Mom shifts her gaze back to Aidan. Her eyes are guarded now. Gone is her light and airy flirtatiousness. Bad memories have slipped in and taken the reins.
She gives Aidan a small smile. “That's sweet of you Aidan, but I’ll have to decline your offer. Nobody wants someone with this much baggage.” Both hands reach down and grasp the air, as though she is picking up two suitcases. She lifts the pretend suitcases a few inches into the air and drops them.
“Mom—” I start, but she interrupts me.
“Natalie, it's okay. I’m okay.” She peers past me, out the front window again, but this time she stands. “The food is here.”
Aidan stands also and follows my mom to the front door. He takes the food from the delivery man, and my mom frets over the fact that the deliveryman is working on Thanksgiving. “You should come in and eat with us,” she says.
I walk over and join Aidan and my mom at the front door.
“It's fine, really.” The guy backs up a few feet. With his acne dotted skin and hair that hangs unevenly over his ears, he's really more of a teenage boy than a man. “I get paid double time on holidays.”
This appeases my mother, and she lets the delivery boy go. Closing the door, she shrugs and says, “I tried.”
Despite my irritation at my mother, a surge of love for her flows over me. Wrapping one arm around her shoulders, I squeeze her and tell her, “You can't take care of everybody.”
We go to the kitchen, where Aidan and I open containers while my mother removes plates from the cabinet above the toaster oven.
I suck in a quick shocked breath when I see the plates she has set out. “Mom, are you sure?”
Mom nods once, slowly. “I don't know why I kept them.” She traces the design on her wedding china with a fingertip. “Seems silly, doesn't it?”
“No, Mom. No, it doesn’t.”
Mom reaches over and pulls a serving spoon from a drawer. She hands it to Aidan, and he takes care of portioning out the lasagna.
Mom opens a new bottle of wine and pours herself a glass. She takes one look at my nearly full glass but doesn't say anything. Instead she says, “Did you keep anything from Henry?”
“Honestly, I'm not sure. I packed pretty quickly. I'm sure there are some things of his in my boxes. I haven't been through them all yet.” I had unpacked all the things I thought I would need. There were three boxes left over, and those were pushed to the bottom of my closet. It only makes sense that there are relics of Henry buried somewhere in there.
Aidan, who has been quiet this whole time, speaks up. “His letterman jacket.” Aidan brings his gaze to mine, the serving spoon dangling from his right hand. “I packed Henry's letterman jacket. I didn't even realize it until right now.” Aidan shakes his head. “He's probably going to want that back.”
“Don't worry about it,” I assure him. He looks annoyed with himself. “It's not like I can avoid him forever.”
“You had a better chance of it before I packed something of his in your box.” He sighs and picks up two plates, holding them out to me and my mom.
I set my plate down on the counter and step closer to Aidan. “I’m not upset. You shouldn't be either.” My hand goes to his upper arm and I give it a squeeze. Aidan looks down at me.
Those eyes, the ones that have always brought me such safety and security, look troubled. “It upsets you to see him.”
I can't deny his words, because they’re true. But I’m surprised to see Aidan reacting this way. It's out of character for him.
Stepping back, I grab our plates from the countertop and turn, motioning with my head to the small table in the dining room. “Let's eat while it's still hot.”
We eat in silence, and neither Aidan or I touch our wine. My mom finishes her third glass and pours a fourth. I could ask her to stop, but what the fuck is the point? If I was in her position, I might want four glasses of wine too.
After we finish, Aidan steps out to call his mom while I wash our three dinner plates and mine and Aidan's wine glasses. Mom leans on the countertop beside me.
“Have you seen your father?”
“Last night,” I respond without looking at her. Running water pours over my finger as I wait for it to be hot enough. When it is, I grab the dish soap and pour it onto a scrub brush.
“How is he?” she asks.
Does she really want to know? Am I supposed to tell her that he seems really fucking happy with his new family?Happy Thanksgiving, Mom, I came here to eat lasagna and hurt your feelings.
“His kid ate food off the floor of a Chinese restaurant that I'm certain wouldn't pass health inspection.” I look up from my scrubbing and catch her laughing.
