Mags: This is my goodbye text to you. I’m dying from overeating. I bequeath to you my entire book and stuffed animal collections. Please remember me fondly.
Neel: Next year, I don’t care what my father says, I’m coming to Thanksgiving dinner at your house. As much as I love Aloo Gobi, Chana Saag, and Naan, this is not what you are supposed to be eating today. Please save me some stuffing, mashed potatoes, and cranberry sauce.
Latica: Can I have Mags’ phone number? I probably won’t call her or text her, but you never know. It will be good to have, just in case. Oh yeah… Happy Thanksgiving to you and Carole too.
Paul: It is highly unlikely that turkey was served on the first Thanksgiving. It is ridiculous that we serve this every year. The meal should consist of a duck, goose, or swan along with onions, herbs, and nuts. That would be a traditional Thanksgiving.
Hector: Feliz día de accíon de gracias
Unfortunately, there are no new messages from PJ, and I decide I’m not going to text him again. I’m not! He is with his family, and Suzi, and I’m not going to get too depressed about it. I shut off my phone and push a cat toy around the tiled bathroom floor with my foot. I’m stalling, I know, but I don’t want to go back out there. A knock on the bathroom door jolts me from my meandering thoughts.
“Hello? Simon, are you still in there?” Dad asks while knocking on the door.
“Yes, I will be out in a minute,” I say breathlessly. Ugh, I can’t seem to find any peace. When will this day be over?
“Are you okay, son? You have been in there a long time. We’re waiting on you for dessert. Sarah is serving pie in the living room. I’ll tell them you will be right out, okay?”
“Okay,” I say, and I take a few deep breaths. The alien stirs as if the food isn’t agreeing with it. I wake my phone one last time to see if PJ, by any chance, has texted back… Nope. I take another deep breath, put a fake smile on my face, and head back to the living room.
“There you are. We were getting worried about you,” Aunt Sarah says sweetly. “I hope you don’t have an upset tummy. I made homemade pumpkin pie! You don’t want to miss that, do you? Here, have a seat on the couch next to your father and I’ll serve you.”
“Hey, kid, don’t believe it. She’s a damn liar, that one,” Brian says, finally opening his mouth to speak. Everyone looks on in horror, wondering what off-color thing he might say next. “It’s not homemade. The crust came frozen from Walmart, and the filling is from a can. She made me go to the damn store to pick up the ingredients. She is lying to you, kid.”
Sarah throws her slice of pie at Brian. It hits him in the chest and splatters everywhere.
“Fuck! You’re crazy. You’re not right in the head,” Brian yells as he tries wiping the pie filling out of his hair and off his shirt.
Aunt Sarah alternates between screaming and crying. Carole jumps for a roll of paper towels and wipes at the splattered pie that’s all over the hardwood floor and area rug. Dad remains seated looking shell-shocked.
“How dare you?” Aunt Sarah yells at Brian. “I’ve been cooking for two days—two fucking days—to make a nice meal for all of us. So, forgive me if the entire pie is not made from scratch. At least I didn’t buy a premade one.”
“Well, you might as well have. It tastes like shit,” Brian spits back at her. Aunt Sarah turns scarlet and looks like she is about to have a stroke. She lets out one more blood-curdling scream before running up the stairs and slamming the door to her bedroom leaving the four of us staring at one another, not knowing what to do next. Carole is first to break the silence and asks me to get a trash bag and a wet rag to help her finish cleaning up the pie. I do as she asks, grateful for something to do.
Dad turns to Brian. “Was it necessary to say that to her? You know, everyone is hurting here.”
Brian jumps to his feet and flings his chair against the wall with a loud bang. “Fuck you,” he says, getting in my dad’s face. “Fuck you, you big British poof. This is my house, and you don’t tell me what to do. You hear me?”
Dad stands up, but Brian pushes him back on the couch. Carole runs to get between them. I cover my eyes. I’m terrified about what could happen next.
“Enough, Brian. Stop it!” Carole yells.
I hear a loud crash and peek through my fingers to see what’s going on. Dad is back on his feet and standing with Carole in the middle of the living room. Brian is now screaming obscenities from the kitchen and knocking pots and pans off the stove. Dad comes over and protectively puts his arm around me.
Carole disappears upstairs and after a few minutes comes back with Aunt Sarah and a small duffel bag.
“Let’s go, now!” Carole says.
The four of us walk out of the house to Carole’s car where Aunt Sarah takes the passenger seat, still crying. Dad stands protectively while Carole and I get in.
“What the fuck? Sarah! Sarah!” Brian yells, joining us outside. “Where the hell do you think you’re going?” He tries to push his way past Dad. Carole locks the doors and turns on the car.
“Brian, let it go. Walk away,” Dad says. “She is coming with us for a little while. Just until you cool off.”
Brian gets right in Dad’s face and spits on him. I hold my breath wondering what will happen next. But Dad just takes the sleeve of his jacket and wipes off his face.
“Damn faggot,” Brian says. He is walking back toward the house when he stops and turns around. “You’re all just a bunch of fucking faggots and lesbos. No wonder the kid turned out that way he did. Go on, get the hell out of here. What the fuck do I care? I’m going to burn this whole fucking house down if I don’t find where you hid my drink, you stupid bitch.” And with that, he goes back inside the house and slams the front door.
Carole quickly drives away; Dad gets in his car and follows us. I’m now crying along with Aunt Sarah, but Carole holds strong.
