“Ma said I looked tired.”
“You look good.” She pats my cheek twice and lets me go.
In the kitchen, Ma is at the stove with a wooden spoon pointing at Jackie, who is pointing back with the salt shaker. Nicole is at the cutting board with the onions and her eyes are streaming.
“Matteo, tell your sister the gravy is fine.”
“The gravy is fine, Jackie.”
“You haven’t tasted it.” She swipes back.
“Ma’s gravy is always fine.”
“Unhelpful.”
“Tell her, Matteo.” Ma is already fussing over the stove, trying to make everything perfect.
“Ma, Jackie is right.” I put my arm around her, thinking back to the summer when I was last here and the same conversation, almost word for word, was happening.
“You just said it was fine.”
“It is fine. But Jackie is also right.”
“You cannot have it both ways.”
Gina sets her wine glass down somewhere she’s already going to forget and puts a potato and a peeler in my hand.
“Work.”
“I just got here! Don’t I get a minute to unwind?”
“You got here eight minutes ago. Peel.” She turns and walks away.
The peeler is the same peeler from when I was a kid. It was my grandmother’s. Now, my mother has it. We will bury it in the yard when it finally gives up. It doesn’t fit my hand anymore but I use it anyway.
“How’s the arm?”
“It’s fine. Brooks has me on rotator cuff four days a week. Shoulder’s better compared to September.”
“Hm.” Ma keeps stirring.
“Brooks.” That one word from Nicole says like five different things. None of which I want to respond to.
Jackie is looking at Gina. Gina is looking at Jackie. Neither of them is looking at me.
I finally ask, “What?”
Nicole speaks after a long look at me. “You said his name twice at Thanksgiving. Then you corrected to ‘my trainer.’”
“I didn’t correct anything.” But I can’t look her in the eye either. Not if we are talking about Brooks.
“You did.”
“Wait. Which trainer? Who are we talking about?” asks Gina, like she doesn’t know who we were talking about.
“THE trainer. The one doing his shoulder.”
“The one with the face?” Gina asks.
