I am slow to get off the plane, letting people go ahead of me, although I’m not sure why I’m doing this. I know my parents will be anxiously waiting at the baggage claim and I want to see them and hug them. I do. But I’m also dreading the conversation that’s coming. I don’t want to answer why I’m showing up so suddenly, especially since I just spent two weeks with my mom. I don’t want to cry while I spill out every detail. I don’t want them to ask what I’m going to do now. I just want to forget.
I spot my parents as I’m coming down the escalator to the baggage area. They are both beaming and waving to me, and it brings tears to my eyes.
“Abby!” My dad calls, pulling me in for a long hug and a big kiss on my temple. I squeeze him tight, inhaling the scent of a little too much Polo cologne. “Oh, I missed you, my girl. You’re finally home.”
My mom rushes toward me and we hug. “You look a lot better. I can’t believe how much your face has healed in just a few days.”
I smile. “Yes, I’m almost starting to look like myself again.”
When she lets me go, she looks at me as though she’s trying to read my thoughts. I give her a look that says, ‘I can’t right now,’ and she nods. “It’s just so good to have you home again.”
* * *
Today is Thanksgiving. We’ve been in the kitchen since early morning, chopping, washing, dicing, sautéing, and basting. She keeps checking the clock because my brother, Chad, his wife, Tammy, and their kids are due here around two in the afternoon, and she wants to make sure the appetizers and chocolate chip cookies will be set out before they arrive.
I have two nephews, Christopher, age fourteen, and Graham, age nine, and one niece, Kaitlyn, who is twelve. I haven’t seen them in close to three years and my mom keeps mentioning how much they’ve grown and how much more fun she’s having with them now that they’ve calmed down. I know she’s saying it because I’ve always found them a lot to take, and each time she says it, I feel a pang of guilt for not being a better auntie.
When we hear the front door open, my mom practically runs to the small foyer to meet them while I wash the garlic off my hands and follow her, feeling a little nervous.
“There she is!” Chad gives me a brotherly hug, followed by ruffling my hair and I wonder if he’ll still be doing this to me when we’re old and gray. “Glad you didn’t drown.”
“Aww, thanks, bro, but try not to get too sentimental on me,” I say as I smooth out my hair a bit. “You’ll make me cry.”
Tammy rolls her eyes at him, then gives me a big hug. “You look wonderful.”
“You too. How’s work?”
“Oh, you know, same old, same old. The patients never stop complaining and the doctors never stop ordering me around,” she says, shrugging off her coat. “But more importantly, how are you doing after your accident?”
“I’m good. Really.”
“And that girl you rescued, how is she?”
“She was over it about ten minutes after she was pulled out of the water.”
“Kids are amazingly resilient, aren’t they?” she asks before turning to her children. “Say hi to your auntie the hero.”
I look at my nephews and niece, who are all taking off their winter wear while Chad says, “Hang those up, and don’t leave your boots around blocking the entire floor.”
When they finish, they all turn to me, looking as nervous as I feel.
“Hi Kaitlyn,” I hold out my arms for my niece, who is now almost as tall as me, but with a lanky build under her oversized sweatshirt. Her dark blond hair is up in a high ponytail with at least four scrunchies in it.
She gives me a half-hearted hug and says, “Hi Aunt Abigail.”
“I see you have braces.”
“Unfortunately.”
“Do you hate it? I hated them.”
A surprised look crosses her face, and she nods enthusiastically. “Totally. They’re the worst.” She spits a little when she says worst, then slaps her forehead with her hand and rolls her eyes. “See? I can’t stop spitting when I talk.”
Graham bursts out laughing and points at her. “You’re so gross.”
Pulling him in for a quick hug, I say, “That’ll be you in three years.”
“No way. I’m never getting braces,” he says, squirming away from me.
