Page 5 of Can't Get Enough

“I didn’t forget,” Mama says, her face held stiff. “How could I forget you were coming in from Virginia?”

Aunt Geneva’s sharp glance assesses Mama’s unkempt appearance, and then flicks to me. Our eyes hold, and the knowledge that Mama definitely forgot passes between us.

“Sissy,” Mama whispers, her voice shaking and a solitary tear streaking down her face. “I didn’t forget. I wouldn’t forget. How could I…”

Aunt Geneva crosses the kitchen in a few strides, pulling Mama close to her chest like the little sister she is in that moment, stroking her back and patting her hair.

“Of course you didn’t forget, Bet,” Aunt Geneva whispers. “And it don’t matter either way.”

She meets my eyes over Mama’s head and says, as much to me as to her, “’Cause I’m here now.”

Mama’s Christmas meal is obviously unsalvageable. While Aunt Geneva cooks breakfast for dinner—eggs, pancakes, grits, toast, hash browns, sausage, and bacon—I get Mama settled. First order of business is a shower. Then I do a quick wash and blow-dry for her hair, oiling her scalp and using the rollers she prefers. She’s been pretty quiet since we got home, as if she’s withdrawn into a safe place in her head; a quiet spot where no one expects her to remember or respond. Even still, I keep up a steady flow of one-sided conversation, every once in a while humming her favorite, “This Christmas.” Loves herself some Donny Hathaway.

“Y’all come on and eat,” Aunt Geneva calls up as I’m sliding the last roller into Mama’s hair. “’Fore this gets cold.”

At the table, we all punish our food—stabbing, jabbing, and pushing it around our plates in the stilted silence of the dining room. So different from the holidays of years past, where the laughter and Christmas music made it so you couldn’t hear yourself think, but that was fine because all you needed to do was laugh and eat. Mama picks at her eggs for a while and then, claiming fatigue, rises and slips off toher room. I’d usually try to coax her to stay, but I can practically see words burning a hole in the tip of Aunt Geneva’s tongue.

“We need to talk,” she says as soon as Mama’s footsteps on the stairs fade and her bedroom door snicks closed behind her.

“I know.” I raise a strip of bacon to my lips for a disinterested bite. “I didn’t find out about Ms. Catherine until today, that she had passed.”

“Me neither.” Aunt Geneva whooshes out a breath and shakes her head. “I even asked Betty last time we talked about Cat. She was vague. Didn’t sit right with my spirit, but I didn’t press. I should have pressed.”

I reach across the table and cover her hand with mine. “Don’t beat yourself up. We’ll both be more vigilant from now on. Apparently there have been a few incidents with the police department.”

I relay what the cop told me and the not-so-subtle warning about social services getting involved unless we address Mama’s living situation.

“A lot has to change,” I conclude. “She can’t go on like this.”

“You already know she ain’t leaving this house till she absolutely has to,” Aunt Geneva says, taking a sip of lemonade. “Took thirty years to pay off this mortgage. She’s lived here a long time. When you’re losing your memory, being in a place where your life happened, where the past is at your fingertips, is important. It’s reassuring.”

“You’re right.” I rub my temples, resignation like a vise around my head. “It’ll be hard to run my business from here. Everything’s based in Atlanta. Most of my clients are there, but I’ll figure it out.”

“No, ma’am.” Aunt Geneva’s gaze connects with mine across the table. Compassion swirls in the dark brown of her eyes. “You don’t have to uproot your life that way, Hendrix.”

“I have to be with her. She needs…” The enormity of the journey ahead, with its inevitable tragic end, overwhelms me. The pressure of maintaining my livelihood so I canaffordto make sure Mama never wants for anything over the long haul comes crashing on me and steals my words. Fear and panic fist my heart until my breath comes short.

Aunt Geneva stands and comes around the table, taking the seat beside me that Mama vacated. She frames my face with her hands.

“Betty won’t leave yet,” she says, a determined glint in her eye. “And while she can still remember her life in this place, I don’t think she should, but I also don’t think you need to move home to this backwoods town.”

The sliver of humor in her voice soothes me long enough to return her small smirk.

“And she doesn’twantyou to have to do that, Hen,” she says. “I’m an old woman, and them roots I got in Virginia ain’t doing a thing for me. I’ll move.”

“Aunt G, no. You—”

“Iam retired. Your cousin Ellie and the grands live in Costa Rica. They got the bar to run. Gerald and his family are stationed overseas. Till he’s out of the army, I don’t think they’ll be back stateside anytime soon. I only get to see my kids a few times a year as it is.”

“But your life is in Virginia Beach.”

“Girl, I’m seventy-seven years old. Husband passed. My kids ain’t around. I grew up here. Still got friends here. Shoot, New Hope Baptist was my church till I married and moved with your uncle Robert.” She chuckles and shakes her head. “They might not have even taken my name off the roll. I’ll be back on the usher board before you know it.”

“I can’t let you do that.”

“She’s my sister, Hendrix. My baby sister, and she needs me.” She leans forward to look in my eyes and taps the table with her index finger for emphasis. “There will come a time when your mama won’t be able to stay at home, but she’s still early in this. We gotta pace ourselves. Not just her, but you. Things will get worse, and we’ll face another set of decisions. Harder decisions, but we’re not there yet. I think you can stay in Atlanta, run your business and your life without much disruption, and come home every chance you get.”

The idea floats through the chaos of my thoughts, taking a few seconds to settle. Aunt Geneva’s plan will require many adjustments in how I run the business, how I run my life, but not as much as having to be here all the time would. It may be a temporary compromise wecan all live with. It’s probably the best we can do for now, but guilt still gnaws at my insides.

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