Page 72 of Goodbye Days

“At least there’s someone.”

“I had my sister Georgia around and we still talk and text and stuff, but we can’t exactly go to a movie together with her in Knoxville for school.”

“What about your folks?”

I squirm inwardly. “I don’t really talk to them much about my life.”

“They seem nice.”

“They are. I thought you’re supposed to have your private life from your parents.”

Nana Betsy turns from the stove and puts her hand on her hip. “I can tell you that ain’t written anywhere.”

I stare at the beige linoleum floor. “I don’t know what my deal is.”

Nana Betsy, perhaps picking up on my reluctance to talk about this topic, blessedly allows it to die. She pulls out the rest of the chicken, sets it on the platter, opens the oven, and pulls out the steaming cornbread.

She comes to the table, balancing one of the plates she prepared us on her forearm while holding a pitcher of sweet tea. She returns to the refrigerator for a tub of homemade coleslaw.

She says grace over the food and we dig in.

“This was the exact meal I made him to celebrate him getting into Nashville Arts. I told him he could pick any restaurant, but this is what he picked.”

“I can see why,” I say through a mouthful. “I wasn’t even hungry.”

“Save room—there’s lemon chess pie in the fridge.”

We eat slowly, savoring each bite as we think Blake would, and talk for hours. We treat the meal like we’re taking Communion, which I guess we are, in a way. We settle into a comfortable back-and-forth of the small, ordinary things we remember about Blake.

She tells me he never killed spiders because they ate bugs he feared more.

I tell her about how Blake pronounced “library” as “liberry” all his life, as far as I knew.

She tells me Blake loved licking the eggbeater so much that if he wasn’t around, she’d put it in a bowl in the fridge for him for later.

I tell her Blake was never once mean to anyone at school.

She tells me he hated raisins.

I tell her how I would let him drive my car and how excited he always got; the novelty of driving never lost its luster.

She tells me he never learned how to swim or ride a bike.

I tell her about our first argument—over whether woolly mammoths could still be alive somewhere in Siberia.

She tells me how, until he was fourteen, she used to leave the hall light on for him after he went to bed.

I tell her how every time I said goodbye to him, it cast a faint shadow on my life—muting every color—until I saw him again.

It’s early evening when we’re done eating and talking and what remains of the lemon chess pie sits on the table in front of us. We both recline in our chairs to relieve the pressure on our diaphragms.

“Well, are you ready for the next part?” Nana Betsy sweeps some crumbs into her hand and deposits them on her plate.

“As long as it’s not more food. Not that this wasn’t excellent.”

She smiles and gets up. I hear her rummaging around. She returns holding a pink rubber bladder. There’s a mischievous glint in her eye. “Ever played with one of these?”

I shake my head.