Bone and Bread by Saleema Nawaz Page B

felt.
    Back in the kitchen, Deana had found two Christmas holders, sprigged red and green around the base with fake holly. She’d placed them on either side of a large serving dish atop the burgundy linen tablecloth, and there was ketchup in a little blue bowl with a tiny spoon beside it. She’d found the cloth napkins, too.
    â€œSee?” said Deana, putting in the tapers. “They match the Kraft Dinner.” She lit the candles with a lighter in a beaded case she pulled from her pocket, then flicked off the lights. In the dimness, the pale wax matched the food, just like she said. Creamsicle orange. I asked her why she had a lighter if she had quit smoking.
    â€œFor occasions like this one,” she said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, and I realized it wasn’t only in her looks that she reminded me of Mama.
    We all sat down, but then Deana got up to put on a Carole King record. She said, “I can’t stand the sound of people chewing and swallowing. Even you guys. Even me.”
    As she came back, the end of her hair passed close to the flame, just as Sadhana bumped the candleholder reaching for the ketchup. The taper wobbled twice in its stand and connected with Deana’s hair. In half a moment, the flame licked up the end of her ponytail as a dozen strands of red-gold hair sparked and blackened and shrivelled to dust. I gasped, but Sadhana quickly clapped the hair between her hands and it was out.
    I stood up. “Oh God,” I said. “It was an accident. Are you okay?”
    Sadhana pushed back her chair from the table.
    â€œAre you okay?” I said again. There was an awful smell, and Sadhana had her hand muffling her nose.
    Deana was unruffled. She inspected the end of her ponytail. “Oh, I have a lot of hair. No big deal. But that was a close one. No more candles for us, I’d say.”
    I let out a breath. Deana smiled and patted the turquoise seat of my chair in invitation until the vinyl started squeaking. Then she blew out the candles. “Don’t worry. It’s safe now.”
    I sat and started eating, and Sadhana edged in a little closer. Deana tucked up her feet so she was sitting cross-­legged. “Did you know hair is growing all the time?” she asked. She pointed the drooping end of her ponytail at each of us in turn. “It’s dead tissue. It keeps on growing even after you die. Just like your fingernails.”
    There was a small noise from Sadhana, who let her fork clatter to the floor as she bolted from the table. I heard our bedroom door slam.
    â€œOh no,” said Deana in a hushed voice. “Your mama.”
    Deana thought we should cry as much as we wanted, and she cried right along with us, at the table, on the couch, in Mama’s room in the middle of the night. When Sadhana or I was racked by sobs, nose streaming, Deanna would weep silently, one arm around my shoulders, or one hand rubbing the back of Sadhana’s head. Sadhana and I never cried at the same time anymore, except at night.
    One night I woke in the dark from a dream about our parents, both of them alive together as I had never known them, except when I was very small and almost too young to remember. I barely breathed, trying to keep still and cling to the strange elation as it faded. I heard Sadhana cough and then sniff twice, and as I came back to an awareness of my body, I could tell without opening my eyes that we were alone in the room. Something about the weight of the bed I was lying on. Deana must have needed to drive home for something.
    Sadhana said, “Bee? Are you awake?”
    â€œI was just dreaming.”
    â€œI don’t know what we’re going to do.” She sounded choked. “What’s going to happen to us?”
    â€œIt was the most beautiful dream, Sadhana. Mama was there, and Papa, too. They were fine. We were going to a park, I think. I don’t know. We were all talking. They were