Inside, the house smells like pot roast and freshly baked bread. There’s music playing and voices rising above the song, proof that all the Whitmans are under one roof. We’re a noisy bunch.
Goldie rounds the corner and looks at Dad anxiously. “How did it go?”
“All good,” Dad says, shrugging out of his coat. “They said I should be able to start training for a marathon soon.”
Goldie’s eyes go wide. “They did?”
“No,” Dad deadpans. “But I think it’d probably be all right.”
Dylan and Tully come out next. Dylan hugs us first and then Tully.
“You look awfully happy, Dylan,” Dad says. “Did you have a good flight?”
“I actually had the best flight I can ever remember having,” Dylan says, lifting his eyebrows cryptically.
My eyes narrow. “Sounds like you met someone.”
He grins. “You could say that.”
Tully studies Dad. “Did he think everything looked good for real? Your coloring is so much better.”
“Yes, he’s feeling optimistic about everything, so I think we should too,” Dad says. He pats Tully’s face. “Between the chemo and all the resort stuff, your games have gotten neglected. Watching them on TV just isn’t the same. I’ve missed coming toall the games so much. You’ll be seeing this mug there a lot more often.”
Tully grins. “Sounds good to me, Pops. We’ve got a great lineup coming up, so the timing is perfect.”
My nephew Grayson realizes we’re in the room and comes running over, hugging Dad first before barreling into me. He holds his arms out, and I pick him up. We say “Crusher” at the same time, and then I flip him over. After I set him back on the ground, we high-five and fist-bump. This has been our customary greeting since the day my brother Noah first okayed the roughhousing.
Grandma Nancy and Grandma Donna descend on Dad the second they spot him. Grandma Nancy has a basket of freshly baked bread in hand, which she sets down to hug her son. Grandma Donna rushes over to get the afghan she knitted for Dad and drapes it around his shoulders.
“You look chilly. Are you okay? Your coloring is off,” she says.
“Tully just told me my coloring was better.” Dad laughs.
“I bet you’re just hungry,” Grandma Nancy says. She picks up the basket and lifts the cloth to reveal warm, buttered bread. “Here you go. This will give you some energy.”
Dad takes a slice and finishes hugging everyone before saying, “I’m going to sit down before everyone kills me with kindness.”
“No killing language,” Grandma Nancy tsks, which makes all of us laugh, so she eventually does too. “And dinner is ready, so march yourself right over there to that table instead of your recliner.”
“So bossy,” Dad grumbles as he gets up and goes to the table. “Grayson is the three-and-a-half-year-old around here, not me.”
Grandma Nancy pinches his cheek and grins. “You’ll always be my little boy, you know.”
He laughs. “I know, I know. That’s how I feel about the kiddos at this table and they’re grown, so I guess it’s only fair that I get that treatment too.”
She laughs and piles roast onto his plate. He chuckles but doesn’t try to argue with her. When she’s not looking, he slides some of it onto my plate.
“There’s no way I can eat all that,” he whispers.
There’s so much food—the grandmas have clearly gone overboard. Pot roast with mashed potatoes and gravy, the bread from heaven, several salads…oh shit, the Lutheran Jell-O is there—the lime and cottage cheese one. My siblings and I all eye each other warily as we try to come up with inventive ways to avoid it.
Goldie is closest to Grandma Donna, and my sister stares at me aghast when our grandma manages to scoop some onto Goldie’s already full plate. She squeaks when Grandma Donna pulls out the squeezy mayo, all poised to give Goldie’s Jell-O salad a dollop.
“No mayo for me, thanks, Grandma,” Goldie rushes out.
She clears her throat and doesn’t look up when my brothers and I snort, trying to hold back from laughing.
“Come on, Golds,” Tully says. “It’s always better with the mayo!”
