She stayed in her room all day because she thought she’d gotten the stomach flu from people at work, and just the smell of all that food was making her nauseous. Not me, though. Maybe it sounds mean, but the day was still wonderful, even without my mother. Mostly because she wasn’t there, and I had Beale and Aunt Loretta all to myself, and there was nobody giving me censorious looks when I voiced an opinion or got giggly and food stupid from eating too much, nobody who looked at me like I was a suck-up when I helped baste the turkey or put the brown sugar and butter in the sweet potatoes or whipped the cream for the pumpkin pies. Nobody who raised an eyebrow and drawled in a low, sarcastic voice so only I would hear, as I went on humming “Stormy” and setting the table for dinner, “My, my, who knew you’d turn into such a little homemaker?” or gave me an irritated look when I filled my plate for the second time with a taste of everything, wanting to savor it all, even the cranberry sauce, or said, “God, Sayre, do you always have to have more?
