to meet Grandfather, who has yet to
have actually made his acquaintance.
This is my dad, Leroy. Dad, this is Liam.
Grandfather shakes his hand but looks
uncomfortable. Glad to finally meet you.
This is only the beginning of a long round
of introductions. We meet Liam’s mom and
dad; his brother, Tom; sister, Laurel; two aunts;
three uncles; a cousin or four. And that’s just
the ones in the kitchen. I can hear voices
in some other unidentified room. I don’t think
I made nearly enough cranberry sauce.
Throughout the entire process, Aunt Cora
hangs on to Liam as if letting go might make
some imaginary tower tumble. Finally, all of
us not quite knowing one another’s names,
Aunt Cora’s eyes stop traveling the room
long enough for her to notice. Oh.
You wore the skirt. It looks amazing.
Suddenly everyone is looking at me.
My palms start to tingle. Before I can lose
my breath, I excuse myself. “I could use”—
blood jackhammers my brain—“some air.”
I START TOWARD THE FRONT DOOR
But someone catches my arm.
Come on out here, he says.
The backyard is real pretty.
It’s one of Liam’s cousins. Beau?
Michael? Whichever, he is a couple
of years older than me and wears
Irish good looks in long, straight
black walnut hair, white linen skin,
and eyes the color of violets.
I catch my breath, shadow him out
into a miniature botanical garden,
with ponds and statuary and trees
in full autumn dress. It’s stunning.
Very Zen. My heartbeat slows in
appreciation of the almost solitude.
Almost, but for what’s-his-name.
You okay now? His voice is satin.
You looked right about ready to bolt.
“I’m good, thanks. I, uh … sorry.
Can’t remember your name.
Too many thrown at me at once.”
He grins, showing perfect pearl
teeth. Micah. This is a big family,
okay. And we’re not even all here.
Micah, not Michael. Good name.
But why is he being so nice?
“Funny. Our family is all here.”
Not exactly accurate. But close
enough to the truth, I guess.
Family is about connection.
Nothing wrong with a, uh,
compact family. Long as
you’re good to each other.
Are we good to each other?
Not bad, I suppose. But all
I can do in response is nod.
Silence closes in, squeezes.
Micah releases its grip. You do
look pretty in that skirt, you know.
Cheeks flaming, I stutter
something like, “Thanks,” just
as someone inside calls out,
Dinner!
A GIANT FEAST
Is laid out, buffet-style, on the long kitchen counters.
We form a line, help ourselves, then find places to sit.
The older adults claim the formal dining room, leaving
us younger people to choose our seats at folding
tables in the kitchen. I fill my plate sparingly, pick
a chair, wait to see if Aunt Cora will join me. She doesn’t.
But Micah does, sitting beside me. Do you mind?
I shake my head, making his recent compliment rattle
around inside my brain: Pretty in that skirt … pretty …
In the next room, Mr. Cregan recites grace and
before the amen, Micah’s thigh leans gently against
mine. This can’t be happening! But it is, and it’s warm,
and all those newly discovered body parts alert.
The conversation around me blurs to a buzz. I do
my best to tune out and eat my turkey and stuffing
without dripping gravy on my blouse or (pretty!) skirt.
This is just dumb. Not four hours ago, I was fantasizing
about a private Thanksgiving with Bryce. Now here
I am surrounded by Cregans and, for some unfathomable
reason, leg-to-leg with probably the best-looking member
of the clan. This cannot be happening. Maybe I’m asleep
and this is all a dream. Blood whooshes in my ears,
damping a gush of laughter. Somebody told a joke?
Suddenly metal clinks against glass, like a bell.
All attention turns toward the dining room, where
Aunt Cora and Liam are standing. Excuse us, but
we have some happy news, says Liam. Aunt Cora
catches my eye, smiles. We’re getting married.
Summer
DAD’S IDEA
Of a Thanksgiving meal,
Turkey Day treats, in his
vernacular, is going out
to my all-time favorite place,
(are you ready for this?)
Carrows. Best burgers, ever.
Burgers for Thanksgiving?
Poultry gives me the trots.
No pumpkin pie, either?
Bet Carrows will have it.
Carrows pumpkin pie?
Think I’ll skip it. Burgers?
Maybe they have turkey
burgers. Jeez, man. Even
foster homes celebrate
Thanksgiving, trying to
make up for real parents
who aren’t real parents.
Hey, I’ve never been much
of a cook. And Kortni?
