Like Sweet Potato Pie (43 page)

“Go ahead. Just thank me.”

I gathered Christie on my lap and scratched behind her ears, grateful for something warm and soft to squeeze in the otherwise hollow silence of the room. Even if she did gnaw on the mic first and then the chair back.

“Um … okay. Sure. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Well … what did I just thank you for?”

“Solving your mystery. Your riddle.”

“What mystery?”

“The seeds. Something that they all had in common with you.”

I leaned back in my chair, thinking hard.
Seeds. Something in common. Adam.
“My Christmas present?”

“Seems like you’ve put so much thought into it,” Kyoko snapped. “What is it now, February?”

“Yeah. Sorry. You have no idea what’s going on here. We just—”

“Save it! You’re hopeless.”

“But I’ve been taking good care of the bonsai he gave me.” I let out a shuddery breath, reaching up to stir the tender baby leaves with my finger. It smiled down at me, one swollen pink bud fat with life.

“Adam gave you a bonsai?”

“A crab apple. It’s beautiful. It’s just getting leaves, and—”

“You didn’t tell me he gave you a bonsai! Do you know what that means?”

“What?” I pushed the bonsai back and turned my head away to keep from looking at it. From remembering.

“Giving a bonsai tree as a gift is a gesture of respect and a harbinger of good fortune,” said Kyoko as if quoting.

“A harbinger of … what? Come on. That sounds like something you’d see on a chopstick wrapper in a Chinese restaurant. And besides, I don’t believe in luck or fortune anymore. Good or bad.” I cocked my head. “How do you know all that about bonsai anyway?”

“Well, I got one.”

“From who?” I leaned forward. “Kaine?”

“Nope. Guess again.”

Kyoko made me feel like pulling my hair out sometimes. “Dave?”

“Don’t be ridiculous! Guess, Ro! Really. You’ll never figure it out.”

“Then why are you asking me to guess?” I snapped, shoulders sagging from the day’s emotion. “Just tell me!”

She sighed. “Okay, spoilsport. Theo.”

“Theo? Who’s Theo?”

“Hello! Book-publisher Theo? The one who wanted to see samples of your ‘Southern Speak’ journal, Ro! Do you even listen to a word I say?”

“Of course I do! I just …” I drummed my fingers on my cheek, trying to recall. “Didn’t you tell me he has a cleft … something? Cleft lip?”

“Cleft
chin
, Ro! A cleft chin!” Kyoko snarled. “Big difference! And yes, that’s the right Theo.”

“He gave you a bonsai?”

“Okay, so it was a virtual bonsai, but it could have more than virtual significance.”

I put my head in my hands. “How did we get into this conversation?”

“Beats me.” Kyoko fell silent. “Oh, right. The seeds.”

“The seeds!” I sat up straight. “What do they all have in common?”

She paused for emphasis. “Ready for this?”

“No, but I’m sure you’re going to tell me anyway.”

“They’re rare.”

I just sat there. Christie squirmed in my lap, licking my cheek, and then tried to bite the microphone again.

“Uh … you’re sure?”

“
Tropaeolum majus
doesn’t come in that shade of blue most of the time. And your moth vine is really weird. They’re rare. Get it?”

“They’re rare,” I repeated, wrinkling my brow. “As in … they’re expensive?”

“No, bonehead!” Kyoko shouted. “As in YOU are!”

“I’m what?” Then suddenly it hit me. “You mean he’s trying to say that he thinks … that I’m …?”

“Yes, O thou of slow wit! Does it always take you this long to catch on to things, Ro? Seriously! Romance is wasted on you, you know that?”

My eyes hovered over the computer screen and out into space as I let it all sink in, feeling the air seep out of my lungs.

“He thinks you’re one in a million. Rare. Unique. That’s what he’s trying to say in his plant way of speaking. You’re really lucky, Ro. That farmer might not stop traffic with his looks, but he’s all right.”

