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Back Black Ambrosia
Chapters (46)
  1. CoverImage
  2. Introduction by Grady Hendrix
  3. Acknowledgments
  4. 1
  5. 2
  6. 3
  7. 4
  8. 5
  9. 6
  10. 7
  11. 8
  12. 9
  13. 10
  14. 11
  15. 12
  16. 13
  17. 14
  18. 15
  19. 16
  20. 17
  21. 18
  22. 19
  23. 20
  24. 21
  25. 22
  26. 23
  27. 24
  28. 25
  29. 26
  30. 27
  31. 28
  32. 29
  33. 30
  34. 31
  35. 32
  36. 33
  37. 34
  38. 35
  39. 36
  40. 37
  41. 38
  42. 39
  43. 40
  44. 41
  45. About the Author
  46. About the Cover

Then Lewis began to talk. He reminisced and spoke of the special things his mother used to do when he was a child. He said, “She put pickles on sand­wiches instead of lettuce.” Then, “One time, I re­member, she hit me. I was about fifteen. We were standing in the kitchen, and I said something stupid, something teenage, and she walked right over to me and slapped me. And then she cried and went into her bedroom. She was always just right there, just steady, nothing extravagant, just . . . Mom. That was the only time she ever hit me, and the only time I ever saw her cry. It almost killed me.” His eyes glazed over with memory and tears.

I could do nothing for him, neither in support of his grief nor assistance with his packing. I had tried adjusting the mood, the way I had in so many cars. I tried lightening the air, I tried to lift my spirits at least enough that Lewis’s soul wouldn’t weigh so much. But I couldn’t. Grief spread over the floor like a layer of molten lead. So I just watched him, and wondered at how different he was in the way he missed his mother—different from the way Rolf missed Alice, different from the way I missed her.

And then my thoughts strayed again to my free­dom this coming night and my insides shivered with anticipation.

He fastened his suitcases, tucked a number of twenty-­dollar bills into my jeans pocket, and hugged me. He loaded the suitcases into the trunk while I watched from the front door, and just before he got into the car, an odd expression crossed his face. He shut the door and came back to me, held me at the waist and looked at me with a fierce intensity, his green eyes cool and gentle despite the tremor in his hands. “You’ll be here when I get back, won’t you? I mean, I don’t know how long I’ll be gone—just a few days, I’m sure, but I don’t really know. Please, Angelina, please promise me. I couldn’t stand it if I lost you too . . . not now . . .” His voice failed and his eyes, moist in the corners, flashed with fear and longing.

I smiled what I thought to be an appropriate smile under the circumstances, sympathetic yet not pitying, and I touched his cheek. “I’ll be here,” I said.

And so he left. He got into the car and drove away.