Chapter 32

CHAMOMILE AND HONEY

Even though Gramps is back, it’s hard to fall asleep. I still feel like I need to do something. I think again about what Mom said to me earlier. I know it’s not her job to make me feel better, but maybe I can do something to make her feel better instead.

I creep downstairs, Dewey following along behind me. But Mom and Mama are already sitting at the kitchen table, the pamphlets from their bedroom now neatly folded and fanned out across the table like a deck of cards.

“Hi,” I say quietly as I enter the room, and they both look up from the table.

“What are you doing awake?” Mom asks me.

“I was going to make some tea for you.” I reach for the new kettle that has replaced the old burned-up one. “Chamomile with honey?”

Mom’s face softens. “That sounds nice.”

While I wait for the water to boil, I take their two favorite mugs out of the cupboard—the ones that say Mrs. and Mrs.—and prepare them each with a teabag, the string carefully wrapped around the handle, the jar of honey opened and ready to be added.

I sit down at the table and take a deep breath, in then out, and say, “I am sorry, Moms—and I’m not just saying that so you’ll tell me it’s okay. I know it’s not. I know this is all my fault.”

“Look at me.” Mom reaches out and holds my face steady in her soft hands, her red-rimmed eyes meeting mine. “What happened with Gramps today—that is not your fault.”

I nod and try to believe her.

“But don’t think that means we’re not still extremely upset with you about the lying,” she says, pressing her lips into a firm line.

Mama nods in agreement and adds, “You knew better than to pull something like this, Sade,” gesturing to Dewey, who is looking back and forth between each of us.

“I know.” I look down at my lap and Dewey comes over and pushes her head into my hand. “You should ground me until high school,” I offer.

“Oh, I can think of something much more fitting than that,” Mom replies, with a hint of something like her mischievous board-game laugh vibrating under her words.

Just then, the kettle begins building its high-pitched scream, so I get up and quickly remove it from the stove, pour the water into the Mrs. mugs, and finally spoon in big globs of honey. I bring the cups to the table and carefully set them down without spilling.

“Thank you,” Mama tells me.