I pounded the desk with my fist and let my head drop. “He’s not a farmer! And we’re not … anything. I don’t know how to break it you, but we’re done! I’m leaving. Did you check your e-mail?”

Kyoko hadn’t heard me, blabbing something about love and youth. If I didn’t stop her now, she’d slip right over into the
Pretty In Pink
trap, and we’d be talking about the ‘80s again.
Please, no! Anything but that!

“Becky’s almost a mom,” I blurted, squeezing my trembling fingers together and trying not to look up at the bonsai with its pink unfurling bud. “I think she’s going to have a baby really soon. Maybe even this month.”

That did the trick. “What did you just say?”

“Becky and Tim. I think they’re going to adopt.”

“What? Ro, that’s really great!” Her voice turned sweet. “Let’s just hope she’s as redneck as they are.”

“I don’t know yet. But I imagine she’ll pick it up really fast.”

“Before long she’ll be the expert, living around Mr. and Mrs. White Bread.” Kyoko snickered. “No offense, believe me! They’re great. They’re just … really funny.”

“Well, it’ll be tough for little Macy to turn into White Bread Junior,” I said carefully. “She’s African-American.”

Dead silence on the other end of the line. “Um … Kyoko? Still there?”

I heard something thump. Then something crash, like a chair toppling over into a pile of books.

“Kyoko?” I leaned forward, nearly dropping Christie off my lap. “Hello? What’s going on?”

No answer, just more banging, and something that sounded like … laughter? I jiggled the microphone and clicked the volume up as far as it would go. “Answer me! Are you there?”

“I’m—I’m here! I’m just …” Kyoko gasped for breath. Then broke off into another hysterical belly laugh, guffawing so much I turned the volume down.

“What’s so funny?” I glared.

“Nothing,” she wheezed, chair squeaking as she wept with laughter. “It’s fantastic! Brilliant! I just have to say that that God of yours has one crazy sense of humor, Ro!” She broke off again in another round of laughter.

“Why? Because of an interracial adoption?” I scowled, not seeing the connection Kyoko obviously found so funny.

“No, because nobody on earth could have planned something that wild. Tim and Becky with … Don’t you get it? It’s awesome! It’s … wow.” I heard Kyoko pull tissues out of a cardboard box. “If that’s the kind of stuff He does, count me in!”

“What are you saying?” I started to think Kyoko was the one who’d lost her mind. “You don’t mean you … believe in God?”

“Me?” Kyoko laughed again. “God? You’re funny, Ro-chan.” She pulled out another tissue.

“No, I’m serious.”

She paused. “Hey, I think I liked you better when you were rude and arrogant.”

“Sorry.” I leaned back slightly, letting the mic go limp. “I had to ask.”

“Hmmph. Just don’t try to foist anything on me, okay?”

“I’m not foisting anything, Kyoko. Any more than you try to foist your weird music on unsuspecting souls like me.”

“You just don’t have a high enough appreciation of art to grasp the raw, unbridled glory.”

“Ditto.”

Silence shook the line for a few loud seconds. Then Kyoko’s voice: “I can’t … Oh, Ro, you did not!” She laughed out loud. “That
was
pretty clever, actually. I have to admit.”

“Just think about it, okay? Read the Bible or something.” I felt grumpy. “And then you can come complain to me.”

“Why, so I can become a religious nut job like you?” Kyoko’s voice sounded surprisingly tender.

“You could do worse.”

“It would be hard.” She breezed me away with a chuckle. “But first I need Tim and Becky’s address.”

“What for?” I sat up straighter. With Kyoko, I could never be too careful.

“To send a baby gift, of course. C’mon, what do you think I am, a heel? They’re nice! I’ll help them celebrate.”

“Nothing too dark or scary. No blood, no monsters, no aliens. No creepy anime comics stuff,” I warned. “Nothing with skulls or weird bands or smelling like incense. Promise me.”

Silence.

“What’s wrong?” I drummed my fingers on the desk.

