Babylon Sisters by Pearl Cleage Read Free Book Online

Rock
is not exactly upbeat, it was music, and the vibe in the room was definitely not hostile.
    “What’s all this for?”
    “For you.” She shrugged her shoulders and managed a crooked smile. “For us.”
    “It’s beautiful,” I said, and walked over to hug her and kiss her newly nontearstained cheeks. “I was coming in to cook something for you.”
    “I’m making an omelet. Is that enough?”
    “If you throw some cheese in there it is,” I said, opening the refrigerator and reaching for the block of sharp cheddar I knew was in the cheese drawer.
    I got the grater and stood next to her at the counter, enjoying the familiarity of the routine. We had been cooking together since she was old enough to handle a whisk, and we knew each other’s kitchen rhythms the way longtime partners in a ballroom dance competition know when to glide and when to dip. At five-eight, Phoebe has a good three inches on me, although she’d like to be taller so she could slam-dunk a basketball. She doesn’t want to actually play the game. She just wants to be able to leap into the air and slam the ball through the net, alone and unopposed.
    When she told me that was one of her recurring dreams, I couldn’t have been more surprised. I never had any kind of sports dream. The idea that Phoebe produced her own fantasies, apart from any we might share, was a revelation to me. It seemed such a completely separate act, kind of like the first time your kid tells you no, and means it. It’s a moment of such unequivocal
otherness
that it sends a shiver down the spine of an overprotective mother such as I know myself to be.
You mean this is not attached to me like my arm?
you think, amazed.
This is not just an extension of me?
    “Mom?” Phoebe said, keeping her eyes on the eggs starting to foam under her expert strokes.
    “Yeah?”
    “I’m sorry.”
    “For what?” I said, still grating. “Wearing that blanket around for three days?”
    She poked me in the side with her elbow. “Don’t make fun of me!”
    I put down the cheese. “I’m not making fun of you. I’m just glad we’re going to have a nice meal together.”
    “That’s just what Louis said.” She smiled a little. Not one hundred percent, but a smile.
    “He did?”
    She nodded and condensed their conversation into Louis’s gentle suggestions as to how we could make peace.
    “He said you would probably appreciate having dinner with me tonight. Especially if I cooked it.”
    I laughed and hugged her again, being careful not to tip the bowl. “Your godfather is a living saint.”
    “Yes, I know,” she said, turning back to the eggs, adding a pinch of salt and a dash of pepper. “He said that, too.”
    She poured the eggs into the pan with a buttery little sizzle. I had grated more than enough cheese, so I popped in two pieces of whole wheat bread for toast and watched her tend her omelet with the practiced eye of a cook who’s comfortable in the kitchen. Either the storm had passed or we were dancing around in the eye of it. At this point I didn’t really care. I was just happy to have her back. When people say
tough love,
they’re usually talking about the kid, but I think it’s harder on the mother. It’s infinitely easier to
defy
authority than to
be
authority.
    When we sat down, Sade was still crooning about how somebody had already broken her heart, but across the table from me, Phoebe was serving up a perfect omelet as her peace offering in the same way I had offered up those fashion magazines. We still knew each other better than anybody else did, and maybe the things we didn’t know just weren’t worth knowing.
    “To us,” I said, raising my orange juice in a toast.
    “To us,” Phoebe said, and we clinked our glasses and agreed to disagree on who owed who what explanation of things that cannot always be explained. At least for the moment, a peaceful meal was all we required.

7
    Sunday passed too fast. Phoebe packed up, cleaned up, and chose a pair