“I’m so glad, honey,” Mom says with sparkling green eyes that hold the same amount, if not more, admiration than my own. I’m not the only one who knows what a star Olive Adams is.
Mom turns to me. “What about you, Violet? Tell us something that makes your heart happy.”
All eyes are on me as I think it over. I start off by thinking of all the things I’m not grateful for, so it ends up taking me longer to pull together an answer. I think of Colson, about how we’ve messaged for weeks and how it’s been easy to talk about the difficult things with him, how he listens, and doesn’t give me bullshit responses.
That’s what I’m truly grateful for, having someone who looks at me the same despite the hardships I may be facing.
“Supportive friends,” is what I settle on. Maybe it doesn’t come out as heartfelt as I feel in my soul, but my heart beats a little faster knowing what it means to me.
Olive smirks, and I can tell what she’s thinking:I knew it.
I brush her teasing away by looking down at my plate, antsy to top it off with food and start eating.
Mom repeats my answer, a few strands of brunette hair that aren’t pulled back into her claw clip framing her face. “Supportive friends. I like that,” then she looks toward the other end of the table. “And you, honey?”
“I think we all know what I’m most grateful for, Julia,” Dad replies. “Each of you.”
A smile as wide as the Golden Gate Bridge stretches Mom’s lips.
Olive rolls her eyes. “You say that every year, Daddy.”
“Because it’s true, sweetheart.”
The visual of puking up the sweet potato casserole hits, and honestly, it just might happen. Before I eat a single bite of it.
Grateful for each of us.
Pft.
How?
Howcan he step out like he did and still give that answer?
Guilt. He feels bad over what he’s done and instead of being honest about his behavior, he’s choosing to take the low road to make himself feel better.
A lump the size of a golf ball rests in my throat. It’s there to stay, there to hang out, there to give me a stomach ulcer before dinner is over.
Plopping my lap napkin on the plate in front of me, I push back my chair. “I’m sorry, but I’m not feeling well all of a sudden.”
His eyes are on me in a flash, burning into the side of my head for attention. If I look over, it’ll all go downhill. I’m alreadyburied beneath the lie of his indecency, and as much as I’m ready to take Colson’s advice, I can’t do it at the dinner table while we’re sharing our thanks.
I rise to my feet before anyone says a word. My focus happens to land on Olive, her eyes a mix of worry and confusion.
She mouths,you okay?
I give her a subtle nod at the same time Mom chimes, “Violet, what’s the matter? Is it your stomach? Your head?”
Both.
Along with the intense urge to air out someone else’s dirty laundry.
“I’ll be fine,” I tell her, squeezing her shoulder as I pass by. “I just need some air.”
Preferably the kind that’ll freeze this anguish away.
It’s not as cold as I’d like it to be when I step out into the back yard. The temperatures have dropped considerably since summer, but it’s warmer than what I’m sure people farther north experience. I squat down and sit on one of the deck steps, looking out over the well-kept yard and garden that mom loves tending to. The annuals she plants year after year catch my eye. Not as bright as they were in the summer, they still have a little bit of life left in them, though they won’t last much longer.
It's as if it’s a metaphor for my life—not being able to persevere through the challenges of life.
