The Right Thing To Say

“You’ve always been so quick to say your opinions, Kamiyah.” Ma gives the navy beans a stir, running the spoon along the bottom of the pot, making sure none of the bits too close to the heat stay stuck long enough that getting them off’ll be a workout when they’re transferred from the fire to a bowl.

“People ask for it, Ma. He did.” I say simply, picking up a green bean from my pile and pressing my thumbnail into it till the stem pops off in one smooth motion. Mama stirs a little faster, shaking her head side to side.

“Mmhm, yeah, alright, Kamiyah.” She dips her pinky into the pot and brings it up to her mouth, tasting for something off. She finds it in the garlic, rummaging around the cabinet right above the stove till she finds its powdered form and pops the top, turning it over and letting the contents sprinkle out into the soup.

“So if someone asked you if they looked a mess, what would you say?” I set aside the vegetable and grab a new one.

“You look fine.” Mama shrugs, her voice sure and honest, like I asked that question and was looking for the answer myself.

“But he looked a mess.” I defend, and Mama rolls her eyes in the same way I always used to get popped for as a kid.

“Who wants to hear that, though?” She glances at the clock, and I can tell she’s getting antsy about Grandma. She always starts tapping like a jackrabbit any time the woman’s even the tiniest bit late, always doubting whether she’s gonna show up till she’s out front with her perfect pin curls and her wine red purse clutched tightly between sharp nails that same bloody red all stuck on to one wrinkly old hand.

“But they genuinely asked you to tell them the truth.” I toss the bean into the pile and grab another.

“Nobody ever asks that question and wants the honest truth, Kamiyah, and if that’s your friend, you wouldn’t want to tell them anyways.” He’s not my friend, but I don’t mention that. There’s better times to add fuel to fire than on a day like today. Mama grabs the lid off the counter and places it on the pot, turning the heat down with her other hand from 7 to 5 and softening the boil to a simmer, so I can’t hear the bwop bwop of the bubbles anymore.

“But what if they have time to change it?” I pick up the corners of the rag I’ve been working on and lift them up, gathering the beans into the center and dumping them into a single silver bowl. “Wherever they’re going doesn’t start for another two hours, they can change their clothes, their hair, the whole thing, so they could actually look good. What about then?” I ask.

“I’d still say they look fine.” She takes the bowl from me and brings it to the sink, running it under the faucet and tossing it a couple of times until she deems them clean enough and pours them into a strainer to sit for a minute.

“Mama, that makes no sense!”

“The second you tell someone they look crazy, their confidence disappears; it doesn’t matter if they change or not, the whole night they’ll do nothing but second guess themselves.” She says her foot working a hole through the ground, and her eyes are glancing back up at that clock.

“Not if they change it, they won’t,” I say, snatching one of the now clean beans and popping it in my mouth, ignoring Ma’s gaze that’s now redirected to glare at my lips.

“Is my hair a mess?” She says, and I’m not quick enough to dodge her hand as she flicks my forehead on her way back to the stove with the rest of the beans.

“Is my makeup a mess?”

“Does this dress look crazy?”

“Do I look like Steve Harvey in a skirt and a bad wig?”

“Now you’re being funny.” The phone rings. It’s one of the two home phones that she refuses to get rid of, even though both of us have iPhones like the twenty-first-century individuals we are. She says it’s to give the older folks something familiar. I told her the older folks have iPhones, too.

“Hold on, this is Mama now.” She picks it up, wedging it between her ear and her shoulder as she rechecks the pot.

“You just put the lid on.” I joke. She waves me away and lifts a finger to her lips, motioning for silence.

“Just put it on speaker.” I mouth, and she huffs but still drops the lid back down to click the little button, and soon Grandma’s voice is filling the small, once comfort-warm kitchen.

“I’m sorry, Whit, something came up. I’ll be over for the next holiday, I promise. What is it, Thanksgiving?”

“Christmas.” I correct, and Ma shoots me a look that says her hand could be doing a whole lot more productive than just stirring a pot.

“Aww, Grandma’s not coming anymore?” A smaller voice asks through the phone. Mama covers the bottom with her palm and leans back.

“Amaya, hang up now!” Mama yells up the stairs at my little sister, who must have been playing on the second home phone in my mom’s room.

“I’ll be sure to stop by for Easter then.” Grandma pauses, “Why am I talking to someone I can’t see?” The spoon clangs against the metal as Mama goes to grab her other phone from off the table.

“This better, Mama?” She asks when the phone finally connects to Grandma’s older but still perfectly usable iPhone. The other woman makes a sound in the back of her throat that could mean both yes and no, but Ma doesn’t press it, choosing instead to fumble around with her freshly done hair, tweaking the front pieces so they better drape around her chestnut cheekbones, lightly colored with whatever blush she saw and liked enough at the store to bring home and use every day. I can’t remember a time I’ve ever seen Ma without makeup, doing it first thing in the morning before coming downstairs, and removing it late at night after she’s locked her bedroom door so no one can get in and see a glimpse of Whitney Smith in her natural state. The closest I’ve ever been is after she fell into a pool at a wedding after one too many cups and came out still flawless, even with mascara dripping down her face and a handbag doing its damndest to cover up the top of her head as she ran to the car, yelling behind her to make sure me and Maya were following hot on her Louboutins.

“It would be if that pimple wasn’t front and center on the screen, Honey, have you been putting on that cream like I told you?” Grandma asks, and this time it’s Ma’s turn to make a noise in her throat that sounds halfway between a dying cat and someone choking.

“I thought I covered it.” Is all she can muster up to defend her honor.

“Not well enough, clearly.” The woman says her attention, now taken up by someone out of the frame.

“I can’t see it, Ma.” I chime in from my spot at the kitchen table.

“Of course you can't, dear, you couldn’t see a finger if there were two in front of your face. Whit, you ever get those glasses for her? The longer you wait, the worse it’ll get.”

“Yes, Mama, last week.” She says, her words a little tighter than the usual tone she keeps when talking to her mother. “And thank you, baby.” I check my phone again, still no reply. Great.

“Well, I do have to go, I have a plate at your brother’s house waiting with my name on it. Kamiyah, there’s 80 dollars coming your way soon. Love you both.” She ends the call.

“Kamiyah,” Mom’s fingers work through her hair till the pieces turn into a kind of wispy bang, covering her forehead. “Go get the fourth place setting, please. I think we’ll only need three for tonight.” I nod, looking up through my lashes to get a glimpse at Ma’s face once again. She doesn’t see me, her eyes too focused on the pot of green beans she’s now tossing about in butter, bacon, and garlic.

“Did..Has your friend called yet? Should we wait to start eating? I don’t want to get interrupted once we begin.” She asks, realigning herself quickly with a roll of her shoulders and a heavy breath.

“No.” I check my texts one more time. Nothing since my last one. I bite my cheek as

I stare at the blue words on the white screen.

He asked how his clothes looked and if he should change before dinner with his family tonight.

I told him he should, that the pants were too tight, and the shirt too loose, his hair wasn’t done, his shoes didn’t match, and to take off that corny earring he insists on wearing all the time.

He never told me whether he took my advice or not. He also didn’t call, like he promised he would.

“No, it’s fine, we can start.”