Free I Almost Forgot About You by Terry McMillan Page A

lululemon outfits I gave her for her birthday last year. This one happens to be lemon and black. She used to be a real yoga fanatic, but I don’t think she goes much anymore. She’s also as pretty as I always wanted to be. Looks more like Michael, the mistake I married right after grad school. I give her—or I should say
we
give her—another group hug. I kiss her on both cheeks and her forehead.
    “You look good, Stelle,” I say, lying through my teeth. She looks tired, thinner than I’ve seen her since college, stressed. She’s one of these educated, New Age, stay-at-home supermoms who does everything, including working at home as a technical writer for Apple. She must do it in her sleep, because the girls are rarely out of her or Justin’s sight line. They do all the things that television shows and books have told them to do to qualify as good parents. They didn’t even trust day care. I’m surprised they trust me.
    “Of course there was traffic, and I’ve only got fifteen minutes before my salt scrub. Thank you so much, Mom. How are you?”
    “I’m fine, baby. Remember this house the way it looks now, because it’s being staged, and in about a month or so it’ll look like someone else lives here.”
    “So you’re actually going to do it?”
    “I am. How are you?”
    “Excellent. Just thinking of going back to work, but I’ll tell you more about that later. Girls, be nice to your granny and do what she tells you to. Do we have an agreement?”
    They nod.
    She hands me a bulging backpack. “Lunch, snacks, books, and DVDs. I should be back by six, if that’s okay. And thank you so much for this!”
    “Okay! Stop! Go! Relax! We go through this every single time! Now, beat it.”
    “Yes, Mom, just beat it!” Gabby in orange says as she chases after Scarlett in pink, both of whom are heading to my off-limits office. I tiptoe down and see them looking through my mother’s scrapbook, and I lean against the door and just watch them.
    “What’s this?” Scarlett asks, trying to see through the yellowing plastic.
    “It’s a picture book,” Gabby says before I do.
    I believe I can now tell them apart. Gabby is the bossy one. Scarlett seems to rely on her for answers, and Lord, does she always have one.
    “It’s called a scrapbook,” I say, and set it on my desk so they can see who’s in it.
    “Who are all these old people?” Scarlett asks.
    “Relatives.”
    “Where are they?”
    “Dead.”
    “All of them?”
    “That’s impossible,” Gabby says.
    “Most of them. Have you two ever heard of slavery?”
    “I think we have,” Gabby says.
    “It’s when black people had to work for white people and did not get a paycheck,” Scarlett says.
    “Which was silly, because you always need a paycheck,” Gabby says. She once again puts her hands on her bony hips and then turns her palms up and says, “How were they supposed to pay their bills?” And hunches her shoulders.
    “Especially their American Express,” Scarlett says. “Daddy is always worried about that one.”
    “I’m just glad we don’t have to be slaves and that Mom and Daddy and you aren’t, Granny. Aren’t you glad, Granny?” Gabby, of course.
    “Yes.”
    “Why are all the pictures off the wall?” Miss Gabby asks, definitely living up to her nickname.
    “Yeah. What happened to us?” Scarlett asks.
    “Granny might be moving soon, so I had to put all the pictures in a safe place until I find a new home for them.”
    “Are you getting forked, too?” Scarlett asks.
    “What do you mean ‘forked’?”
    “We have a sign in our front yard, and it says ‘Forked’ on it,” she informs me.
    “No it doesn’t, Scarlett! It has an
s
and an
e,
but we don’t know how to say it.”
    I cover my mouth.
    “Where’s your sign?” one of them asks, and I don’t care right now which one it is.
    “Granny doesn’t have one yet, but my house isn’t getting forked.”
    “Wanna know another secret?” Scarlett