Searching for Tina Turner Read Online Free PDF

twenty,
     his face is still like the boy who used to cry when he saw a dead bird or squirrel in the yard. “My friends want to stay for
     dinner.”
    Lena searches the corner of Kendrick’s eyes for their old impish crinkle. She can’t decide if he wants to impress his friends
     or shame her. His eyes are clear and brighter now than when he came home from college at the end of last semester, but they
     still lack spark.
    “I don’t have much time.” With a hasty glance at her watch, Lena takes a mental inventory of the freezer and pantry. “I’ve
     got a photography class tonight.”
    “Aw, Moms, nobody can teach you a thing. Your photographs are already great.” Kendrick stares at Lena with the look of a neglected
     puppy. “How’s about a little soul food? Fried chicken, cornbread on the side, a sweet treat…”
    Eight sets of eyes peer at Lena as if to say, “We love your fried chicken, Mrs. Spencer.” As if their votes count.
    “Yeh, Moms, it’s been a while.”
    Lena checks her watch and calculates the twenty minutes it will take Kendrick to get to the grocery store, shop, and return
     home—if there isn’t any traffic, if the store isn’t crowded. She guestimates before she commits: “The first part of the class
     will probably be introductions and a review of the syllabus. I’ve got forty minutes, maybe an hour, max, if you leave for
     the store right now.”
    “Does that mean the vehicle thing is over?” Randall laid down the law when Kendrick came home. No driving until he had clearance
     from his parents and his doctor.
    “No.” Lena sighs. “I’ll go. But take the garbage cans to the bottom of the driveway. Now.” Lena purses her lips so that Kendrick
     understands she is in no mood to awaken at five tomorrow morning to drag the heavy containers from the backyard to the front
     of the house.
    “I’m watching the fight right now. Later, for sure.”
    What did her sister say when Lena complained how Camille, Kendrick, and even Randall forget to clean up, pick up, take out,
     bring in? When she fusses, and she always fusses, they complain, and they always complain that she fusses too much. It’s not
     the messes and the forgetfulness but the assumption that she will take care of it all. And she will. Bobbie said, “Get over
     it. That’s what Mother’s Day flowers are for.”
    She removes Kendrick’s medicine and a bottle of vitamins from her pocket and tosses them in his direction. Kendrick’s therapist
     believes in integrative medicine. Kendrick follows most of his instructions: support group on Mondays, therapy sessions on
     Wednesdays, and long runs.
    “You’re embarrassing me.” Kendrick drops his voice to a deep, quiet timbre and tucks the bottles into his pocket.
    “If you don’t do what I ask, you’re going to be even more embarrassed.”
    Kendrick steers Lena to the door like an impatient escort on the dance floor. “Just call us when the food is ready.” The door
     slams shut when she steps beyond the threshold. Behind the door, a voice mocks Lena in a high-pitched, falsetto: “Yeah, Kendrick,
     you’re going to be even more embarrassed when I kick your ass across this room.”
    In the kitchen, the granite counters are covered with the remains of Kendrick’s pantry raid: wrappers from two packages of
     Double-Stuf Oreos, empty, oversized potato chip and pretzel bags. The clock blinks 5:45 and Lena calculates her time: drive
     to the store, shop, wait in line, cook, clean up. A lone can of soda sits on the counter. Lena pops the top, sips, and scribbles
     a grocery list wishing all the time that she knew someone to call and find out what she missed in class.
    f   f   f
    When the last of the plates have been loaded into the dishwasher, Lena sets cookies on a saucer and covers them with a napkin.
     The kitchen still smells faintly of frying oil—another reason why she no longer cooks this way—and fresh-baked chocolate chip
     cookies. She saunters through