Let her do a turkey, we’ll all
get the trots. And anyway,
the important thing is being
together, right? Thankful
we can be like a real family.
OPERATIVE WORD:
“Like” a real family. I’ve never
actually had one of those, and
I’m not exactly sure what I’d do
with one if I got one. Don’t even
know if I want one of my own
creation. Marriage? Children?
Sounds like a double whammy
to me. You don’t even see that
happily-ever-after crap on TV
anymore. Death. Divorce.
Deviance. That pretty well
describes network television
in the twenty-first century.
Mostly because it reflects
contemporary reality. No,
I think I’ll stick to steady
relationships for as long
as they might reasonably
last. No promises. No “I do’s.”
No contributing to global
overpopulation. Now or ever.
LONG BEFORE
Any Thanksgiving meal at all, a volley
of snores—Dad’s and Kortni’s—
chase me down the narrow hallway.
I slip out the front door, into the bite
of November, early morning. A day
without seeing Kyle? Not going to
happen. The rutted dirt challenges
my bare feet, but somehow I manage
the short jog. He’s there. Parked.
Waiting. Of course he is. I barely
have the door yanked open and
we are kissing. Come up here.
He pulls me into the truck and into
his arms without our mouths unlocking.
Lip to lip, he manages, Damn, I love you!
I slide my arms around his neck,
pull my head back so I can plunge
into the aqua deep of his eyes.
There’s something
swimming there,
in the dark pools of his pupils.
Something disquieting. Now
that I think about it, I can taste
it too, lingering on his tongue.
It’s not quite sweet, and reminds
me of how the chem lab smells.
Crystal. He uses sometimes,
has offered it to me, though
not since we’ve been together.
“You buzzed?” The thought
half horrifies, half excites me.
Nah. At my disbelieving look,
he admits, Not really. Just did
a little. I don’t react, and that
makes him kind of twitchy.
Why, you want to try some?
Always before, I just said no,
left it solidly there. I waver
now. I want to share everything
with Kyle. Want to know what he
knows, feel what he feels, share
the same space he’s in. I almost
say what the hell. In fact, I open
my mouth to do so. But what comes
out is, “N-not today.” I hope he thinks
it has to do with Thanksgiving.
Instead he says, Chicken?
Rather than argue or explain,
I simply tell him he’s right.
No need for lengthy stories
about Mom and predisposition.
INSTEAD
I’ll try distraction. “Want to go
somewhere?” I do my best
to sound sexy, but think
I need to practice. I sounded
more fan girl than vamp.
Sexy or just plain fanatic,
I am a little surprised when
Kyle responds by shaking
his head. Wish we could …
To prove it, he touches me
suggestively in a very intimate
place. But I have to get home
pretty soon. We’re going to
my Aunt Liz’s house in Fresno,
and Dad wants to leave by nine.
Just as Kyle knows better
than to argue with his dad,
I understand pouting will
not only get me nowhere,
it just might make Kyle mad.
HE INHERITS HIS TEMPER
From his father, he says.
I’ve only witnessed it on
a couple of occasions. Hope
I never have to see it again.
The last time was when
we told Matt about Kyle and
me. It was at school the day after
we first got together. Matt came
walking toward us in his usual
cheerful way. His smile dissolved
when he noticed us, hands locked
together and eyes wearing worry.
Uh, what’s going on? But
what was going on was obvious.
Hurt wrinkled his face as if
he’d suddenly aged thirty years.
My stomach lurched, roller-
coaster-style. “We need to
talk,” I started. I was wavering,
and Kyle must have felt it in the way
my hand trembled. He grabbed
control. Dude, you’re not going
to like this, but Summer and
I hooked up yesterday.
Matt’s reaction was swift.
What the fuck are you talking
about? Summer? And what
exactly does “hook up” mean?
My face flared, dry-ice hot, and
I saw Matt’s eyes flood with sudden
understanding. “Oh God, I’m so
sorry. I never meant to hurt—”
Kyle totally lost it. Shut up,
Summer. Don’t you dare make
excuses. Then, to Matt. That’s
right. We did it. And we’ll do it
again. She’s really good, so you
know. And she’s mine. Understand?
Back to me. You are mine, aren’t
you? Didn’t you say you loved me?
I tried to nod, but a vortex of
confusion sucked me in. “Uh …
yes. I mean, I guess. I mean …”
I wasn’t sure about anything.
But even if I’d wanted to change
my mind, it was too late. Matt’s hurt
had fanned into full-blown anger.
