God, she still smelled the same—a hint of that cotton blossom perfume on her skin and fresh sheets in her knit. Like getting tucked into a warm, soft bed. Her body was rigid between my arms, all wiry muscle on a solid frame.
“Mal?” She touched my hair with her fingertips, and when I dug my head into her shoulder, it was all the answer she needed. She wrapped herself around me in a vice grip, her voice breaking as she yelled over her shoulder for the rest of them. “Let me look at you,” she said, cupping my face in her worn hands.
She was older. There were more lines on her brow, her forehead, and around her mouth from anything but smiles. She was thinner than I remembered, but her face still had that hard look to it, like a sailor’s wife whose husband’s gone even when he’s not at sea. Her eyes, though, were dark and alive.
Rough thumbs traced my cheeks. A cacophony rang through the night as all the women in the house swarmed us. It was a whirlwind of familiar, if older, faces. Soft bodies pressed to mine like a cocoon, hands on my head and in my hair, on my clothes and face. Everyone talking, laughing, crying all at once.
“Who’s this little dove?” someone asked, but by the sweetness in their voice, they knew.
Holly fidgeted in the rain beside the car, watching the scene like I had lunged into a den of bears.
I forced myself to pull away, their hands trailing behind me, and walked Holly out of the storm. Her hand was frozen in mine, and she cringed against me as if she expected a blow. My other hand fanned out where she couldn’t see, holding the women off. They scattered about the porch to make room.
“Holly,” I wiped the rain out of her eyes, “this is your grandma, Sissy.”
The woman who looked older than her years kneeled until she was looking up at Holly. She hid behind me, but Sissy gave her a rare smile that felt like a sunset in summer.
“I am so glad to meet you, baby. Welcome home.”
We were shuffled inside and plopped on the threadbare couch just inside the door, wrapped in towels and barraged with questions. Sissy pulled pots and pans from the cupboards in the kitchen.
“We don’t need to eat,” I said, making to stand before hands pushed me back to the couch. “It’s late, you should—”
She brandished a cast iron skillet at me in warning. “Do not think to tell me what to do, little girl. Dio, call your son,” Sissy ordered, starting the stove.
Her sister, a rounder, softer version of Sissy, stuck her head out the door. “Danny—!”
The name was cut off as a man answered her from the steps.
“I heard the shouting,” he said. “What—” His face pinched with worry and his hair was plastered to his face and chest, but when he saw me the tension fell from his jaw. “J-Mal?”
I jumped the back of the couch to get to him, and for the second time that night, I strangled a relative in a hug. He pulled me back just enough to look at me like Sissy had, disbelief and wonder coloring gentle eyes in equal measure.
“You made it back.”