She had darted around the apartment like a bright tropical bird trapped in a cage, tossing bikinis, light sundresses, and tanning lotions into her suitcase. I remembered how she stopped in the doorway, already wearing her shoes, and held out her hand. “Mama, give me your card—just in case.
What if the ATM down there doesn’t work or something?”
“But, Quintessa…” I tried to object, feeling a chill run down my spine. “That’s my whole Social Security check. What am I supposed to live on for two weeks?”
“Oh, don’t start.” She rolled her eyes, snatching the plastic card from my fingers.
“You’ve got a full jar of grits. Boil them up, add a little butter, and it’s beautiful. It’ll be good for you to detox.
