“Come on.” He led her to the front room and a plush chaise near the picture window that overlooked their tree-lined street. Snow clung to the branches, everything white and clean and dead.
“Dr. T is coming at about six forty-five, right?” Justin asked, pressing her into the seat.
“Justin—”
“Mom.” He crouched in front of her. Nineteen years old and looking at her like she was the child. “Let us take care of you for once, okay? Please?”
The please did it.
She took the hot mug he offered. The ginger and green tea should have been calming. It wasn’t. Not today.
They were handling her. Monique could see it happening. The precision, the coordination, the way Jasmine had thought ahead and provided what she needed before the need registered in her own body. She recognized the steps because she’d taught it to them.
Something in her loosened at the recognition, just a little bit. The furnace kicked on, quietly wrapping her in warm air. Reminding her of a boat in Puerto Rico where she said she was tired of being angry when people showed they cared.
“Okay,” she said.
Justin’s shoulders sagged. He wedged himself on the chaise with her. His lanky frame folded around her waist in a position they hadn’t held since before the first surgery.
“Tell me about your trip. Did you have fun? I know you took a whole mess of pictures.”
Monique’s hand went automatically to his head, fingers drifting over his meticulous waves. “It was nice.”
“Just nice?” Jasmine asked as she entered the room with a tray laden with food and sat it beside them. “Tell us more.” She sat at the foot of the chaise and then leaned back against her brother. This weird dog pile they often did had been difficult after the surgeries and infusions, when everything ached and nausea was a constant companion.
What more was there to tell? She’d cut her trip short by a little bit to come home to bury someone else she loved.
“How was everybody?” Jasmine asked, emphasizing “everybody” in a way that made Monique’s ears itch.
“Jasmine Noel Moore, what did you do?”
Her daughter’s already high cheekbones rose even higher as she tried to purse her lips to withhold a smile. That child couldn’t hold water. “Whatchu mean? I was here the whole time.”
“Justin. Somebody better tell me something.”
Justin buried his face into the softest part of his mother’s belly. “We just want you to be happy, that’s all.” His breath warmed her through the layers of fabric. He looked up at her. “Everybody does.”
Monique disentangled herself and stood. She slid her mug onto the mantel. Her deceased family stared back from their frames. Mimi. Her mother. All the people who’d loved her but still left her to navigate this alone.
“This is insane,” she whispered to the photographs.
“Ma, before you start tripping, understand that weallwant the best for you.” Jasmine had come beside her and rested her head on Monique’s shoulder. “Tell us about Maurice.”
Maurice. The name hit her like a sock full of quarters to the chest.
“What the—”
“Hey,” Justin stopped her. “Can we not giveOld Moniquethe floor today?”
She closed her mouth and then opened it to say something more. Justin raised an eyebrow. Monique closed her mouth again.Old Moniquewould have yelled and cursed when she really wanted to cry. But she didn’t want to be that person anymore. Justin was right.
“He seems like a good dude,” Justin said from her abandoned seat. “At least that’s what Cousin Tommie and the Aunties keep saying.”
Questions rose in her throat like bile—like, where had Tommie and the Aunties been before?—but she swallowed them. Her children didn’t deserve any of that.
Monique pulled in a deep breath. “A good dude,” she repeated, almost to herself. “Yeah, he is. But that was vacation. Not real life.”
“Come on, Mom.” Jasmine took her hand. “When would you have let yourself enjoy someone again? It’s bad enough they had to strongarm you into going to the wedding.”