Page 4 of Plus One

It was as if they all had the same thought and posted almost identical directives to get started and send them pics of her wardrobe choices.

MONIQUE

I’ll see what I can do

She stepped into her closet. Too many choices. Too many memories. Monique couldn’t promise any sort of live-action Fashion Plates experience that they all seemed to want to play. But she would entertain them and send pics as soon as Jasmine got back.

First things first. “Where the hell is my suitcase?”

She tugged at the clothes, trying to move them aside. The rod and shelf tumbled down instead.

Another repair for the ever-growing punch list that kept this house standing. A few weeks ago, her Auntie Deb and her right-hand, Avery, came through from Jersey and shored up what they could. Justin did his best to stay ahead of the routine stuff on his own while Jasmine was away and Monique too sick from her latest infusion, but an old house needed to be nurtured to age gracefully, not remade.

With a groan, she bent and scooped up an armful of clothes and headed back into her bedroom to do what needed to be done. Each movement became a fierce negotiation with a body that had betrayed her. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath.Keep it moving.

A tap at the door pulled Monique’s attention from the chaos in her closet and the packing she hadn’t started.

“Hey, Mom. Justin said you were looking for me?” Jasmine stepped into the room, all sparkling dark-brown skin and rainbow-hued, tailbone-length goddess locs. She wore leggings and an oversized Fisk sweatshirt that was nearly to her knees. Her face, though, was pensive, as if she were walking into a booby-trapped antechamber.

Monique couldn’t blame her.

Nathan had walked out with no address to forward the hurt, embarrassment, and shame that he’d left behind when their suburban dreams went with the market, taking with it the attached garage and two-point-five bathrooms. Monique came back here—back home—with the twins and started over. Anger and frustration had nowhere to go, and too often found its way to her children, hitting Jasmine first.

“What’s up?” Jasmine asked, leaning against the wall.

Monique walked toward her and pulled her daughter into her arms. She breathed in the now sophisticated baby scent that a mother could always find on her child. “Mmmm,” Monique hummed, drawing Jasmine tighter. “There’s my Jazzie-Pooh.” Not nearly satisfied, Monique kissed Jasmine’s forehead before stepping back.

Jasmine, though, didn’t release her. She squeezed tighter, taking in her own lungful and sighing. “I missed you, Mom.”

The kettle’s whistle downstairs pierced through the silence. They both sniffled and acknowledged the sheen in their eyes with synchronized watery laughs.

“I’ll go make your tea and see about Justin helping out with these clothes.” Jasmine moved decisively, leaving no room for debate. “Why not get the rest of them while you’re at it? Many hands make light work, like Nana used to say.” Jasmine smiled in a way that was so much like Justin’s—so much like Monique’s grandfather’s—that she was misty- eyed all over again.

Monique waved her off. “Send a child to Fisk, and she comes back doing too damn much…” She winked at Jasmine, a playful smile pulling at her lips.

“Whatever,Mother,” Jasmine said, making a show of her words as she flipped her hair in a Technicolor flourish before heading back down the stairs. “Get the rest of the clothes, okay?” she called from the stairwell.

Monique rolled her eyes and stomped toward the closet. “Okay, okay. Damn. So bossy.”

Jasmine’s laugh could be heard from the kitchen. “Whatever, Ma, just do it.”

Was saying yes to her dumb cousin’s destination wedding truly a good idea?

Slick Rick’s “Mona Lisa” played somewhere among the discarded shorts and body-con dresses that hadn’t been wrestled with since the twins needed training wheels. Monique added another pile of clothing to her bed. How was she supposed to find her phone in this pile of bad decisions? At least her ringtone was dope.

“Why don’t we just donate these and get you a new wardrobe?” an unhelpful Jasmine suggested. She sat the tea on the bedside table and pushed the clothes onto the floor in search of the phone. “Ma, most of these still have tags on them.”

Monique knew that. Shopping had been Mimi and Mama’s thing. Those two believed that retail was better therapy than whatever their doctors had ordered. If only you could put healthcare on layaway, then Mama might still be here.

“Jas, I’m fine. You don’t plan to spend your winter break giving your mother a makeover, do you?” The music stopped only to be replaced by a string of other alerts. “Ugh. Why did I say yes to this?”

“How do you know it’s about Cousin Tommie’s wedding? Maybe you won a sweepstakes.”

“Or someone’s been trying to reach me about my car’s extended warranty.” Monique rolled her eyes. Despite the physical distance, she knew her family well, and Tommie’s mama, Aldonia, had never been one to let anything slip too far through the cracks, except Monique.

She detangled her phone from stretchy fabric that might have once passed for a bathing suit twenty-five years and about a hundred pounds ago.

Her phone danced in her hands as a flurry of texts stacked up in the family group chat. She groaned.