“I betcha it’s food poisoning,” Mama says. “It’s a terrible feeling, ain’t it, Janelle?”

I just look at her. “I need to find the bathroom,” I say.

“I’ll take you,” Paris says.

“And, Dingus,” Mama orders, “call the house and check on your uncle. Tell him we’ll be home in ten or fifteen minutes, so whatever he doing that he ain’t supposed to be doing, he got time to stop.”

“You got it, Granny.”

“And, Shanice, is something wrong with you, girl? You better get your behind up and make sure ain’t nothing wrong with your mama.” I watch my daughter uncross her tightly folded arms and act like it’s killing her to come to my aid.

When we get inside the ladies’ room, she goes directly into a stall. She does not unzip her denim shorts. She doesn’t even sit down. I can see the toes of her platform sneakers pointing toward the toilet; her brown calves pressed against the gray metal door. She’s getting on my nerves with this huffy attitude of hers. She thinks the world revolves around her, but it does not. I rinse my mouth out with tap water and lean against the sink. Paris looks me dead in the eye and just says, “Janelle, you can fool Mama, but you can’t fool me. You have not been poisoned. You’re pregnant or my name isn’t Paris. Now, spit it out.”

I stand up too fast, holding my right index finger up to my mouth to shush her, shaking my head so fervently I get the spins. Before I know it, she’s knocking on Shanice’s stall door, and now I see her toes pointing in our direction. “Shanice! Is your mother pregnant or not?”

When that door opens, I’m afraid of what she might say, how she’ll look, what she might do. But she just looks at her aunt and says, “I have no idea. Do you need me in here, or are you okay?”

“Go,” I say, pointing to the door.

“Hold it a minute,” Paris says. “What the hell is going on here?”

“What?” Shanice moans.

“You better watch the tone of your voice,” Paris says, and then: “You act like you don’t even care.”

“I’m just not interested.”

“Okay, stop it! ” I yell. “I might be pregnant, but, then again, I might not be. What difference does it make? I’m a married woman. Would it be a crime if I was?”

“Why don’t you ask your husband, the policeman? He knows a lot about crime,” Shanice says, and prances out the door.

“Don’t ask another question,” I say, brushing past Paris.

From behind, I hear her say, “Curious minds just want to know, is this Part Two of Guiding Light or As the World Turns? All I do know is something ain’t right in Kansas.”

I can’t even muster up a response.

Lewis isn’t there when we get back. Mama’s car is, because she has the keys. All of us walk around the house as if he might appear, but it’s obvious he’s gone. Then Dingus says, “Check this out,” leaning against the refrigerator. “ ‘I had to go home. Don’t worry about me, please. Glad you feeling better, Ma. Didn’t know what to do with all your stuff, so your furniture is under the carport in front of you car. Love, Lewis.’ ”