Page 121 of Can't Get Enough

“How you know?” I narrow my eyes playfully.

“I can still Google, Hen. Haven’t forgotten how to do that yet.”

The delight in my chest deflates a bit and my grin dims. “Mama, I didn’t mean—”

“Girl, hush and eat.” Her smile is slightly strained, but still firmly in place when she sets the toast down, followed by a steaming bowl of heaven.

“You made grits!” I squeal like a little girl. My mother’s grits are the stuff of legend, and no matter how much I follow her every instruction, mine never turn out quite like hers.

“And look what else.” She turns to pull a pan from the oven.

“Hash brown casserole? Mama, you went all out. You didn’t have to do this.”

“I wanted to. It’s good to have you home.”

“Glad to be here.”

She searches my face. “Are you? I know it’s a lot for you to take six weeks off.”

“Well, I’m not taking six weeks off.” I load eggs and a few slices of bacon onto my plate. “I gotta work. As long as I have a phone and internet, I can still get shi—work done.”

Things haven’t changed enough for me to be cussing in my mama’s house.

I pause scooping grits onto my plate. “I think we need to upgrade the internet. It’s gotta be reliable for my meetings.”

“All right,” Mama says. “You sure do a lot of them Zooms.”

“Couldn’t run my business without them.” My spoon is loaded with grits and on my way to my mouth when Mama’sahemstops me.

“We still say grace in this house, Hendrix Rae.”

“Oh.” I set the spoon back into the mound of grits. “Yes, ma’am. Sorry.”

“Heavenly Father,” Mama says, hands pressed together and eyes closed. “Child, why are your eyes open?”

How does she always… whatever. I obediently close my eyes.

“Heavenly Father,” Mama begins again. “We thank You for the food that is set before us and ask that You bless the hands that prepared it.”

Her hands.

“We ask that You’d make it good for the nourishing of our bodies,” she goes on. “Please bless those who don’t have, oh God. The ones that don’t have a home or food to eat. And we thank You for Your power. Your wonder-working power. For the blood Your Son shed that we might have life and life more abundantly.”

Was the blessing always this long?

My stomach releases a growl in raucous protest of the food that smells so good and is being withheld.

“We ask that You’d extend Your healing to our sister Geneva, who’s recovering from surgery. Lord, You know her situation. By Your Son’s stripes, we are healed. We pray for a speedy recovery.”

I clear my throat, hoping to throw a hint, but Mama prays for New Hope’s sick and shut in, the church’s building fund, and the young adult choir before we are allowed to eat.

“In Jesus’s name,” she finally says. “Amen.”

“Amen,” I say, relieved and starving. My taste buds water with the promise of Mama’s grits. As soon as they hit my tongue, I almost gag.

Lord, they’re awful. I have no idea what they are missing or what was added, but they’re inedible. I reach for a napkin to discreetly spit the food into, and move on to the eggs and bacon. Fortunately, they’re as delicious as always. After the Christmas dinner debacle, I wasn’t sure Mama should cook at all, but things stabilized some with Aunt Geneva in the house and the regimen of meds back on course. The doctor cleared her to cook with light supervision and said taking something she loved so much away could prove detrimental. So she will cooksome until it becomes apparent her condition has advanced too much for that at all. Still, Aunt Geneva usually at least loosely supervises. I wasn’t up to do that today.

“Do your grits taste funny?” Mama demands, frowning and spitting hers into a napkin.

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