“I killed it on the NFL intelligence test too. Better than any of the other guys. My guess is the 49ers want me for my bodyandmy brain.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Present
7:42 a.m. (Quinn)
Gobble. Gobble. What’s your Thanksgiving plan?
7:43 a.m. (Callie)
YAY John and Andrew are home. I’m going light on the mashed potatoes and pie tonight I have a follow-up appointment tomorrow morning with my doctor.
7:44 a.m. (Quinn)
Who makes an appointment with their doctor the Friday after Thanksgiving? Terrible idea.
7:45 a.m. (Callie)
It was the only date that was open by the time my doctor’s receptionist tricked me into picking up by using her cell phone to schedule an appointment.
7:46 a.m. (Quinn)
Didn’t we just go to the doctor?
7:46 a.m. (Callie)
Yes, but while you got the all clear for another year, my health prescription included a six-month check-in.
7:46 a.m. (Quinn)
Cheer up, you’ve lived to get weighed another day. Better than the alternative.
With a Thanksgiving guest list that only includes me, Lisa, my mom, John, and Andrew, this year my cooking duties have been whittled down to a handful of hours this afternoon. Despite the predicted windy chill for the morning, I planned a 10K turkey trot with Daphne and Maureen after my morning meditation, which, it turns out, consisted of sleeping in an extra thirty-five minutes.
Maureen shows up in braised-brown-turkey-leg running tights with a cornucopia of mini pumpkins and squashes dancing across her Smartwool turtleneck. Daphne’s arms are outstretched, reaching for the two of us to come in for a hug as she bounds up to the corner where we are stretching and waiting for her. From her snug grip, she plants a big kiss on each of our cheeks and tells Maureen and me how grateful she is to have friends who help her make spot-on choices. I’m not sure if she’s referring to our running group’s consensus to kick her latest boyfriend to the curb or the three of us getting up early on this holiday morning to exercise before feasting. Either way, Maureen’s, Daphne’s, and my embrace of gratitude is the warmest way I can think of to start my first Thanksgiving without Thomas here to carve the turkey.
After a handful of months consistently showing up for Heart and Sole Wednesday-night runs and post-exercise sweaty social gatherings, I no longer felt desperate for friends. I invited Maureen and Daphne over for five-o’clock Thanksgiving dinner, hoping my table would feel full and lively to distract John and Andrew from the one obviously absent person: their father. While extending an invitation to Maureen and Daphne felt safe, I remained hesitant to reach out to Chap andhis mystery uncle, although I imagined a turkey dinner cooked by two dudes would be easily relinquished.
Some days at running club, Chap treats me like one of the gang, joking with me the same way he does with all the members of the club that he makes sure to connect with before we head out of the park a motley herd. At other times, I sense Chap hanging back, talking with me and asking all sorts of personal questions in ways I don’t see him doing with others. Chap seems particularly interested in where Thomas and I are on our divorce journey, how set I am on moving back to New York, and what books I’ve been reading lately. Lisa thinks he’s assessing if it’s worth him going out on a limb to explore an older-woman fetish he harbors. As one of his most devoted social media followers, she fully supports this fantasy. Lisa just wishes it was with her.
Quinn has suggested I use Chap as my rebound guy. She is sure a no-strings-attached romp is something a carefree twentysomething man would happily oblige, and every fifty-year-old woman dreams of. But neither of them has ever seen how Chap and I are together. I know it’s not in my head. There’s something more there. More than just flirtation, but true genuine interest in getting to know me. I just cannot put my finger on why.
To my holiday dinner invitation, Maureen responded that she had already invited Chap and his uncle over, as well as a few of the young female teachers at her preschool to balance out the testosterone overload in her tiny apartment. I didn’t want Maureen to feel like she had to extend an invitation to my boys and me, so I responded to her rattling off her guest list that I was looking forward to having John and Andrew together with me in our home. That it felt like the right time to establish new traditions in our rejiggered family. Daphne responded that she needed a break from my mother to enjoy her cornbread stuffing in peace, which I fully understood.
Happy for anything not delivered lukewarm from DoorDash, John and Andrew do not seem to notice that I’ve swapped the brown-sugar-glazed carrots for roasted brussels sprouts, left the marshmallows off the sweetpotatoes, and substituted yogurt for sour cream in the mashed potatoes. Thomas would love the healthful adjustments. My mom doesn’t protest when I pile on the protein for her, but when I reach for the salad tongs, she grabs her plate from me. Perusing the buffet, Lisa pouts and goes straight to my cupboards to look for the squishy white sugar balls to heat up over her yams in the microwave. No such luck. She comments that she couldn’t believe she wasted herI Really Don’t Give a PluckThanksgiving T-shirt on this meal because, in fact, Lisa does give a pluck about drowning herself in the standard fare that one should never mess with on this day. As her final complaint before sitting down at my dining room table, Lisa threatens me within an inch of my life that there better be a pecan pie.
Brochures for acupuncture, cupping, colonics, hormone replacement therapy, freezing fat cells, melting fat cells, vaginal rejuvenation, and metabolic measurement devices litter the side tables dividing each chair in Dr. Kwan’s waiting room. I appreciate that I am not forced to sit uncomfortably close to another patient, or worse yet, feel pressured to engage in small talk before stripping from the waist down. Waiting for my name to be called, I drop my chin to ponder my crotch, hopefully unnoticed by the two other women awaiting their turn on the pleather table. Should I slip the cooch pick-me-up pamphlet into my purse? I wonder if loose-lipped labia is one of the reasons why Thomas left.
Ding. Speaking of.
3:24 p.m. (Thomas)
John told me Helen fell a few weeks ago. I’m checking in to see how she is.
I roll my eyes at my phone. I can count on one hand the number of times Thomas has asked about my mother since we moved her to Sacramento. I would need no fingers.
Helen Steele is, in fact, made of steel. On Halloween she tripped over the decorative rug in the communal living room and sprawled face-first onto the floor. Daphne called and told me that though she seemed fine, protocol required that they call an ambulance and take her to the facility’s sister hospital, Mercy General, to check if anything was broken or if my mother had a concussion. I immediately hopped in the car and sped straight to the emergency room. Within thirty minutes, I was by my mother’s side in a private room. With a male doctor and nurse fussing over her, I could see the attention from these handsome strangers did not unnerve Helen. She was rather enjoying herself.
