Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 124320 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 622(@200wpm)___ 497(@250wpm)___ 414(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 124320 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 622(@200wpm)___ 497(@250wpm)___ 414(@300wpm)
“It’s Bubbe,” Noah says, looking up from my cell phone on the counter. “Can I answer?”
“Sure.” I turn on the tap and rinse tomatoes and cucumbers in the sink.
“And Daddy won the award,” Noah gushes a few minutes into his conversation with my mother. He hasn’t stopped speaking since he picked up the phone. “And his friend gave it to him.”
He finally draws a breath, pausing to listen to my mother. “The friend from TV. Kimba Allen.”
He holds the phone to me. “Bubbe wants to speak to you.”
I bet she does.
“Hey, Mom.” I trap the phone between my ear and shoulder while I slice a cucumber.
“Why didn’t you tell me you were receiving an award from the Allen Foundation?”
“Mom, it’s not that big of a deal.”
The silence fills with what she and I both know—it is. I never got the full story of what went so wrong in my parents’ friendship with the Allens, but we moved and, as far as I know, they never had contact with them again. That volatile night cleaved our life into two distinct parts. In one of those parts, Kimba Allen was my best friend. In the other, she and her family didn’t exist.
“Why would they…” Mom pauses, clears her throat. “Tell me how this happened.”
“I received an email saying I was being honored for excellence in education. I went to the ceremony.”
“And Kimba was there?”
“She was. She presented the awards. Kayla, Keith, Mrs. Allen—they were all there.”
“How was Janetta?” Affection softens her tone, something that hasn’t happened before on the rare occasions when we’ve referenced Kimba’s family.
“She’s good. She asked about you, too. She didn’t know Dad had passed. She said to wish you well.”
“Did she?” Mom chuckles. “I wouldn’t have survived those first few years in Georgia without that woman.”
“I know,” I say, determined to step through the rare crack in the door. “So what happened back then? You were all so close, and then—”
“It was a long time ago,” Mom cuts me off. “Kimba’s made quite a name for herself. Not surprising. She was always the most like her father to me. How was she?”
I don’t know how to answer that. She was twenty-four years older than the last time I kissed her. She’s someone I used to know at a molecular level, but now I couldn’t even tell you where she lives, or her favorite food.
“She’s fine. Mona invited her to this cookout tonight.”
The line goes quiet for a second. “Is Aiko still in Tanzania?” Mom asks, her tone careful and obvious.
“You know she is. Your point in asking at just this moment?”
“I’m not poking my head in your business, son. I just know how intense you used to be about Kimba. Seeing old…friends when we’re having trouble with our partners can be dangerous.”
My mother knows about the struggles Aiko and I have had. We’ve been open about it. I glance up to where Noah is playing a game on his iPad a few feet away. I would hate for him to overhear something prematurely. Aiko would be devastated not to be with me when he finds out. I’ll tell my mom the truth later.
“Mom, don’t worry so much.” I stow the sliced vegetables in the refrigerator. “How’s Stanley?”
“Ezra, I know you.”
“Good. Then you know I would never hurt Aiko. How’s Stanley?”
Cue heavy Jewish Mom sigh, laced with longsuffering.
“Okay, just remember what I said,” she replies. “And Stanley’s good. The doctor checked his stint.”
My mom went from marrying an African-American atheist lawyer to the most Jewish man in New York City, Stanley Ebstein. He grew up attending the same synagogue as my mother and lived two blocks from her family’s dry-cleaning business that dates back to the early 1900s. His family owns a chain of kosher delis.
“Put Noah back on the phone,” Mom says after she catalogs all of Stanley’s medications and their upcoming doctor’s appointments. “I need to make sure he’s ready for summer camp. You’re flying him up next week, right?”
“Yeah.” I walk over to Noah. “After his birthday party.”
“Are you still staying for a week? It’s been a while since you’ve seen everyone in the neighborhood.”
My reflex response is to confirm I’ll stay for a visit, but some traitorous imp reminds me that Kimba may stay in Atlanta for a few weeks.
“We’ll see. Here’s your grandson,” I reply, handing Noah the phone before my mother can berate me.
I’m cleaning up the small mess I made preparing vegetables when Mona walks through the door that leads to the backyard.
“It’s just me,” she says, our standard greeting as we flow in and out of each other’s homes.
“What’s up?” I spare her a smile while I’m wiping down the counter.
“Answer your damn phone. I was catching up on The Swamp People and had to drag my ass from the comfort of my home to come over here. Are you happy now?”