“Doggone it, Ro-chan,” said Kyoko in a pitiful voice. “What is there left to send?”

I’d just stood up and was clicking the screen off when Skype beeped again urgently.

“Kyoko?” I reached for the mic again in surprise. “What’s up?”

“Is this for real, Ro?” Kyoko shouted. “Tell me the truth! Now!”

“The truth about what?”

“There’s this little blurb on the
Yomiuri
insider feed that says you might be coming back to Japan? To Osaka? Am I reading this right?” Kyoko’s voice had turned into a cosmic roar. I could imagine the books flying off the shelves, curtains whipping. “And you didn’t tell me?”

“Sit down, Kyoko.” I sighed, sinking back into the chair. “This is going to take awhile.”

M
acy Alyssa Donaldson arrived at Tim and Becky’s house on Friday afternoon, a mere four days after their first introduction. We snatched up our cameras and rushed for the front window, where the sharp crunch of gravel under Becky’s car heralded their arrival.

“They’re here!” cried Becky’s dad, taking the front steps two at a time, video camera pressed to his eye, just as Tim cut the engine and we poured out onto the front steps in coats and hats, sharp gusts stinging our cheeks. An iced tree dripped overhead, its thin glass branches clattering together like muted tambourines.

Tim jumped out of the driver’s seat, beaming, and waved to all of us as he rushed around to the backseat. “Here she is, y’all!” he hollered, not even cracking his usual goofy jokes.

He swung open the door for Becky, and both of them bent over a car seat then carefully lifted out a lacy, bunny-patterned bundle wrapped in a blanket. Adjusting the blankets around her head to keep out the harsh winter wind.

And Becky walked up the front steps like a Virginia Gourd Festival queen, minus the tiara and green sash. Chin proudly held high. Tucking Macy carefully in her arms and beaming down at the little brown face.

Everybody started to talk at once:

“Atta girl!” said Pastor Davis, patting her on the back.

“Oh my lands!” Jeanette bawled into a tissue. “My li’l granddaughter!”

Gordon brayed and howled, license tags clinking, and I wrapped my arms around him to keep him still as we all made way for the newest Donaldson. Tim barged up the steps, slapping backs and stuffing everybody’s pockets with Slim Jim sausage sticks in lieu of cigars.

Macy sucked a finger, curious, taking it all in.

They pushed their way into the living room, all loaded with presents and banners and flickering candles, and the crowd of faces parted, hushed, for the big moment.

“Well, welcome home, gal!” said Becky, teary-eyed, giving Macy a big smile.

To everyone’s astonishment, Macy gave a cute little toothless grin right back, and everyone clapped and laughed.

“It’s meant to be!” Tim put his arm around Becky, looking weepy.

Pastor Davis came forward with Tim and Becky’s parents, all surrounding them with loving hands, and he led us in a prayer of blessing for little Macy and the entire Donaldson family as they raised her in the Lord. We mopped our faces, necessitating the quick redneck no-tissue substitute: rolls of Charmin toilet paper. Adam sniffled, standing next to me, and Tim Sr. wept unabashed.

As Macy settled in at the Donaldson house, I stopped by almost every day—bringing discount baby formula or a pacifier, hauling in another box of diapers bought with drug-store points, or just hanging around to hold her and brag about how cute she was. She slept deeply in my arms, silent, lashes closed, little curls tousled and pretty.

“Sleep well, love,” I whispered, gently rocking her in the distinct way she liked. “I’m the aunt who’s going to buy you all those loud, messy toys your parents will hate—complete with extra batteries. You’ll love me. But your parents won’t.”

Macy didn’t know it, but she’d changed me already. I’d spent hours—days, probably—scouring discount clearance racks and thrift stores for cute socks and onesies, baby rattles and teething rings that even I, Coupon Clipper of the Century, could afford. Scouring JCPenney for that perfect baby gift, fingering the gift card in my pocket.