“I said,we wait.” Evelyn drains her second glass and pours a third.
The gravy has congealed. A fly found its way inside the kitchen—probably from The Bad Place—and I’ve stopped shooing it away from the turkey. Instead, I watch it parade around on a drumstick, rubbing its legs together.
Sybil makes a small, desperate sound.
“Perhaps we could read our papers while we wait?” I suggest, grasping for anything that might get food into my sister’s mouth—or at least make the prolonged suffering bearable. “I think you’ll be pleased.”
Evelyn’s eyes focus on me. They’re glazed from the wine, but still lock on like a blowtorch.
“Fine.” She waves her glass. “You first.”
I clear my throat, then glance up at Billy.
She’s staring forlornly at the pie.
Suddenly I’m not so sure about my ‘paper.’ I’m all about pushing our mother’s buttons, testing her iron-clad boundaries…but I’m starting to feel weird too.
But I push on because I’m hungry enough to eat this damn paper.
I clear my throat.
“Gratitude. A study in absence.”
Evelyn’s eyebrow twitches.
I continue, my voice measured, academic even. “Research suggests that mandatory expressions of gratitude, particularly in high-stress domestic situations, may produce paradoxical effects on the subject’s psychological wellbeing. Rather than fostering genuine appreciation, forced gratitude can create what Festinger termed ‘cognitive dissonance.’ A state of mental discomfort arising from the conflict between one’s true feelings and the emotions one is compelled to express.”
I glance up again. Evelyn’s face is unreadable. Sybil is staring through me like she’s dreaming with her eyes open.
“For instance,” I continue, most bravely, “a subject might be instructed to feel grateful for basic necessities such as food, shelter, or the absence of physical harm, while simultaneously experiencing conditions that make genuine gratitude psychologically impossible. The resulting tension can manifest as anxiety, depression, or in extreme cases, a complete dissociation from one’s authentic emotional state.”
This is the game I play. Burn The Witch without raising a single plume of smoke. Every word is technically defensible. Every sentence properly cited.
I’m three pages in when I notice she’s stopped listening.
She’s staring at the door…waiting for a knock that isn’t coming.
Her guest isn’t coming.
The wine bottle is nearly empty.
And Evelyn’s composure is cracking.
I finish my paper with a flourish. “In conclusion, true gratitude cannot be manufactured through external pressure. It must arise organically from conditions of safety, security, and genuine care. Conditions which, regrettably, some individuals may never experience.”
Silence.
Evelyn’s eyes slowly drift back to me. Her top lip quivers.
Then she smiles.
I’ve never seen a more awful smile. Of course she was listening. She’s always listening. She’salwayslistening. Billy so desperately wants to believe in a God?
There’s one sitting right in front of me.
All knowing, all seeing, all powerful.
Evelyn drains her wine and empties the last inch of the bottle into her glass.
