenever I think about what might have been.
“Hey,” I say when I enter the yellow kitchen.
“She made it,” Nana says.
“I escaped.”
The kitchen isn’t up to Instagram standards. There is no island, no peninsula, no quartz countertops, or fancy backsplash. Instead, two walls of 1950s-style cabinets offer inadequate storage—only one wall boasting uppers. Nana’s stovelacks a task light, but that doesn’t stop her from cooking hearty meals. A round table occupies the opposite corner of the room. It’s covered with small Amazon boxes, random paperwork, and junk mail.
Mom’s standing at the tiled counter peeling potatoes. Her gauchos may be a little out of style, but she still rocks them with a pair of sandals and a flowy blouse. She could land a man in seconds if she wanted one, but she hasn’t dated since Dad died. The wedding ring on her left hand is a natural male-deterrent.
She looks over her shoulder at me. “What did Michael want?”
“He wants to get back together.”
“What’s going on in his head?” Mom says, not missing a slice.
“I didn’t stay to find out. He just said he thinks we made a mistake. I told him we didn’t, and then I backed out of the sanctuary and left him standing there all alone.”
Mom stops mid-slice and raises an eyebrow at me.