Mikala is hungry. Aisha knows this, but they can’t eat just yet. Mikala is trying to tamp down her impatience, distract from her stomach grumblings. She rocks back and forth, then side to side, watching the lacy frilled edge of her skirt swish back and forth like a pink pendulum. Aisha leans her head out of line and takes a quick glance at the number of bodies ahead of them. There’s at least a dozen people, maybe fifteen. Mikala will not last that long.

Aisha tries to remember when the child last ate. Breakfast was scrambled eggs with cheese and sausage. Mikala objected to the “mixed colors” of the food and only ate toast slathered edge to edge with jam to achieve perfect purple coverage. Aisha doesn’t remember if the girl ate the apple she was given, or did she tuck it away and hide it in her latest food stash—a food stash Aisha has not yet found.

Aisha glances down at her daughter, subtly checking for apple-shaped lumps in clothes. Mikala catches her looking and stops swaying. She hides herself behind Aisha’s long dress, giving the garment a quick tug. Patience and blood sugar are both running low.
“Oh, what a little angel! How old is she?”
Aisha is startled by the voice coming from behind her. She turns her head and finds an elderly couple waiting patiently behind them in line. Both are dressed in plain, comfortable clothes—worn sweaters, corduroy trousers, cotton house dress, and neon-colored crocs that were undoubtedly a gift from a grandchild. Their faces show wrinkles and wisdom.

“She’s eight.”
“Oh, such a wonderful age, such a wonderful time,” the old woman coos. “Dante is forty-three with children of his own. And Deon… how old is she now?” The old woman turns to the man. He lifts up his hat and rubs his nearly bald head twice before replacing it.
“Thirty-eight, I reckon. And her baby is starting school at Howard now, or is she graduating?”
“My oldest is twenty-four.” Husband and wife are silent for a moment, their eyes wide and their mouths slightly open.

“My word! You must have been a child yourself!”
The man drives an elbow into his wife’s ribs.
“She was twelve when I adopted her.” Aisha’s answer seems to mollify the old woman and squash any potential gossip about her around the bingo table. “They grow up so quickly, hmm?”
“Oh… oh, yes. So, you have the two of them?”
“Yes, just the two.” There is a sharp tug on her dress, a reminder.
The old man scratches his bristly chin, “Mayhap this little one wants a little brother or little sister?” Aisha feels a none-too-gentle poke at her hip. No new siblings then.

Another person is served, and the line shifts forward a few steps, but then stops abruptly. Mikala pokes her head out and cartoonishly big, pleading hazel eyes peer up at her. Aisha pats her head and tugs one of her braids. “Just a little longer.” Mikala tightens her hold around Aisha’s waist and smooshes herself closer against Aisha’s side. In return, Aisha wraps an arm around the smaller frame and gives the girl a hard squeeze. Mikala settles under the increased pressure. She wants to be squeezed.

“Is anyone paying with cash?” Another clerk appears at a window. Aisha’s free hand shoots up as she steers Mikala towards the open counter space.

***

Lunch is served late. Mikala is enjoying herself, watching the cheese stretch as she spears a mouthful of macaroni. Mikala is fascinated with all foods stretchy.

***

“You’re back too soon. The child needs more sunshine, not more time cooped up inside.”
Aisha takes a deep breath before answering or turning around. When she does, she finds the expected and frowning visage of an older woman with more than a passing resemblance to her own features. “We were out long enough, Mama.”

Mikala comes out of her room carrying a bundle of blankets almost as large as she is. She drops the bedclothes on the floor in front of the long sofa and begins to arrange them just so. Aisha flops onto the sofa as she watches her daughter burrowing into the fluffy den she has created.
“Suppose I’m making dinner again.”
“That’s alright, Mama. I’ll do it.”
“I’m not too old that I can’t cook for my family.”
“I know you can cook, Mama. Miki is just picky,” Aisha reaches over to the coffee table and picks up a fraction workbook. She holds the workbook near the edge of the blanket mound. “Miki, one lesson first.”
A small hand emerges from the bundle and snatches the workbook out of Aisha’s loose grip. Both the hand and the workbook disappear into the pile of comforters and quilts.
“The child will eat what’s cooked or she won’t eat at all. That’s how you were raised.”
“Miki’s different.”
The only answer is a disgruntled sucking of teeth.

***

Dinner is a quiet affair. Mikala is displeased with the plate she is presented. Grandmother has made chicken pot pie. It doesn’t stretch, it oozes, and there are too many colors. She stirs the contents of her bowl, scooping up the creamy sauce and watching it drip from her spoon with a frown. Hazel eyes connect with Aisha’s in a silent plea. The big eyes track down, and Aisha’s gaze follows. There is a suspiciously fruit-shaped bulge under Mikala’s napkin. Aisha glances over to the old tyrant at the head of the table. The old woman’s head is tilted back, her mouth open. A slight stir of a snore can be heard. Aisha looks back at Mikala with a nod.

Soon, both girl and apple have disappeared under the living room’s pile of blankets. The dull glow of a flashlight can be seen roving under the layers of cloth. Aisha quietly clears the table, planning tomorrow’s breakfast of cheese omelettes, pineapples, and lemonades.

 

 

 

 

 

Photo by razi pouri on Unsplash