11
Luessy concentrated on Willow, fighting for a few more hours with her granddaughter. “Tell the story of Mother Moses.”
“Do I have to tell the whole story?”
“If you don’t know your stories,” Luessy managed, her breath halting and heavy, “you don’t know who you are or who you can be.” She needed another breath, but the drawn-in air seemed hardly able to do more than fill her mouth. “Your stories tell you,” a breath, “where you are, and how far you’ve come.” Another breath. “They’re your blood.”
Despite Luessy’s insistence, Willow almost dared to start in the middle, but Mémé could never be that tired. “You were at your after-school job in a*****e, and a bad woman came in.”
“1902. Not bad,” another necessary rest and breath, “afraid.”
“But being afraid made her mean. She was going we
