i'm only given clues

Chapter 11b

Normani stares at her grandmother and doesn't know what to say. She's so sure she must have heard her incorrectly that she's struck dumb. She's sure that she must be really fucking dense and missed something really obvious because she doesn't understand. She's sure that if her grandmother doesn't explain soon she's not going to be able to start breathing again because what she heard doesn't make any sense.

"What?" she barely manages a second later.

Her grandmother softens and it makes Normani feel worse.

"Libby," she repeats and Normani becomes incredibly aware that she's looking in her grandmother's direction but she's not actually looking at her. She's looking through her because she feels like the woman she knows isn't staring back at her. She's fading and the person looking back at her can't give her the comfort she needs. "Elizabeth," she goes on once more. "Here," she says and she reaches into the shoe box tucked closely into her side, ruffling through it. "Here's a picture of her."

She offers it to Normani but she doesn't take it.

She's pretty sure that she's already seen her.

"Is that the woman..." she starts and the words trail off because they feel so awkward and foreign in her mouth. "Is that the woman that was in the photograph in the bag of weed?" she asks.

Her grandmother takes in a deep breath. Her face falters and Normani wonders if she was supposed to remember that. She wonders if her grandmother will lie to her.

"Yes," she says and Normani nods.

"She was pretty," she comments and then wipes her cheeks ready for the tears that'll come eventually. "And that was in... 1958?"

"That photograph? That was... 1961."

Normani's eyes widen and she feels her breath choke from her. She gasps for it back, feels cheated by it being stolen from her. Her grandmother reaches for her and grasps for a hand that Normani instantly snatches back.

"Please," her grandmother whispers. "Please just let me explain this to you and then you can do and say whatever you want. Whatever you want, Cookie. But I need to explain this to you."

Normani nods because she doesn't know what else she should do other than try to breathe.

"I worked for her father."

Normani looks up and sees the woman in front of her properly for the first time. She looks terrified in a way that her grandmother never would. She looks small and fragile and afraid. She wonders who she is. She listens, hoping she'll find out, and brings her knees up to her chest afraid she'll finally unravel if she doesn't.

"He was called Albert Ballet and he was a businessman from Louisiana," her grandmother goes on. "He moved to Paris in 1957 because he was buying one hotel and building another. I worked in a different hotel across the street from Mr. Ballet's and, when I heard he was looking for new staff, I went across there after work one day and I got myself a job." She shrugs. "Americans paid more money and my family was poor, you see? My father was a drunk and he and my older brothers couldn't hold down a job. It was just me and my mama who were working and I thought it would help. I got the job because I wanted to help my family."

Normani nods softly so that her grandmother knows she's listening.

"I was excited to work there because it was luxurious. I was only seventeen and it was exciting to work somewhere where the paint wasn't peeling off the walls," she tries to laugh but Normani doesn't copy her. "I was going to be a day maid but when Mr. Ballet realized how well I spoke English he made me the family maid upstairs in the penthouse. And who was I to refuse? It was more money and easier work." She explains carefully like she would when Normani was a child. "Mrs. Ballet was an important member of the community of Americans who were in France. She spent most of the day visiting people and places, so she was never at home and she took her other daughter Martha with her while Mr. Ballet, her younger son, Wally, and Martha's husband were working at the new hotel, so it was just Libby and me a lot of the time."