she would have no trouble recognizing Yummy Fuller.
And she didn’t. Yummy hadn’t changed at all. No. She had changed. She was taller, and older, of course. Her skin had relaxed about the eyes and cheeks, but her face was burnished by the sun. The people around her—dull, soft-bodied, and white—seemed to squint when they caught sight of her, she was just that bright. She wore cropped pants and a long, loose coat made out of linen, outrageously tropical among the massing Polyfill parkas that eddied around her like lumpy clouds. She scanned the faces, and when her eyes came to rest on Cass, she frowned and cocked her head, combing the jet-black hair away from her forehead with her fingers.
“Cass?” she mouthed. “Is that you?”
Cass managed a nod, and she watched Yummy part the crowd with the ease of Moses. Then, before she knew it, they were standing face-to-face, and Cass found herself stepping back, the way you sometimes do when you walk out into a strong wind.
“Wow,” Yummy said. “Cassie Unger.”
“Hi,” Cass said. Then she added, “It’s Quinn now.”
Yummy didn’t seem to hear. “You grew.”
“Yes. I guess. So did you.”
“You’re almost as tall as me.”
“Not really.” Cass tried not to slouch. “You’re still taller.”
“You’ve lost your baby fat.” Yummy grinned and stepped back to appraise her. “Skinny, even.”
Cass crossed her arms in front of her chest.
“Hey, no,” Yummy said. “You look great. Just surprised me. Like a different person.”
“Yes,” Cass said. “I am.”
“Hmmm . . .” Yummy said, drawing out the sound, as though unclear as to whether she agreed. “I guess we have changed, after all these years.”
“Yes,” Cass said. “After all these years.”
Three children moved in a loose orbit around Yummy, like insects looking for a place to land. They were obviously attached to her, but they did not look much related.
“Are those your kids?” Cass asked.
“All three of ’em. Feels like a lot more. Do you have any?”
Cass shook her head.
“Well, you can have some of mine.” She gestured impatiently to a skinny Asian boy with a baby on his hip, who ambled over, pushing an empty stroller. Yummy took the baby and gave the boy a shove toward Cass. “This is Phoenix. Phoenix, this is Cassie Unger. Sorry, Quinn. She lives next door to your kupuna.”
It was a week before Christmas, and the boy was wearing a T-shirt and baggy shorts that came down to his knees, and his legs stuck out underneath like thin brown sticks. Scuffy sneakers. No socks. His bushy black hair stood up in bristles. Cass held out her hand to shake, but he drew his away and made a fist, leaving the thumb and pinkie standing. This he waggled at her.
“Howzit,” he said. “You can call me Nix.”
“He’s fourteen,” Yummy explained, setting the squirming baby down on his bottom, on the floor. “He’s in the process of rejecting everything his mother ever gave him. Including his name.”
“Oh, Yummy, that’s such crap,” Phoenix said.
“See what I mean?” Yummy smiled. She lowered her voice and spoke in a stage whisper. “Phoenix, remember what I told you. This is Idaho. Call me Mommy, and stop swearing or the townsfolk will lynch you.” Phoenix rolled his eyes while Yummy grabbed another child, a fair-haired girl with sea blue eyes. “This one’s Ocean. She’s six and a half.”
“Ocean has a nickname, too,” Phoenix offered.
“Shuddup!” yelled Ocean.
“It’s Puddle,” Phoenix said with an evil smile.
“It is NOT!”
“And this is Poo,” Phoenix offered smoothly, ducking Ocean’s fist and capturing the escaping baby by the back of his suspenders. “He’s not doing the walking thing yet.” The baby sat on the floor and looked up at Cass, flapping his arms a little. His skin was the color of milk chocolate. Curls sprung from his head, each a soft and perfect vortex.
“What’s his real name?” Cass asked.
“Just Poo. Mommy was striking out with the names, so she kind of just gave up.” He picked the baby up and offered him to Cass. “Here. Wanna hold him?”
Cass took the baby in her arms. He was heavy and warm.
“That’s not true, Phoenix,” Yummy said. She turned to Cass. “His name is Barnabas, but he has to grow into it. For now Poo suits him just fine.”
“Hello, Poo,” Cass said. His eyes were liquid black. He gurgled and patted her cheek.
They collected their suitcases, and Cass waited while they opened them and dug out warm clothes; then she led them out to the parking lot. She felt like a ringmaster at a carnival parade. Their bags filled the back of the Suburban.
“It’s freezing,” Phoenix said, teeth chattering.
“It’ll warm up once we get going,” Cass told him.
Ocean climbed into the backseat next to her brother. “Yuuuck! This car stinks.”
Yummy turned around. “Ocean, shut up.”
“But it does!”
“Ocean—” There was a warning in Yummy’s voice now.
The little girl subsided. “It smells like cigarettes,” she whispered to Phoenix.
“So what?”
“I bet the lady smokes cigarettes.”
“Why don’t you ask her?”
Ocean leaned forward. “Excuse me,” she said, tapping Cass on the shoulder. Cass glanced into the rearview as she put the car into reverse and backed out of the space.
“Do you smoke cigarettes?”
“Sometimes,” she answered the child in the mirror. “Not often.”
Ocean’s face grew severe. “You shouldn’t smoke cigarettes,” she said. “Ever.”
“I know.”
“But do you know why you shouldn’t?”
“Yes. I know.”
“Because cigarettes give you cancer, and then you die.”
“I
