Sweet gingerbread wafts from the oven, exhuming the ghost of Christmas past. My eyes water, I sniff, and sob at the many happy times gone by. Here is the room where Stacy and I baked cookies, shared secrets, and woke from sleepovers too numerous to count.
My mother hands me a tissue. “I don’t understand why you’re so upset.”
Long ago. I realized nothing I can say will fix her lack of empathy, so I ignore her, and turn to the breakfast nook. “Hi Gram.”
“The dogs are out again.” She stares vacantly out the back window and when I hug her, she struggles for release.
“Who are you?” Wrinkles appear in her already furrowed brow.
Heartbroken, I’m about to answer but she breaks into a smile and her eyes clear. “Danielle? I thought you weren’t coming home this year.”
I glance over at my mother who answers my silent question by shaking her head back and forth. Drying her hands on a dish towel, she walks behind my grandmother, and places a hand on her shoulder.
“I told you she was here, remember, Mom?”
“Of course.” The sides of her mouth lift but there’s an underlying tension in the room as I park myself across from her at the table.
Not knowing what to do or say, I read the Rutland Herald while Mom puts the kettle on. I prefer coffee but my beverage of choice is served before seven AM. After this magical hour, it’s hot tea, milk, or juice. I have no idea how or when the rule came into being, only that it exists.
The whistle screeches, water is poured into a blue willow china pot, and a slice of banana bread appears in front of me on a paper napkin.
Hoping to avoid a concoction so black it needs a spoon, I pour the paint thinner into my dainty cup and add milk. Steam moistens my face as I dip a corner of my cake into the Earl Grey.
“This bread is so, so delicious.”
“Thanks, Mandy made it.” My mother beams with pride.
Trying not to let it bug me, I pull my sweater over my head and glance around for an apron. “So, who’s expected for Turkey Day?”
“Oh, I didn’t tell you? We’re going to your sister’s.” My mother says it offhandedly, as if mentioning the weather.
Wow.Sucker-punched, my mouth drops open. Why wasn’t I consulted?
“No long faces, Danielle. Mandy offered and I accepted. She has a big house. It makes perfect sense.” Stealing my almost-full teacup, she washes it in the sink.
But we always have Thanksgiving here.Trying to be an adult, I fake a smile. “What can I do to help?”
In the past, my jobs were to make dressing, stuff the turkey and wake at the crack of dawn to put the bird in the oven. I’m also in charge of the green bean casserole and melting marshmallows over sweet potatoes.
Mom sweeps nonexistent table crumbs into her palm. “Do? Well, nothing, dear. Your sister’s got the whole meal covered. Isn’t it wonderful?”
Fuck no, it isn’t wonderful, not by a longshot.“Perfect.” I smile sweetly.
Perfection has been used to define my sibling since birth, along with pretty, agreeable, lovely, and adorable. Do I need to continue?
The descriptions bestowed upon me were quite different. “Smart, but moody, but snooty, but not at all like Mandy.”
Shit. Sometimes I hate coming home.And now, Thanksgiving is ruined forever because my flawless sister will make a textbook meal in her impeccable house with the help of her faultless two kids and charming husband.
The upcoming holiday plays out in my mind. Politely, someone will make mention of how I’m not married and how I haven’t had a boyfriend in years. Maybe, like last Christmas, Gram will suggest I come out of the closet and invite my lesbian partner who, according to her, I’m embarrassed to bring home.
Oh my God.About to have a panic attack, I pick up my suitcase and point. “I need to make a couple calls for work. I’ll be right back.”
Mom nods, crumples up my napkin, and tosses it in the garbage. “We changed the rooms around a little. You’ll be staying upstairs. We old ladies like the first floor.”
Banging my bag up the steps, I note how the wheels make tracks in the dust. My mother equates housekeeping with going to church on Sunday. Both, if left undone, will send you straight to hell. Something is terribly amiss in the Adams household.
Sitting on the bed, I pick up my phone, read my emails, smiling at the responses to my online invite. Everyone in my sleuth group has agreed to attend my unscheduled gathering. After I hang up my black dress, I unpack my suitcase, open my computer, and sigh.
