“I never used to spit when I had my braces,” Christopher says, which gains loud protests from Kaitlyn and both his parents.
Lowering my voice, I say to Kaitlyn, “I used to spit all over the place. Once I spit right on the nose of a boy I had a huge crush on.”
“Eww! That’s, like, the worst thing that could ever happen!”
“I thought so too until my orthodontist made me wear headgear through all of grade eight.”
“Shut up! He did not!”
“Swear to God, it actually happened. I bet Grandma has some pictures of it somewhere.”
Her eyes grow wide suddenly, and she turns to her mom. “Oh my God! Am I going to have to wear headgear?”
“No. Not at school anyway.”
Chad speaks up. “I’m going to demand it, if it’ll keep the boys away.”
“Dad!” she shrieks. “You wouldn’t!”
Chad is laughing and nodding at her, “Oh, I will. You can count on it.”
I watch the scene unfold, remembering how much he used to torture me when we were growing up.
Tammy shakes her head and gives him that exasperated look that doesn’t register with him anymore. “Relax, Kaitlyn. It’s not going to happen.”
My mom decides we’ve had enough chitchat at the door and ushers us all toward the kitchen. “You kids must be starving. Grandma’s got some chocolate chip cookies for you fresh out of the oven.”
The kids clamor down the hall, fighting to get to the sweets first. Chad calls, “Relax! It’s not like she only made two cookies. You’ll all get some.”
“One each or you’ll spoil your dinner!” Tammy adds.
* * *
After a whole lot of snacking and chatting, my dad leaves to pick up my grandma. When they arrive, I go to the door to greet her. She looks so tiny and frail, and I suddenly see why my mom was so worried about her. Tears fill her eyes when she sees me, and she holds her arms out for a hug that I have to duck down to receive.
“There’s my Abigail. Look how beautiful you are,” she says, pulling back and holding my cheeks with her ice-cold hands. “So young and brave, saving that little girl from drowning. I’m driving everybody nuts at the seniors’ center going on and on about how my granddaughter is a real-life hero. And a successful author, to boot!”
I blush and take her hands in mine to warm them up. “You’re good for my ego, Gran.”
“Well, I don’t know about that, but I do know I’m proud of you.”
My dad puts his hand on her shoulder. “That makes two of us. Can I get you some tea, Mom?”
“Oh, yes, that would be lovely, Bill.”
An hour later, we finally cram ourselves in around the long table in the dining room that gets used exactly three times a year. It has the same gray carpet with the same red stain from the Christmas of 1995 when my dad had one too many rum and eggnogs before dinner and tipped over his glass of merlot. After that, my mom instituted the red wine moratorium that still stands. The turkey is carved, mashed potatoes and brussels sprouts are dished up, gravy is poured, and cranberry sauce is tucked along the edges of plates.
Graham picks up a piece of turkey with his fingers and takes a bite, which earns him a quick poke on his side from Chad. “What are the two things you did wrong?”
Graham looks at him. “Fingers and …” He pauses, looking confused.
Chad sighs. “We haven’t said grace yet.”
“But we never say grace at home.”
My brother turns red and I burst out laughing. “Busted by the nine-year-old.” Turning to Graham, I say, “Well played, young man.”
My dad taps the side of his knife on his wineglass. “Let’s get the praying done before the kids faint from hunger.”
