Chapter 8: Sunday at My Mother's

My mother's apartment in Dorchester smells like cumin, cinnamon and bleach, and she has never once let anyone arrive hungry.

On Sunday at four, I stood on her third-floor landing with a bakery box in one hand and Lark's hand in the other.

"You're going to be fine," I said.

"I'm going to be sick."

"She's going to ask you if you've eaten. Say no."

"Is that a trick?"

"It's the only answer she accepts."

The door flew open before I could knock.

Samira Haddad is fifty-six and five foot three, with dark hair streaked in silver and gold bangles that announce her coming.

She wore her blue scrubs and an apron over them, and she was holding a wooden spoon.

"Noor!" she said, kissed both my cheeks, and looked past me. "This is the friend with the boat?"

"Mama, this is Lark."

"Hello, Mrs. Haddad," Lark said, and held out her hand.

My mother ignored it, took Lark's face between both hands, and studied it.

"Too thin," she said. "Have you eaten?"

"No," Lark said, quickly and honestly.

"Good. Come in."

I could have kissed her.

The apartment was small and bright, with a plastic cloth on the table and a framed photograph of my father over the television.

My mother put Lark in the chair next to the window, and she put the food in front of her without asking.

Kibbeh, stuffed grape leaves, fattoush, a plate of warm bread, a bowl of tabbouleh the size of a baby.

"Eat," she said.

Lark ate, and my mother watched her do it with the satisfaction of a general.

"Who is your family?" she asked.

"My dad's a retired boat builder in Maine, ma'am. My mom lives in Portland."

"And in Boston?"

"My aunt, Pru Aldrich."

"Aldrich." My mother looked at me. "Cass's stepmother."

"Yes, Mama."

"So this is Cass's cousin."

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