Bayou Magic

My name is Madison Isabelle Lavalier Johnson. Maddy, for short. I live in New Orleans. I have four sisters. I’m the youngest, almost ten. I’m the littlest, too. “Bird bones,” Ma gently teases, pinching my
wrist. But she knows I’m strong. All Lavalier women are strong.
“We’re a stew,” says Ma. “African. French. Native and Spanish blood, too.”
It’s Saturday. Me and Ma are in the kitchen making jambalaya. I like to cook. My sisters don’t.
Ma slices onions. I clean shrimp.
“The whole world is kin, Maddy. Blood flows like river water.” I snap, slip off pink shells.
“I’m going to miss you, Maddy.” Ma kisses my cheek. “I’ll miss you, too,” I say, trembling, scared to visit Ma’s momma, my mysterious Grandmère.
Last four summers, a different sister has visited Grandmère. Aisha says, “The bayou’s boring. No TV.”
Dionne says, “Grandmère’s mean. Makes you clean dishes, but better not sweep a spider’s web!”
“No microwave. Only a stinky outhouse,” says Aisha, wrinkling her nose.
Layla shudders, poses dramatically. “Don’t tell Ma I said Grandmère’s weird. She sleepwalks. Tells the craziest tales.” “Think slithering ghosts,” says Aleta. “Think howls. Think creatures gobbling, crunching your fingers and toes. Bugs laying eggs in your ear.”
“Shadows,” groans Layla. “Everywhere. Coming alive, diving through the window, falling on your bed.”
“Boo!” says Aleta, making me jump.
Grandmère Lavalier doesn’t have a telephone. Four times she’s mailed us an envelope holding a piece of brown paper with a name scratched like bent chicken wire.
Yesterday, Ma opened a letter and a paper fluttered to the floor. I picked it up. Madison.
Maddy. Me.
Even though I was expecting it, I couldn’t stop staring at my name. My turn to have a bayou summer.
My turn to stay with Grandmère, who only visited New Orleans on the days my sisters and I were born.
“Once Momma saw you were healthy,” Ma says, “she went back to the bayou. Said she couldn’t stand the city. Couldn’t breathe the stale air.
“Momma hasn’t left the bayou since you were born.” I pressed the paper, MADISON, to my chest, trying to quiet my heart.
My sisters cluck-clucked, patted my back. “Too bad,” said Dionne, woeful. “No malls. No burgers.” “Glad it’s not me,” quipped Layla, her beaded cornrows clacking as she shook her head. Aisha, the oldest, sniffed, “I’ll write.” But I know she won’t.
Aleta, the next youngest, the one who teases me most, gripped my hand. “I’ll never forget you. If you don’t make it back, if the swamp swallows you, if you’re lost in the wild…” “Shoo,” said Ma.
But the damage was done. I crumpled the paper and hid it inside a sock in my drawer.
Dionne, Aleta, and Layla want to be just like Aisha. She’s fourteen, popular, and pretty. Whatever Aisha does, they want to do, too. I prefer listening, watching, dreaming. Sometimes my dreams come true. Last winter I dreamed about a boy who could fly. Without asking, Pa gave me Peter Pan. Ma gave me Miss Hamilton’s The People Could Fly. Imagine, slaves becoming birds, flying back to Africa.
Mostly, I don’t remember my dreams. Aisha says she can tell when I’ve been dreaming. “You’re bug-eyed in the morning. Got sweat on your upper lip.”
This morning, I lick away that sweat. Aisha sees me. Not knocking, she barges right into the bathroom.
I squeeze paste on my toothbrush and move away from the mirror so Aisha can fix her hair. She combs it to one side, swipes pink gloss across her lips.
Making tiny circles, I clean my teeth.
“Grandmère’s a witch,” she says, staring at me in the mirror. Snapping her fingers, she flounces from the room.
Wait. A witch? Really?
“Time to sauté.”
I grab the cast-iron pot. Pour in golden oil. Ma adds onions. I add chopped celery, green peppers.
Tomorrow, I leave.
I murmur, “Do I have to? Do I have to go? Visit Grandmère?” “Your Grandmère would be unhappy if you didn’t go.”
“Would you? Be unhappy?”
Ma doesn’t answer, just strokes my hair.
With a wooden spoon, Ma stirs. The onions turn silky brown, the celery softens, and the peppers wilt. The savory smell comforts me.
Quiet is the best part of cooking. Me and Ma watching the stew blend. Today, though, my mind won’t still.
I add spices. Garlic. Bay leaf. Hot sauce. Worcestershire. “Don’t measure, cook with your heart,” Ma teaches.
I lift the bag of rice and pour. Just enough rice to layer the pot’s bottom. Then I add chicken stock Ma made from bones from Sunday’s roasted chicken. Rice and vegetables float, the bay leaf twirls. I make a good jambalaya.
“Don’t worry,” Ma says, her voice mellow and high-pitched. “You’re not your sisters.”
Nervous, I clench my hands. “Every stew is different, Maddy. Special. Put the lid on.”
I turn down the fire. Blue flames sputter and glow. Me and Ma stand
side by side, staring at the simmering broth beneath the glass top. “Momma taught me how to make this stew. Now I’ve taught you.”
Ma kneels, surprising me. She hugs me quick, strong, and tight. She pulls back. “Oh, Maddy, I wish I could go, too.” Looking into her gray-green eyes, I see myself, reflected. Brown curls. Brown skin. I’m swimming in Ma’s eyes. Ma has happy tears.
My reflection flickers,shimmers.
Trust your heart, I hear, echoing inside me. Like Ma’s speaking beneath water.
Lightning shoots through me. I exhale, my body tingling. I see myself… on a shore-a full moon high, mirrored in blue-black waters.
It’s going to be fine, I hear myself say. More than fine, Ma’s voice again. You’re you.
Then I’m jolted back. Ma stands, adds shrimp to the pot. I blink. Something’s different. I feel it. I look about. The clock shaped like a birdhouse chimes two o’clock. The cabinets are a dull white. The linoleum is still cracked, the window screen torn. Our kitchen is small, barely enough room for the stove, the fat refrigerator, and the sink. For Ma and me.
Tomorrow I’ll be gone. I feel warm, a burning wick glowing inside me.
“Do you really wish you could go?” I ask Ma.
She smiles, sadly, sweet. For the first time ever, I’m doing something Ma wishes she could do. Be me. Be young. Visit Grandmère.