We shook on it.
“Hey, Mom, good news,” I called out, loud enough she could hear me wherever she was in the house. “I’m staying a few more days.”
Her shout of joy shook the walls.
CHAPTER 4
CLARA
Iwas standing at the counter in Mom’s kitchen, peeling potatoes. Bailey the basset hound snored at my feet, always excited to see me but too tired to stay awake for long. He was a bit of sunshine on a difficult day.
Thanksgiving had always been one of my favorite holidays, but being fired less than a week before really put a damper on the proceedings. I had never dreaded going home for the holidays before, but that morning, I had.
My feet were dragging the whole time I showered, got dressed, and drove across town to my parents’ house. The drive had felt too short. I had considered driving around the neighborhood for a few minutes to delay the sad homecoming, but I had to face the music sometime.
They already knew the bad news, that I’d lost another job. My mother had cried with me on the phone and my father had sent me some silly pictures of ducks to cheer me up. But seeing them in person was tough.
Through all the sweet hugs and the warmwelcome homes, I saw the pity in their eyes, silently saying, “Here’s our disappointing daughter who makes bad decisions. She’s lost her way again.”
I didn’t voice any of my feelings, though. Their holidays didn’t need to be ruined because I was struggling. I refused to spread my pain and spoil things for everyone else. I might be a loser, but I didn’t have to be a bummer, too.
Soon after, my mother had put me to work, presumably to help keep my mind off things. It had been a while since I used a potato peeler and I had already nicked my fingers a few times.
I can cross chef off my list of potential new jobs.
This was what my life had become. I should have been building giant nutcrackers for the Helios stage, watching the rat king and the nutcracker prince choreograph their big dramatic sword fight. Instead, I was in charge of the mashed potatoes.
Maybe I was just being paranoid, but I couldn’t help but feel the assignment came with a side of judgment, like I couldn’t be trusted to prep any of the more difficult dishes. “Give Clara the potatoes. She can’t fuck those up like she fucked up her life.”
I had suggested adding roasted garlic cloves to the dish, to liven it up a little, and my mother had looked at me like she regretted having a second child. I kept my bright ideas to myself after that and just followed the boring recipe we always used.
While the last few things were finishing up, I helped my mother set out the food on the dining room table. Normally, they ate at the smaller table in the kitchen, but for special occasions, we all sat around the big table. Mom pulled out her good plates, which were much heavier than the stuff they used on a daily basis. Pink flowers and gold leaf circled the edges. They were pretty, if a little old fashioned. Mom said they were a wedding gift.
We had a traditional Thanksgiving menu, with turkey, stuffing, yams, and of course my mashed potatoes. When we all sat to eat and I tasted them, the fucking things were lumpy and I had to hold back the tears threatening to spoil dinner even more than I already had. My appetite evaporated.
This was my favorite meal of the whole year and it might as well have been gas station burritos. I moved food around on my plate to give the appearance of eating, but very little went into my mouth.
Very little came out of it, too. Talking took too much effort. I didn’t have the strength to force cheer into my voice or smile, which were the polite things to do. Mom had worked hard on this meal and she deserved a nice evening.
Better to just shrink into myself and let the rest of the world forget about me. No such luck. The conversation turned and I was the center of attention once again.
Dad looked at me. “So your mother and I were talking. We were thinking you could move into the basement here. We can clear the junk out. Then you can move your furniture in there, turn it into a little apartment.”
“You should have been living here the whole time since you got back from California,” Mom said. “Rent is so expensive. And groceries? Forget it. Living here is the smart thing to do.”
I appreciated my mother was trying to blame the economy and not my poor life choices. She was sweet like that. It slightly lessened the sting of moving back home with my parents.
“Fine,” I said. “Make the basement into my spinster cave. Lock me away to hide me from the world.”
“Damn theater people,” Nic said, grinning. “Always so dramatic.”
“Easy for you to say,” I told him. “Your shop is doing well. Speaking of which, you don’t happen to have a job for your little sister, do you?”
“Sure, do you know how to fix a carburetor?” he asked.
I slumped in my chair. “I can’t even fix mashed potatoes.”
“Oh, stop, the potatoes are good,” Dad said. “I like them chewy.”
