Page 123 of Can't Get Enough

I drop a kiss on her head and she nods, her lips twisting with something that is half grin, half grimace of discomfort.

“You eat? Don’t neglect yourself, Hen, taking care of us old birds.”

“Mama cooked some breakfast.”

“Did she make them grits?” Aunt Geneva asks cautiously.

“Aunt G, you could have warned me!”

As soon as our gazes catch, our lips start twitching and we both laugh, even though this is some tough shit we’re navigating. When life deals you the worst hand, the biggest test is how you get through it. Laugh, cry, wail, whine—doesn’t matter. Justthrough. And here with them the last few days, I see more clearly than ever, that’s what Mama’s doing. What we’re all doing. The best we can to make it through.

“As closely as I watch her,” Aunt Geneva says, wiping the tears from the corners of her eyes and the last of the humor from her face, “she sometimes manages to get the salt and the baking soda mixed up. No idea how or why, but it makes for an interesting mac and cheese. I’m usually with her. She doesn’t get to cook alone, but every once in a while, something will slip past me and we end up with baking soda in the grits or something. She hates me standing over her shoulder, as she calls it, but it’s the best way for her to still do what she loves so much and stay safe.”

“The eggs and bacon are good,” I reassure her, holding on to my smile for as long as I can. “Want some?”

“Yeah, and there’s some grapefruit in the fridge. Cut me one up?”

“Yes, ma’am. I’ll get up tomorrow to help her with breakfast.” I glance at my Apple Watch. “I have a few meetings. I’ll bring your food, do my meeting, and then be back to check on you when I’m done.”

“Sounds good.” She points to her Bible on her nightstand. “Got my Savior and my tunes. I’ll be just fine.”

I bring her breakfast up. As I’m turning to go back downstairs, I pause at her bedroom door. “I’m gonna shower and get through my meetings,” I say. “I was actually surprised Mama cooked breakfast this morning. She’s been in her room a lot this week—not coming out much. Is that typical?”

Aunt Geneva shrugs. “Depending on how she’s feeling.”

“Depression is really common in Alzheimer’s patients. You think Mama is depressed?”

“Be hard for her not to be at least a little sad knowing what she knows.”

“Well, in my support group, they said activity helps. Exercise won’t stop the progress altogether, of course, but it can help grow new brain cells, and that’s always good!”

“I know. She and Catherine used to walk at the track, walk around the neighborhood. Lately…” Aunt Geneva shrugs. “Just not as interested in things as she used to be.”

“What about her garden? That was her favorite place in the world. Now it’s overgrown with weeds. No flowers. A mess.”

“The garden makes her think of your daddy. Sometimes when she goes out there, it’s not good.”

It’s a sad conversation, and I have to shove my anxiety aside long enough to shower and put on a little makeup before my first meeting. It’s actually a call with a brand interested in working with Soledad. She’ll be on the call, too, which makes me look forward to the meeting just a little. I miss my girls. Between the week in Malibu withMaverick, which we’ve barely gotten to debrief, and now six weeks here in Charlotte, we’ve got a long-distance friendship going.

“Shit internet,” I mutter, setting up shop in my father’s old office, which now doubles as a sewing room. I’m praying this weak-ass signal holds for the duration of my Zoom. It’s like a museum of my childhood in here, with my father’s dusty dinosaur of a desktop computer and the disabled Singer Mama used to sew my Halloween costumes the monuments, as the relics of our past.

The photos that always adorned Daddy’s desk are still here. An old wedding portrait, in which my parents look terribly young and fresh and ecstatic, their arms looped around each other like they’re holding on for dear life. And they did… till death did them part. That promise of unconditional, unwavering love in that photo—they fulfilled it. There are still photos of me growing up—Girl Scouts, debate team, graduation. Even that cheerleader phase I went through. I had no desire to cheer, but still felt that need to prove “big girls could” do stuff, too. I grew out of that.

I ain’t got shit to prove to anyone but myself now.

Maybe tonight Mama and I can pull out her many photo albums and reminisce some. She seems happiest spending time in the past. Will it help if I find ways to go there with her?

But first, work.

Fortunately, the call doesn’t last long. They know they want to work with Soledad, so we discuss the sponsored posts she’ll do and even a brand trip to Paris for Fashion Week. Once the client logs off, Soledad lingers and it’s just the two of us.

“Wow,” she says, her eyes wide. “That was pretty amazing, right?”

“Definitely. Exciting stuff. I’ll follow up.” I take in her curly hair in a perky ponytail, her face with a light dusting of powder and her bright eyes and smile. “How you doing down there in the A?”

“We’re good. You know we leave on that cruise tomorrow.” Her eyes light up. “It’s the first trip with my girls and Judah’s boys. Wish us luck.”

“How do Aaron and Adam do with travel?”

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