“Mom. You said that was medicine. Medicine’s for drinking, right?”
June’s hand stopped mid-slice. Then she cut another piece, quick. “Right. Medicine. You drink it.”
“Medicine has a name,” I said. “What was yours?”
June set the knife down and smiled. “Just chili water. Old folk remedy. Brings down a fever — handed down from the old folks.”
“Who taught you that? And when they taught it, did they say to pry her mouth open and pour it down?”
The noise died down. June put the knife down, met my eyes. “You were burning up and wouldn’t take it. Of course I pried your mouth open. You’re holding that against me?”
“I’m not holding anything against you. I just want to understand. You call it medicine — so what’s it called?”
“A folk remedy doesn’t have a—”
“It has a name.” I cut her off. “It’s called ‘grab her by the jaw and pour until she can’t say a word.'”
