“She was. She presented the awards. Kayla, Keith, Mrs. Allen—they were all there.”
“How was Janetta?” Affection softens her tone, something that hasn’t happened before on the rare occasions when we’ve referenced Kimba’s family.
“She’s good. She asked about you, too. She didn’t know Dad had passed. She said to wish you well.”
“Did she?” Mom chuckles. “I wouldn’t have survived those first few years in Georgia without that woman.”
“I know,” I say, determined to step through the rare crack in the door. “So what happened back then? You were all so close, and then—”
“It was a long time ago,” Mom cuts me off. “Kimba’s made quite a name for herself. Not surprising. She was always the most like her father to me. How was she?”
I don’t know how to answer that. She was twenty-four years older than the last time I kissed her. She’s someone I used to know at a molecular level, but now I couldn’t even tell you where she lives, or her favorite food.
“She’s fine. Mona invited her to this cookout tonight.”
The line goes quiet for a second. “Is Aiko still in Tanzania?” Mom asks, her tone careful and obvious.
“You know she is. Your point in asking at just this moment?”
“I’m not poking my head in your business, son. I just know how intense you used to be about Kimba. Seeing old…friends when we’re having trouble with our partners can be dangerous.”
My mother knows about the struggles Aiko and I have had. We’ve been open about it. I glance up to where Noah is playing a game on his iPad a few feet away. I would hate for him to overhear something prematurely. Aiko would be devastated not to be with me when he finds out. I’ll tell my mom the truth later.
“Mom, don’t worry so much.” I stow the sliced vegetables in the refrigerator. “How’s Stanley?”
“Ezra, I know you.”
“Good. Then you know I would never hurt Aiko. How’s Stanley?”
Cue heavy Jewish Mom sigh, laced with longsuffering.
“Okay, just remember what I said,” she replies. “And Stanley’s good. The doctor checked his stint.”
My mom went from marrying an African-American atheist lawyer to the most Jewish man in New York City, Stanley Ebstein. He grew up attending the same synagogue as my mother and lived two blocks from her family’s dry-cleaning business that dates back to the early 1900s. His family owns a chain of kosher delis.
“Put Noah back on the phone,” Mom says after she catalogs all of Stanley’s medications and their upcoming doctor’s appointments. “I need to make sure he’s ready for summer camp. You’re flying him up next week, right?”
“Yeah.” I walk over to Noah. “After his birthday party.”
“Are you still staying for a week? It’s been a while since you’ve seen everyone in the neighborhood.”
My reflex response is to confirm I’ll stay for a visit, but some traitorous imp reminds me that Kimba may stay in Atlanta for a few weeks.
“We’ll see. Here’s your grandson,” I reply, handing Noah the phone before my mother can berate me.
I’m cleaning up the small mess I made preparing vegetables when Mona walks through the door that leads to the backyard.
“It’s just me,” she says, our standard greeting as we flow in and out of each other’s homes.
“What’s up?” I spare her a smile while I’m wiping down the counter.
“Answer your damn phone. I was catching up on The Swamp People and had to drag my ass from the comfort of my home to come over here. Are you happy now?”
“So sorry to have inconvenienced you. How can I help?”
“You got any Sriracha sauce? I’m out.”
I nod toward the cabinet over the stove. “Up there, and Noah probably didn’t answer if you tried to call. When he and my mom get on the phone, it’s like a rerun of The Golden Girls.”