Free Dig Too Deep by Amy Allgeyer Page B

innocent. Either way, it doesn’t affect me.
    I stare across the parking lot where I’ve pulled off and watch the fog roll around the tops of the hills. It swirls and drops, deeper into the hollers, filling them with pillows of white. It’s beautiful but I wonder … if the water here’s poisonous, is the fog dangerous too? Is it going to turn bright orange, like some funky breed of mustard gas, killing everything as it creeps through the valley on little cat feet?
    Funny. But not.
    Granny’s napping on the couch when I get home. I let her sleep and start putting dinner together, which calms me. I like to cook. When we lived in DC, I used to pull recipes out of Food & Wine to try out on the weekend. I’d make a huge dinner with a fancy dessert … which I usually ate by myself because MFM ended up not coming home from one of her rallies or protests or special projects.
    I know all about her special projects now. Thanks to the reports from the DC Police Department.
    Staring into the cabinet with my stomach gnawing at my spine, I’m wishing for a Food & Wine feast. Instead, my options are ramen or canned soup, which I’ll serve with frozen broccoli and a piece of toast. Not the healthiest of meals, but at least I’ll have invoked some green matter. When I think about all those dinners I cooked and ate alone—paella, gazpacho with homemade croutons, scallops Alfredo—I wish I could have a do-over, so I could share them with Granny. She deserves scallops.
    Each week, I do my best to stretch the food stamps and the little cash we have, but it doesn’t cover shellfish. Not that they sell shellfish here. This week was even harder. Thanks to Shark Week, I had to buy a box of tampons that took almost a fifth of our food money. So, no apples, no Mountain Dew. And we’ll be eating ramen a lot between now and Saturday.
    â€œLiberty?”
    I leave the water simmering and poke my head around the corner. “Hey there. How are you feeling?”
    â€œI could stand a drink a water.”
    I get a bottle from the fridge and sit down next to her. “I’m making dinner.”
    â€œThat’s sweet of ya, sugarplum, but I ain’t terrible hungry just now.”
    She never is anymore. It’s all I can do to get her to eat one decent meal a day.
    â€œMaybe you can eat a little ramen. Just a few bites?”
    Frowning, she says, “You gonna fly them bites into my mouth like a airplane?”
    I don’t want to argue with her. When she gets riled up, she starts coughing. “Only if you say pretty please.”
    â€œYour mama called,” she says as I walk into the kitchen.
    I ignore her.
    â€œShe said you ain’t been answering her emails.”
    The water for the broccoli is boiling now, steaming up the window over the sink. I stare through the mist at the darkening gray hillside in the backyard. Anything I say to Granny about MFM will cause a fight, and I don’t want her expending a bunch of energy arguing with me. Because there’s no point.
    I pull the bread across the counter and undo the twist tie. The counter is gritty with dust again.
    â€œLiberty? You hearing me?” Her voice is getting louder.
    â€œI am, Granny. But I don’t want to talk about it right now. Let’s just have a nice, quiet dinner.”
    â€œShe said she ain’t heard from you at all.”
    â€œDo you want to eat in there or at the table?”
    â€œHere on the couch suits me. But don’t go changing the subject on me. I ain’t done with you yet.”
    Once everything’s ready, I take Granny’s tray to her then go back for mine. After we say grace, Granny starts in.
    â€œNow then.”
    â€œEat,” I say.
    â€œI been listening to that cockeyed ‘I-ain’t-got-a-mama’ story o’ yours since you got here. And I ain’t said nothing ’cause I know she hurt you, real bad. But she’s paying for her