Migratory Animals Read Free Page B

just spends all day bitching aboutthe traffic and the yuppies and drives Brandon and me up the wall. Papa’s cooking now, you wouldn’t believe it, and he’s not a total catastrophe. Nothing too fancy, but . . .” Molly put her hand over her mouth and laughed. The two sisters looked at each other.
    â€œToo bad Kunle couldn’t come,” Molly said.
    â€œActually, he has an interview at the consulate in a few weeks for a visa and we’re hoping—”
    â€œHey, sorry, but I’ve got to pee. Listen for our number, Flan-cakes.” Molly almost knocked over her chair as she rose and turned, threading her way through the tables toward the back.
    Molly and Kunle had never met in person, just on the computer. Once, when Flannery dragged him into the bedroom to video chat with Molly while she went to answer a knock at the door, her sister asked about the three parallel scars on the side of Kunle’s face. Flannery overheard them from the other room.
    â€œAll future kings of the Yoruba are born with them. It’s a sign of royalty.”
    â€œBorn with, huh?”
    â€œOnly joking. They came from a fight with my brother. Flannery told you I was raised by a pack of lions, abi ?”
    â€œWhat?!”
    From the hallway, Flannery had cocked her head in wonder. Maybe he believed Molly would think him savage or primitive if he told the truth.
    The sandwiches at Quack’s arrived in plastic baskets lined with wax paper. Flannery was in the middle of taking a bite when her sister emerged from the bathroom door across the bakery. She saw it in Molly immediately. It struck like a bullet. Her sister walked toward her, swaying a little from side to side, a flashback of their mother, tilting back and forth like a toddler not yet comfortable with how the steps transition one into another.
    Molly smiled as she moved forward, oblivious in her amber beads and blue jeans. She was beautiful—she’d always been the pretty one—and Flannery wanted to stop her, to freeze the moment, or at least slow the ticking off of seconds: the red of the bathroom door as it clicked shut; the smeary fingerprints on the display window housing glittery confections; the flick of a customer’s wrist as he tossed coins into the tip jar on the counter; the way the coins jangled as they hit bottom.
    Flannery closed her eyes. She was shocked, and the most shocking thing was not even this confrontation with the first signs of disease in her sister. It was the realization that, somewhere deep down in the cracks and fissures of her brain, Flannery had known this could happen. But not now. Not this soon. Wahala , she thought. Big trouble. She tried to suppress the image of her mother attempting to spoon soup into her own mouth and then throwing the bowl across the room when she couldn’t keep her hand from shaking.
    Flannery felt a sharp pressure on her back and realized it was Molly’s palm beating up and down because Flannery was coughing a little on the sandwich. She blinked hard and spat the mess back into her plate. She inhaled a rough breath.
    â€œYou’re a tough cookie,” said Molly.
    â€œWent . . . down the wrong pipe.”
    Flannery stared as her sister began eating, and it was like something playing across a television without sound. The way Molly slid a ridged potato chip into her avocado sandwich “to give it more texture,” giggling and eating and talking at the same time. How did her sister do that? What was she even saying? It was all Flannery could do to bob her chin up and down, hoping this was the correct response to whatever was being asked, head swimming in recriminations:
    Had Flannery really imagined Africa would make their mother’s death and all its implications go away? You didn’t just blink your eyes, move across the world, and expect the darkness you left behind to disappear. Blink, blink: Flan thought of their mother in her last