The Summer We Came to Life by Deborah Cloyed Page A

defenseless American stomach. When the first moment arrived that I could breathe, a knock came at the door.
    â€œI’ll be okay,” I said weakly, sure it was Isabel. Then I realized it came from the door to Jesse’s room.
    â€œScoot over, darling, we’ve obviously been poisoned.”
    I meant to reply, but a gagging started in my throat. I think that gave Jesse her answer.
    She scurried away to throw up on the palm trees.
    I slid to the floor like a deflated balloon. My cheek made it to the cool, sandy floor just in time to hear another knock at the door.
    â€œSamantha?” Isabel’s voice came through in a whisper. “Lemme in.”
    â€œI wouldn’t if I were you.”
    â€œI’m sick.”
    I groaned. This was the vacation from hell. “Join the party.”
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    Across the hall, Cornell was in the bathroom with his wife. He patted Lynette’s back gently with one hand, while holding back her hair with the other. So far, their vomiting had been symbiotically timed. Cornell wasn’t surprised. He and his wife always seemed to operate in sync.
    In the weak night-light glow of the bathroom, Cornell read the pain on Lynette’s face. He felt sorry for her, but only until a heaving rumble snaked through his innards.
    â€œTrade you,” he eked out, and motioned Lynette aside.
    Lynette propped herself against the wall and attempted to pat her husband’s back, but ended up patting his butt as he retched.
    Cornell turned and gave Lynette the most priceless look. Lynette managed a measly laugh. She patted the floor beside her. “Cop a squat, dear.”
    When Cornell sat down beside her, they linked arms absentmindedly, and Lynette let her head drop onto his shoulder. After a minute, she said, “Aren’t you worried about Kendra?”
    â€œShe’s a big girl, honey. All grown-up now, our little girl.”
    â€œNo, it’s not right she didn’t come. There’s something wrong. Why doesn’t she ever tell me anything?”
    Cornell kissed the top of Lynette’s head. “Maybe some things aren’t for you to understand.”
    Lynette stiffened. After over thirty years of marriage, certain fights always started the same way, ingrained in the relationship just like the rituals of teasing and making coffee. She knew what Cornell was alluding to. “I’m her mother. What don’t I understand?” She wasn’t going to let him get away with cheap shots. She was going to make him say it.
    Cornell was too weak to fight. “Let it go, Lynette. We don’t know what’s bothering her. Maybe it’s her job. Maybe it’s Michael. She’ll tell us when she wants to.”
    â€œThat’s not what you meant. You meant that I don’t understand what it’s like to be a black woman, and that’s why Kendra doesn’t confide in me.”
    â€œDo you ever talk about it with her?”
    â€œDo you?”
    Lynette and Cornell faced off, less than six inches between their eyes. Lynette looked away first. Her flesh turned colder than the floor. “I think it’s a mother-daughter thing, not a race thing. Women can’t help but become a reaction to their mothers.”
    Cornell’s lawyer mind mulled this over. The one thing he’d learned about mother-daughter relationships was that they were complicated, an impenetrable rock formation made of thin, delicate layers. “At this particular time, I concede the point,” Cornell said, and pulled his wife’s head back onto his shoulder.
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    When Arshan finally made it back from the bathroom, he heard someone out on the porch. He put a hand to his stomach and slipped on his shoes. He walked onto the covered porch just in time to see Jesse throw up over therailing—hard enough that she didn’t hear his arrival. Arshan watched her ease herself to the floor. He was about to politely leave, when Jesse caught sight of