I guess, I mean, whatever. Fuck
you both. I don’t need a whore
like you, Summer. And no one
needs a so-called friend like you.
He was solidly in Kyle’s face.
And Kyle reacted badly, shoving
Matt backward. Hard enough
to land Matt on his butt. Just
leave us the fuck alone, okay?
I was mortified. Freaked out
that it had gone so badly.
Even more freaked out at how
easily Kyle went off. Crazy.
But that didn’t change how I feel.
Didn’t make me love him less.
In fact, in some perverted way,
it was sort of a turn-on.
EVEN SO
One thing I do know.
I don’t ever want to
make him mad at me,
and he does not much
care for the “oh, poor
me” routine. So I’ll suck
it up. Still, my melting
smile must signal
disappointment. “That’s
okay. We’ll get together
tomorrow, right?”
Couldn’t keep me away.
He reaches for my shirt,
pulls, and not too gently.
Again, we are connected
by the kind of kiss that
should be integral
to every single good-bye.
I WATCH THE DUST
Of his retreat lift
into the bitter
blue sky. Not
a single cloud
to catch it.
Cold.
Empty.
Like how I feel
right now. Love
is strange. One
minute you’re
jungle fever.
The next
you’re
Arctic
winter.
I’M GETTING DRESSED
For our like-a-real-family Thanksgiving
Day jaunt to Dad’s all-time favorite
Carrows when my cell warbles.
Kyle! I scramble to find the phone
hidden in the chaos that is my dresser.
But no, it’s not Kyle. (Why did I think
it would be?) When I see whose number
has in fact materialized on caller ID,
I consider pretending I never heard
the very loud ring tone. Still, it is a holiday.
Guess I should pick up. “Hey, Mom.
Happy Thanksgiving.” I expect some
sweet, if bogus, holiday greeting.
Instead she launches verbal mortars.
I called Darla and Phil’s to say hello
and they told me you’re not there
anymore. You’re living with your dad?
Why didn’t you bother to let me know?
My first instinct is to lob a grenade
right back at her, but something in her
voice says she doesn’t want to go to war.
She sounds ready to implode. “You okay?”
That’s all it takes to light the fuse.
She’s falling bricks. No. I’m not okay.
The boys are with your grandparents
in Reno because Ron set me up….
The fifteen-minute rant nets some
pertinent information. Mom’s fragile
life has shattered yet again. Ron beat
her up, possibly left a stash of meth
where the cops who came calling
could, or even would, find it. And now
it’s up to her, in a couple of weeks,
to try and convince a judge that she,
a proven liar and twice-convicted
felon, is, this time, completely innocent.
Best of luck, mother-of-mine. I don’t
believe you. Why should a judge?
BUT THAT’S NOT WHAT SHE WANTS
To hear. So I listen without commentary.
And, I guess, less sympathy than she,
for some stupid reason, expects.
Well? she finishes. Nothing to say?
Her supercilious tone irritates me.
“Sucks to be you,” is the best I can
do. What does she want from me?
How can you be so … so mean?
Now, somehow, it’s on me? My turn
to blow. “God, Mom, are you stupid
or what? Why don’t you move the fuck
away from there? Go somewhere
Ron can’t find you. Start over …
Get a real job. Take care of your kids.”
How would I do that? I don’t have—
“Don’t say it. Don’t say you don’t have
the resources. Grandma Marie would
help. You know that. You’re just a …”
A what? Her breathing sounds tattered.
I should feel sorry for her. But I don’t.
I can’t. I’m sick of her freaking
excuses. “A goddamn coward.
It’s easier to keep on living like you
do. Day-to-day. No thought for
the future or the past. Not caring
about the shit you’re always crotch-
deep in. What about the boys,
Mom? What about any of us?”
She is quiet for a very long time.
I hope it’s because something I said
actually sliced through her denial.
But no. Happy Thanksgiving to you, too.
And she’s gone. Suddenly I want
to take it all back. Damn her, anyway.
I love her. I hate her. I wish
I didn’t know her. I ache to know
her better. My glass bravado
cracks. Splinters. Crashes down.
I NEVER CRY
Never, ever cry over Mom
or the charade that is my life.
But tears fall now. And I do
nothing to try and stop them.
God, how I want to let her in.
But I know she’d only shut me out.
Doesn’t matter why—meth or
men or something I can’t fathom
at all—the fact is, she’s incapable
of loving me like a mother should.