Chapter 16: Every Dish

I sat.

I pulled out my old chair, the one with the wobble, and sat across from the ham.

Brenda's shoulders loosened.

She thought she had won.

"That's my girl," she said. "Now we eat, and we pray, and tomorrow you call that woman and tell her you're coming home."

She spooned corn pudding onto my plate.

She cut a slice of ham, laid it down, and added two ribs and a yam.

She sat at the head of the table and folded her hands.

"Bless this food," she began.

"Don't."

Her eyes opened.

"I'll eat," I said. "One bite of each. Then I'm going to say something and you're going to listen."

"Virginia."

"One bite."

I picked up my fork.

I took the ham first.

It was sweet and salty, glazed to a shine, the same flavor I had swallowed every Sunday of my life.

"Isabella's," I said.

Brenda's face tightened.

I took a bite of the yams.

"Isabella's."

The corn pudding.

"Isabella's. Pecans and syrup. You wanted them when you carried her."

"Stop it."

"The ribs." I chewed and swallowed. "Hers. All of it. Every plate you ever put in front of me was a gift for a girl who died."

"I made it for you."

"You made it for her, and you made me sit in her place."

She got to her feet.

Her chair scraped.

"I gave you a home," she said. "I gave you a name."

"You gave me her leftovers."

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