Chapter 10
A year after the dinner, I finished the first drawing I was willing to show anyone.
It was a picture of my mother and Imani in my kitchen. I had drawn them from memory, standing shoulder to shoulder over a recipe while pretending they were not arguing. My mother insisted she had never held a spoon that way. Imani said it was the most accurate thing in the picture.
They both asked if they could keep it.
I had it framed and gave it to our mother for her birthday.
Serena came to the small gathering at my apartment that evening. I had invited her without knowing whether she would want to come. She arrived with a plant for my windowsill and asked where I wanted it.
“Anywhere it might survive,” I said.
She found a place beside the window. We had met a few times since the coffee shop. We could speak easily about work and ordinary things. Sometimes an old memory caught one of us off guard. We let it.
After the others left, she stayed to help wash glasses.
“I passed the old restaurant last week,” she said.
I set down a towel.
“I did too. A couple of months ago.”
“I nearly turned around.”
“I understand.”
She ran water over a glass. “I went inside. My mother wanted dinner, and it was closest. We sat at the bar.”
“How was it?”
“The food was good.” She gave me a brief smile. “I was nervous for about ten minutes. Then my mother started telling a story, and I forgot where we were.”
I felt an unexpected rush of relief for her.
“I’m glad you had that evening.”
“So am I.”
When she left, she touched my arm.
“I’m glad we can talk now, Nia.”
“Me too.”
I closed the door and looked around the apartment. The framed drawing my mother had refused to take home still stood on the counter; she wanted Imani to see it in better light next week. Serena’s plant leaned toward the window. There were glasses to put away and crumbs on the table.
It felt like a home full of people who knew me.
A few days later, I saw Marcus at the market. We both stopped near the fruit stall where he had once handed me a peach.
He introduced me to the woman beside him. Her name was Leah. She had a warm smile and a canvas bag full of vegetables.
“Marcus has told me you’re an artist,” she said.
“I’m learning.”
“Your drawing is on the community center wall,” Marcus said. “I saw it last month.”
I had submitted a sketch to a local show. I had not known he had gone.
“I hope you liked it,” I said.
“I did.”
Leah looked toward another stall. “I’m going to get the bread. I’ll meet you there.”
Marcus waited until she was out of earshot.
“She knows we were together,” he said. “She knows why it ended. I wanted to tell you myself, since we ran into each other.”
“Thank you. She seems lovely.”
“She is.”
I meant it when I said, “I’m happy for you.”
He looked at me for a moment. “I’m happy you’re drawing again.”
We said goodbye. As I walked away, I felt a tug of grief for the life we had once imagined. I also felt glad that he had found someone with whom he could begin again. Both feelings stayed with me until I reached home.
At my next counseling appointment, I told the counselor about seeing him.
“What do you want for yourself now?” she asked.
I thought about it on the bus home. For a long time, my answer had been tied to whether Marcus forgave me, whether Serena trusted me, whether my mother could look at me without disappointment. I still cared what they felt. I had learned to give them room for it.
I wanted to keep drawing. I wanted to tell people when I was lonely, and listen when they told me the same. I wanted the people I loved to feel safe asking me a hard question.
That Saturday, Imani came over with groceries. Our mother followed with flowers she claimed had been on sale. We made dinner in my small kitchen, taking turns at the stove because there was room for only one person at a time.
Serena arrived later with dessert.
My mother welcomed her in. Imani made room at the table. I watched Serena settle into the chair beside me, comfortable enough to reach for a glass herself.
After dinner, I gave our mother the framed drawing at last. She held it against her chest.
“You’ve made us beautiful,” she said.
“I drew what I see.”
Imani leaned over her shoulder. “You made my hair too neat.”
I laughed. My mother laughed too. Serena asked to see it, and we passed the picture around the table while the tea grew cool.
When the evening ended, I stood by the window with my mother. Inside, Imani and Serena were gathering plates.
“Are you happy here?” my mother asked.
“Yes.”
She slipped her hand into mine. Her fingers were warm.
May you like
I looked at the people moving through my kitchen, at the drawing waiting to go home with her, and at the little plant Serena had given me. I knew the love in that room had survived some difficult truths. I trusted myself to care for it.
“Yes,” I said again, and squeezed her hand. “I am.”
